Champagne Murder: A Frosted Love Cozy Mystery - Book 27 (A Frosted Love Cozy Mysteries)

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Champagne Murder: A Frosted Love Cozy Mystery - Book 27 (A Frosted Love Cozy Mysteries) Page 5

by Summer Prescott


  As planned, Michael wandered out of his cabin, rubbing his eyes, when the smell of the fire wafted through the door and windows of his simple dwelling.

  “You’re up early,” he called out, walking over to where the Marine was skinning one of the rabbits on top of a tree stump. He peered over Spencer’s shoulder, and, as predicted, turned quite pale when he saw what was happening.

  “What’s that?” he swallowed hard.

  “Well, it was a rabbit,” he smirked. “And it’s about to be my breakfast. Want some?”

  “I don’t think so,” Michael turned greenish.

  Spencer chuckled. “You might change your mind once you smell it cooking.”

  The youth moved to stand a respectable distance away, watching the Marine go about his duties with morbid curiosity.

  “How do you know how to do all of that stuff?” he asked, mildly repulsed.

  “Self-taught mostly.”

  “I’ve never even been camping before,” the young man admitted.

  “It’s a pretty big leap to go from never having camped to living in a wooden shack in the wilderness. You must be in deep trouble,” Spencer remarked, focusing on his task.

  Michael snorted in disgust. “The thing is…I didn’t even do anything.”

  “Then why are you out here?” the Marine asked casually, not wanting to spook him.

  “Because I saw something awful happen,” he muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets.

  “Something that’ll get you in trouble?”

  “Something that might get me killed.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  Michael nodded, cringing a bit when Spencer placed the assorted cuts of meat on the grill, then hacked the head off of the second rabbit. He sank down onto a stump that was just the right height for a bench and just the right distance away from the Marine’s carnage.

  “Someone killed my grandmother, and if they find out that I have what they’re looking for, they’ll kill me too,” he confessed, sounding tired.

  “Did you see them do it?”

  “I heard it, then I saw her…laying there. There was so much blood,” he shuddered.

  “If what they’re looking for got your grandma killed, why did you take it?” Spencer asked reasonably.

  “It was a reaction. I didn’t know what to do, but I figured that if it was important enough to her that she would die for it, I should probably hold on to it,” Michael shrugged uncertainly.

  “Did she actually choose to die for it, or did she just overplay her hand and die because she underestimated someone’s resolve?”

  The youth stared at the rugged Marine who was deftly flaying the meat from the bones of a rabbit and tossing it on a grate above the coals.

  “I guess I never really thought about it,” he said slowly.

  “Does the stuff that you have seem dangerous? Is it drugs or something?”

  Michael snorted. “If it was drugs it would have been gone by now.”

  “Whatever you’re into, man.”

  “I actually don’t know what’s in it. I haven’t opened the envelope.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. That smells really good,” he deliberately looked away from the food prep to gaze at the cooked meat on the grill.

  “Grab some if you want it. I’ve got salt,” Spencer tossed a cardboard tube of salt to him.

  Michael trotted back to his cabin and came back out with a paper plate and a plastic fork. He stabbed several pieces of meat, convincing himself that it looked just like chicken strips, and salted them liberally before taking a tentative bite.

  “Oh wow, this is good,” he said with a mouthful. “Salt tastes kind of funny, but I like it.”

  “Probably just tastes different because you’ve never had fresh meat before,” the Marine replied, smiling to himself.

  The sedative should kick in just as he finished cooking and eating the rest of the rabbit, then he could load the youth into the back of his car, which was parked on an untraveled dirt path, and head back to Florida.

  Chapter 15

  Having been fooled by yet another Johnny Come Lately didn’t make Echo Willis sad, it made her angry. She always tried to be a decent, honest and upstanding citizen. Was it really too much to ask to expect the men in her life to be honest with her. She’d gone out more than once with someone who lied to her about who he was and what he did for a living. How he managed to get her packages away from the company that had shipped them, so that he could pose as a delivery man, was something she didn’t even want to think about, and she definitely came up with nothing when she tried to figure out why on earth he would do such a thing.

