Salted Caramel Killer

by Summer Prescott

  “Much longer if I continue to have interruptions,” Tim replied mildly, his gaze unwavering in the face of the detective’s hostile stare.

  “Then get on with it, and give me a preliminary report before you leave,” Solinsky barked.

  “No,” Tim said quietly, lifting one of the corpse’s eyelids.

  “What do you mean, no?” the detective’s voice was a bit menacing, and highly annoyed.

  Tim pushed his glasses up with the back of his wrist, which Fiona recognized as a sign that her mild-mannered and eccentric boss was getting agitated.

  “I’m fairly certain that there is only one meaning to that word, but you can look it up to make sure. My work is precise and I will not be rushed, nor will I make guesses just for your convenience. You’ll have my full report just as soon as I can get it to you.”

  With that, Tim turned his back on an infuriated Art Solinsky, and began the meticulous process of discovering whatever story the body in front of him had to tell. Solinsky left in a huff, which Tim considered a victory. He worked better without incompetent policemen looking over his shoulder and asking pesky questions.

  When the initial examination was complete, Tim and Fiona secured the deceased in a somber black body bag, and loaded him into a hearse for transport to the morgue. The two of them were silent, until Fiona’s curiosity got the best of her.

  “It was poison, wasn’t it?” she guessed.

  Fiona McCamish had a peculiar knack for mortuary work and forensics, and found her job to be an endless source of fascination. She’d had to wear Tim down, relentlessly badgering him until he hired her, despite her lack of experience. He’d made her get rid of multiple piercings and her extreme makeup and hairstyle, and had mandated that she have a professional wardrobe, rather than baggy black jeans and heavy metal t-shirts, not because he personally disapproved, but because he hadn’t wanted her to “scare” potential clients with her outward signs of what looked like personal darkness. She’d complied with his requirements, and had turned out to be the best assistant he’d ever had, despite her lack of formal training.

  “Of course it was,” Tim commented, his eyes never leaving the road.

  “Now you just have to figure out what kind?”

  “That’s the usual procedure, yes.”

  “He was actually pretty cute,” Fiona mused.

  “It’s not right to speak about the deceased like that.”

  “Why? It’s just a fact,” Fiona challenged, enjoying her boss’s discomfort. She definitely delighted in pushing Tim’s buttons.

  He surprised her by agreeing. “Point taken. His looks may indeed have something to do with the crime that was committed. We’ll keep that in mind during the autopsy.”

  “Crime of passion?” she persisted in her effort to try and rattle him.

  Tim gave her a sidelong glance and ignored her question.

  “You know that I like you,” she said abruptly, changing the subject.

  Tim stared straight ahead, saying nothing.

  “And I know that you like me. I can tell, even if you pretend to have no emotions,” she continued, challenging him.

  He didn’t look at her.

  “Right?” she prodded.

  “You’re being entirely inappropriate,” Tim muttered, his jaw set.

  “This isn’t going to go away just because you don’t want to deal with it,” Fiona pointed out.

  The two had been working together for a very long time. Tim was older, paunchy and pasty, Fiona was young, tough and bold, and was inexplicably drawn to her reclusive boss. She’d been around him long enough to see through the walls that he’d built around himself, where he hid from the world. They had that in common, she’d built her walls too.

  “There is nothing to deal with. I am your employer, you are my employee, that is the nature of our relationship.”

  “Oh come on, you know that I’m more important to you than that. I’m your right arm, your trusted assistant, and you love my scintillating conversational abilities and sense of humor,” Fiona smiled devilishly. Tim’s continued rejection of her stung, but she knew he had some pretty deep wounds, so she persisted.

  “I have no sense of humor. I work, I eat, I sleep. That is my life, that is what I understand, that is what makes me comfortable. I have no room in that formula for complications.”

  “You did once,” she shot back, knowing that she’d gone too far the moment the words were out of her mouth.

  Tim glanced away from the road briefly, just long enough to shoot Fiona a scathing glance. He never talked about his failed marriage, and never tolerated it well when someone else brought it up. The fact that he’d been married to the most notorious female serial killer ever may have something to do with that. After stopping in town for a few weeks, just a short time ago, to make an attempt on Fiona’s life, simply because she worked closely with Tim, his former wife, to whom he was still legally married, had killed a few people, then fled to avoid prosecution.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, putting her hands over her mouth and shaking her head. “I didn’t mean to…”

  “You should invest in a car,” was his terse reply.

  The two carpooled every day because they were next-door neighbors. It had been an arrangement that worked for both of them.

  Fiona’s eyes flashed fire. “Oh, that’s how it is? I accidentally blurt out something stupid, so you kick me out of the car? How neighborly of you,” she challenged, so angry that she hadn’t even realized that he’d pulled up in front of the morgue.

  “We’re here,” he said simply, not looking at her.

  “Someday, you’re going to have to deal with this, you know. Someday you’re going to have to allow yourself to be a human being who has feelings and thoughts and maybe considers sharing them with someone else, or your whole world is going to come crashing down and no one will be there,” her eyes filled with tears.