  She should have known it was too good to be true. Brad had been charming, polite, complimentary, and darn good-looking. How could he possibly have been actually interested in someone like her? Echo took her angst out by working, dipping, cutting and sculpting candles for so long that her arms ached and her vision began to jump. She’d been working for several hours when she thought that she heard a sound in the foyer, and went out to take a look.

  Her heart leaped in her chest when she came out of the hall and saw “Brad” walking in. He looked up, saw her, and gave her his no-longer-dazzling smile.

  “Hey gorgeous,” he greeted her smoothly. “I was hoping to surprise you. Hope I didn’t scare you,” he added, noting her pale face and stunned expression.

  Echo’s mind raced. Clearly he didn’t realize that she knew he wasn’t “Brad,” so, if she wanted to make certain that she stayed safe, she’d have to continue to allow him that illusion.

  “Oh my goodness,” she put her hand over her thumping heart, deciding to go with it. “I was so into making my candles that I didn’t even hear you come in,” she laughed, and, although it sounded a bit forced, she apparently fooled him…for the moment.

  “Did we have plans for this evening? I’ve been so busy, I hope I didn’t forget something,” she babbled.

  “Well, not officially,” he smiled, seemingly amused. “But I was hoping that if I stopped by, you might just be hungry and we could catch some dinner,” he said, advancing toward where she stood, adrenalin thrumming through her veins.

  “Oh! Well…I…uh…that actually sounds…lovely,” she stammered, thinking about the vial of pepper spray that was in her purse, which was sitting on a desk in her work room.

  “I just need to…umm…freshen up, and then…put away some supplies,” she said, edging away, with a smile that felt like a tight rictus on her face.

  “Tick-tock, Gorgeous, I made reservations for seven,” he tapped his watch.

  Echo headed toward her work room, hearing him fall in behind her. She stepped up her pace so that she could get to her purse without him seeing, but he sped up as well. Fighting the panic that threatened to overwhelm her, she went about turning off the burners that kept her waxes in their liquid state, moving slowly, trying to figure out how she could get to the pepper spray without Brad noticing. There was no way that she was going to get in a car with this imposter, so she had to figure out something fast.

  She finished shutting off all of the burners, then nonchalantly reached for her purse. Brad came up close behind her, and before she could reach for the tiny canister, he took the bag from her.

  “Let me get this for you,” he said, eyes glittering, no longer smiling.

  Echo fought to continue playing it cool.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, trying her best to sound playful. “I’m more than capable of carrying my own bag.”

  She reached past him and tried to grab for the purse, tamping down her abject terror at being so close to a man who no longer seemed to be keeping up his end of the forced friendliness.

  “I’m sure you’re more than capable of lots of things,” he growled in her ear, holding the purse out of her reach.”

  “Hey there, little darling…what the heck is going on here?” Loud Steve bellowed, catching “Brad” off guard.

&n
bsp; Echo took advantage of his momentary confusion, and just like she learned in self-defense class, she stomped on his foot and punched him in the throat, knocking him backward so that he fell to the floor in a crash, hot wax raining down on him. Stepping on one of his calves in her haste, she jumped over his body, shouldered her way past a confused and belligerent Steve, and sprinted out the front door, running out of the neighborhood and toward civilization until she was able to hail a cab. Brad had still been holding her purse when she left, so she had no phone and no money, but she knew that if she made it to Missy’s, her friend would pay for the cab and Chas and Spencer would keep her safe.

  **

  By the time Chas and several uniformed officers arrived at Echo’s cottage, a bruised and sweating Steve sat atop his captive, like a hunter with his kill. He’d taken advantage of the head start that Echo’s quick thinking had given him, and had pounced on the imposter the moment she was out the door. He’d found duct tape in the workroom, and once “Brad” had been knocked out, Steve had secured his hands and feet, so that he woke up bound, with a large man sitting on him, waiting for the police.