  “My world came crashing down a long time ago,” Tim’s reply was weary. “Let’s get the deceased in the cooler.”

  Fiona got out without another word.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  * * *

  “Andre is dead?” Joyce was astonished, and her eyes welled a bit. “But he was so nice. Who would do such a thing?”

  “That’s what we’d like to know,” Art Solinsky drilled her with a glare. “You’re classified as a person of interest in this case at the moment, but I have to tell you, Ms. Rutledge, the physical evidence against you is mounting.”

  “Physical evidence? How can there be physical evidence against me? Andre was my trainer, that’s it!” the young woman protested.

  “So you deny the eyewitness reports which indicate that he stopped by your place of employment to visit you?”

  “Eyewitness…what? No, of course I don’t deny that, but it was no big deal. He said that he really likes candles, so he came by the candle store.”

  “There was also evidence found in his apartment and in your car. How do you explain that?” Solinsky leaned over the table toward her, and she could smell his breath, which had been away from a toothbrush for a few hours too long.

  “I have no idea,” Joyce shook her head, terrified rather than defiant now. “I’ve never been to his house, he’s never been to mine, and he’s never been in my car. I think you must have me confused with someone else.”

  “A search warrant is being drawn up right now for me to search your house. It’d be in your best interest to tell me what I might find there,” Solinsky’s eyes narrowed.

  “You won’t find anything there. This is ridiculous. I didn’t even know that Andre was dead, how could I possibly be involved?”

  “Not gonna cooperate, huh? Well, mark my words, we’ll find out just how you were involved. I’ve got all night, sweetheart,” the detective leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head, patches of sour sweat showing under his arms.

  Joyce’s fear turned into indignation. “Now let me tell you something,” she br
istled. “You’ve got the wrong person sitting in here talking to you, and you have no right to treat me like a common criminal. I am not your sweetheart, and I did not have anything to do with this. You either charge me with something, or let me go, because I’m done being subjected to your rudeness,” she crossed her arms and stared at him.

  There was a knock on the door to the interrogation room and a uniformed cop, coincidentally the one who had checked out Joyce’s house when the power had gone out, stuck his head inside.

  “Detective, I got a woman out front who’s making a big stink about needing to talk to you right now.

  “Well, ain’t this my lucky day. Get rid of her, tell her to make an appointment,” Solinsky brushed him off.

  “She’s this lady’s boss,” he gestured to Joyce. “And from what I can tell, she’s not going anywhere until she talks to you.”

  “Well, if you can’t get rid of her, I can,” the detective tossed his pen down on the table and stood, bracing his lower back with his hands. He turned to Joyce before leaving the room. “You, sit there and think about telling the truth when I get back,” he commanded.

  “Don’t you dare talk down to me,” Joyce arched an eyebrow at him.

  Solinsky’s muttered reply as he left the room was thankfully unintelligible.

  **

  Echo Kellerman was beyond upset. The thought of sweet, sassy Joyce being interrogated gave her chills. She’d gone back to the gym after realizing that she’d left one of Jazzy’s toys in the baby room, and one of the receptionists filled her in on what had happened between Joyce and Solinsky. Now she was determined to find out what was going on.

  “I don’t care if you’re in the middle of something, this is important, and if you won’t take me to your office to discuss it, I’ll shout it at your back as you walk away. You need to hear this. Am I making myself fairly clear?” The normally laid-back Echo was adamant.

  Solinsky’s jaw muscles worked as he considered what to do with the woman in front of him. He wasn’t getting anywhere with Joyce, so he figured he’d let her cool her heels in interrogation for a bit while he listened to whatever rant her nut-job boss had in store for him.

  “You got five minutes, follow me,” he turned on his heel and strode toward the office that Chas Beckett had occupied before him. Echo vehemently wished that he still did, and felt a pang of disappointment when she saw the condition of the formerly spotless office. “Spill it,” Solinsky commanded, shutting the door.

  Echo stared at him, considering whether or not to give him a good tongue-lashing for his boorishness, but decided against it, in the interest of getting Joyce out of interrogation.

  “I have a police report on file which tells of an incident at my home two days ago. Someone broke in and turned on the water, ruining my entire studio,” she began.

  “How do you know that they broke in? Is there evidence of that?” he interrupted.

  “Well, no, but obviously someone did,” she tried again.

  “And you’ve never forgotten to turn the water off? Ever?”

  “I’m telling you that this…”

  “Do you have anything relevant to say? Because so far, this ain’t cutting it,” Solinsky sighed, drumming his fingers on the desk.

  “Last night Joyce’s home was broken into,” Echo tried to clamp down on her temper, for Joyce’s sake.

  “Again, no evidence of that. She left the front door open for crying out loud. Probably just a stunt staged to try and throw us off while she got ready to go commit murder.”

  “That’s utterly preposterous! This is an intelligent, well-educated woman, who…”

  “Honey, I don’t care if she’s the queen of England, she shouldn’t have killed a guy and been so sloppy about it. I got evidence all over the place. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Solinsky stood.

  “Don’t you dare dismiss me,” Echo ground out, teeth clenched. “What about the girlfriend? Have you even talked to her?”