  Chapter 16

  The blond-haired man whom Echo had known as Brad, was actually a scout named Corbin Rule, who was a master at disguising himself as some sort of service worker in order to get inside the homes of folks who might have something decent to steal. He would then report his finds to someone he knew only by name and reputation, having never actually seen the man himself.

  Echo lived in a modest neighborhood, and had few valuables, but what made her attractive to his boss was her connection with Missy, Chas and Kel. Corbin’s boss particularly liked to steal fine art, and having an “in” with a Gallery Manager, and notably wealthy friends, could only be a good thing. The scout had provided his boss with Carla Mayhew’s client list, as well as a vague inventory of items around town that were there for the taking. Not satisfied, the thief had requested that Corbin locate the whereabouts of a unique trunk that had been promised to him by one of Calgon’s most prominent citizens. The scout had no idea that it was what was contained in the trunk that was irreplaceable, rather than the trunk itself, and had been unable to locate it.

  “Who do you work for?” Chas demanded in the interrogation room.

  “I want immunity,” Corbin said coolly, his lips swollen from being slammed by Loud Steve, and his voice raspy from Echo’s punch to the throat.

  The detective leaned forward, inches from the scout’s face. “Immunity? Listen up, Rule,” he growled. “Right now you’re looking at a first degree murder charge. If you can point me to someone other than yourself who committed said murder, you might be lucky enough to only be charged with breaking and entering, conspiracy, and attempted rape. That’s the only kind of “immunity” that you’re going to be offered. Speak up and tell us who you’re working for, or go down for the crime. And while you’re deciding what to do, consider the fact that there are witnesses who have placed you at nearly all of the crime scenes, including both murder scenes.”

  That said, Chas sat back and stared at the scout, watching him squirm. A thin sheen of sweat broke out on Corbin’s upper lip and forehead, and he bounced one knee up and down under the detective’s watchful eye.

  The text tone on Chas’s phone went off, and he directed his gaze to the two uniformed officers who were in the room with him.

  “I have to go take care of something. When he’s ready to talk, get his statement,” he instructed. “I’ll be back shortly.”

  **

  “What the…where am I?” Michael Greitzer mumbled from the back seat of Spencer’s car.

  “On the path to redemption, Michael,” the Marine replied casually.

  The confused and still somewhat drugged young man panicked when he suddenly realized that his hands and feet were bound.

  “Who are you? What are you doing to me? Are you some kind of murderer or rapist or something? You’ll get caught. I’ll scream, I swear I will,” he babbled, his voice breaking.

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Michael. You’re not here because I need or want something from you, you’re here because, for once in your life, you’re going to be a brave and upstanding citizen and do the right thing. If you do scream, and call attention to yourself, I’ll make certain that it only happens once. The smart thing for you to do right now is to sit still and be quiet until it’s time for you to do the right thing. If you choose not to do that, things may not go very well for you.”

  “What are you…some kind of secret agent or something?” the young man’s voice quavered. “I didn’t kill my grandmother, I told you that.”

  “Yes, you did. That’s a good thing.”

  “You believe me, don’t you?” The question was two tones away from being a whimper.

  “What I do, or do not believe, is irrelevant,” Spencer sighed. “Stop talking or I’ll duct tape your mouth shut.”

  The Marine pulled out his phone, and texted: There are Feds on every corner near your office. I have a package for you that you can pick up on the dock of the bay.

  He knew that Chas would grasp the meaning of the cryptic text. Next to Missy’s cupcake shop, Cupcakes in Paradise, was a wooden walkway that went down to the beach, and ended in a short pier extending out over the water. Spencer had parked his car in the lot right next to the entrance to the walkway, because it was dark and little-traveled.

  In a matter of minutes, Chas had arrived and transferred Michael Greitzer from Spencer’s vehicle to his, and headed back to the station.

  “I owe you one,” the detective shook the Marine’s hand.

  “Only if it’s a cold one,” was the reply.

  Chapter 17

  Michael Greitzer stood on the other side of the one-way glass, staring at Corbin Rule.

  “I don’t think that’s him,” the young man shook his head.

  “What do you mean, you don’t “think” it’s him?” Chas demanded. He’d confiscated Michael’s backpack, but hadn’t yet had a chance to examine the contents. First and foremost, he wanted to know if the young man could place Rule at the scene of his grandmother’s murder.

  “Well…like, I didn’t actually see the dude, I just heard him talking to her,” he squirmed.

  “Where were you when you heard him speak?”

  Hands thrust deeply in his pockets, the young man reddened. “Under my cot in the storage room,” he mumbled.

  Chas closed his eyes briefly and sighed. “Would you recognize the man’s voice if you heard it again?”

  “Probably,” he shrugged.

  “Nichols,” the detective called one of the officers over. “Go in there and ask Rule if he’d rather have coffee or water. If he says coffee, ask him if he takes it straight up or wants cream and sugar. If he says water, ask if he wants ice. Get him talking somehow.”

  The officer went in and asked the questions. Fortunately, Corbin replied with sentences rather than single syllables, so Michael got a chance to hear his voice.

  “That’s not him,” he murmured.

  “How do you know? Would it sound like him if his voice wasn’t raspy?” Chas asked, studying him.

  “Nope, wouldn’t make a difference. I know it’s not him because that guy,” he pointed at the glass, “doesn’t have an accent. The dude who…killed my grandmother sounded…foreign.”

  A muscle in the detective’s jaw twitched as he wondered why the young man hadn’t mentioned that very important detail in the first place.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. That’s not him. Not even close,” Michael shook his head.

  **

  Kel sat at a secluded booth in a quiet corner of the Cambridge Club hoping that his cagey client was finally going to commit to commissioning a piece of art from him. He’d taken Leonid Zambala to the private club to wine and dine him into making a purchase. The artist had invested far too much time in the man for him to just walk away now. They chatted amiably through the first few courses, but still h
adn’t broached the subject at hand. Hopefully, over dessert or after-dinner brandy, there would be a deal brokered.

  The text tone on his phone went off, and usually, at such a crucial time, the artist would have ignored it, but when he saw that it was Chas Beckett trying to get in touch with him, he opened the message.

  Kel – I need to know if you’re with your European client. If you are, don’t let him know that I’m asking, just let me know, and for your own safety, stay in a public place, or get to one quickly.

  Baffled, the artist chuckled, trying to cover his initial reaction.

  “Sorry for the interruption,” he apologized. “My Gallery Manager likes to micro-manage me at times,” he lied smoothly. “This will just take a moment.”

  I’m with him at the Cambridge Club. Corner booth on right side, at the window. Please hurry, we’re about to order our after-dinner brandies.

  Distracted now, and trying not to arouse the man’s suspicion, Kel began telling a long, rambling story about a client who had commissioned a piece and changed her mind after it was already completed, because her fortune teller had said it would bring her bad luck. Visibly bored, Zambala leaned his chin on his hand, his eyes heavy, for several minutes, then sat up.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be back in just a moment,” he said, standing as though he meant to visit the rest room. Kel panicked, thinking that he’d use it as an excuse and be gone before Chas arrived, when he thankfully heard a deep familiar voice from behind him.

  “Put your hands above your head and don’t move,” the detective ordered.

  Kel turned around slowly to see Chas, several uniformed cops, and an entire group of federal agents standing behind him, weapons trained on Zambala.

  “Kel, push your chair back, keep low, and clear the area,” Chas instructed. “You’re free to go.”

  Chapter 18

  “Leonid Zambala was a spy?” Echo’s eyes went wide.

  “Indeed,” Kel nodded. “His real name was Uri Voykskia,” and he’s been using stolen property to finance his stay in the US while he funnels information back to his homeland. He never stays in one place long enough to get caught, and he’d built an online persona that made him seem respectable.”

 

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