  That gave Solinsky pause. He hadn’t heard about a girlfriend.

  “What’s her name?” he asked, still standing behind his desk.

  “Well, I…actually don’t know,” Echo faltered.

  “What’s she look like?” Solinsky’s expression was heavily laced with skepticism.

  “Well, I haven’t seen her, but Joyce says that she’s young and brunette and wears her hair in a ponytail.”

  “So the person of interest points a finger at an unknown woman who might be the girlfriend of the deceased, and you think that changes everything? Quit wasting my time lady. It’s only a matter of time before we make an arrest. This case is textbook,” Solinsky headed for the door, gesturing for Echo to leave.

  “Things are rarely as they seem, Detective,” was the icy reply.

  “Keep talking like that and I’ll have to start questioning you too,” he threatened, having had enough. He was going to be wickedly late for his dinner as it was, and this woman had delayed him even further.

  “It would make just about as much sense,” Echo huffed, brushing past him and holding her breath a bit, so as not to take in his faintly stale body odor. “You haven’t heard the last of this,” she tossed back over her shoulder as she made her way back to the reception desk.

  “Have a nice day,” Solinsky’s voice dripped with sarcasm and contempt.

  Busy-body citizens were the bane of his existence, and now he had to go back and question a young woman who had been less than cooperative. Popping two antacids off of a roll in his pocket, he tossed them in his mouth and crunched on them.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  * * *

  Missy was having a great day. She’d finally had a good night’s sleep, after having indulged in a glass of wine and a good book. She had gotten up early to take the dogs for a long walk on the beach, and was headed to Cupcakes in Paradise to craft some new cupcake recipes that she’d dreamed up on her walk. She’d missed a call from Echo early this morning, but figured she’d just catch up with her when she came in before opening for coffee and cupcakes.

  When she approached the back door of her shop, she knew instantly that something was wrong. The door was ajar, perhaps half an inch.

  “Oh no. Why did this happen when Chas is gone?” she whispered to herself, her heart racing.

  She stood outside, wondering whether or not to go in, and since she was alone in the semi-dark of sunrise, she opted to refrain from entering her cozy little shop, afraid of what…or whom, she might encounter inside. Walking quickly to the nearby bed and breakfast, which she and her husband had once owned, she let herself inside the foyer and dialed 911. She tried calling Echo once the police were on their way, but strangely, got no answer.

  **

  “Fortunately, there’s no sign of damage or theft, Mrs. Beckett,” the lantern-jawed policeman reassured her.

  “Thanks Joe, I appreciate you coming out and taking a look around. Can I get you some coffee and a cupcake or two before you go?” Missy replied, relieved and puzzled.

  She knew for a fact that she had locked and closed the door to the shop when she left the day before.

  “Don’t mind if I do. My wife raves about your cupcakes. Says they’re the best in town,” he grinned, taking a seat at one of the bistro tables.

  “Then I’ll box some up for you to take to her when you go.”

  “I appreciate it,” Joe nodded.

  The officer had just taken a bite of a cupcake, when a call came into his earpiece, and he put a hand on it, so that he could hear more clearly. He stared at the cupcake in his hand, put it down, and a very strange look crossed his features. He spoke in a voice that Missy didn’t hear, into his mouthpiece, and looked up to where she was brewing another pot of coffee. The investigation had put her behind schedule, so she was going to have to keep one eye on the front of the shop, while attempting to get more cupcakes into the ovens in the back.

  “Mrs. Beckett?”

  “Yes, Joe?”

  “I’m going to have to ask you to
come down to the station with me for questioning,” was the apologetic reply.

  “Questioning? About what?” Missy frowned.

  “The murder of Andre Weisman.”

  **

  Timothy Eckels was elbows deep into his autopsy, and was, uncharacteristically, more confused than ever.

  “We’re going to have to wait for lab results on this one,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head.

  Fiona, who had ridden to work with him this morning, just like she did every other morning, shone her light into the abdominal cavity and peered more closely.

  “Well, you still think that it’s poison, right?” she asked, leaning in.

  “It would appear so, despite the fact that the body tells a conflicting story,” Tim mused.

  “What’s not adding up?” Fiona wondered, never failing to be impressed by her boss’s deductive insights.

  “Well, the suspected instrument of delivery isn’t present in the stomach contents, to start.”

  “So, they’re blaming the cupcake that they found at the scene, but he didn’t eat the cupcake?” she translated.

  “Essentially, yes.”

  “Could he have licked the frosting or something? There was a bite missing from the cupcake…maybe he tasted it and spit it out?” she theorized.

  “That sort of speculation will get us nowhere. I would imagine that the cupcake was a decoy. There had to have been another, more intense delivery system, based upon the physiological state of the deceased,” Tim’s brow furrowed as he continued to probe and examine. “There’s also the matter of the contusion on his head, which matched up to hair and skin samples found on the brick wall in the alley.”

  “He wouldn’t have bruised if the impact had been made after death, like if someone had planted the body there, so he was still alive while he was in the alley,” Fiona stared off into space, thinking through the implications.