by Nic Saint
“They’re, um, working on the case, sir,” Virgil stuttered.
“Can I see some ID?” the gruff man demanded, holding out a hand.
“Here you go,” said Alice cheerfully and handed the man her Neighborhood Watch Committee card. Mabel Stokely had them made especially for the team and they all wore them proudly.
The police detective stared at it with a puzzled look. “Happy Bays Neighborhood Watch Committee,” he read.
“Yes, we’re responsible for the safety of Happy Bays,” Alice explained, “and we take our job very seriously.”
“I’ll bet you do,” said the man acerbically, then turned to Felicity. “And you? What is your excuse?”
She handed the man her press card and his scowl deepened.
“Happy Bays Gazette.” He handed her back the card and crooked his finger at Virgil. “A word, Detective Scattering?”
Felicity watched Virgil follow the dour-faced detective and felt pity for the man. It was obvious they were right: the Happy Bays Police Department was no longer in charge of this investigation.
“I think Virgil is in a lot of trouble,” Alice commented.
“I believe so, too. Nice of him to let us see the crime scene, though.”
“I don’t think he was being nice. I think he was being desperate.”
They clumped down the stairs. The sight of three dead people had made quite an impression on the both of them, and even Alice was unusually quiet as they arrived in the lobby. An old man caught Felicity’s eye and she recognized him as Alan Shaw.
“Hey there, Mr. Shaw,” she said. “How are you holding up?”
He shook his grizzled head. “It’s a terrible, terrible tragedy. Is it true what they say about Long and his sister? Murdered?”
Felicity nodded. “I’m afraid it is. And Rob Long’s wife too.”
“Three murders!” the man croaked. “It’s too gruesome for words. Who in their right mind would do such a horrible thing?”
They stood watching as an ambulance arrived and the EMTs carried stretchers upstairs.
“Did you notice anything suspicious?” she asked.
“I told the policeman already. I heard nothing. Not a peep. I was in my room reading a book on fishing when it happened.” He stared before him with misty eyes and shook his head. “What do you suppose will happen to this place now that the Longs are gone?”
“I have no idea. I’m sure there will be other relatives.”
“I hope they don’t sell,” said the old man. “I’ve been coming here for forty years.”
“Fishing, right?”
His face cleared up. “That’s right. How did you know?”
“You once took Alice and me along, don’t you remember? Must have been, oh, twenty years ago? You were going to teach us fishing.”
He chuckled. “That’s right. Now that you mention it. That was a nice day, wasn’t it?”
The day had actually been quite terrible. Mom had had this idea that Felicity needed to learn how to fish, so she’d told Dad to take both girls. But Dad hated to fish, so finally Mom had decided to ask Alan instead. So he’d agreed and had taken them. The day had been a minor disaster, as both girls had hated it from the first. They hated the wriggly bait, hated the sharp hooks, and hated the prospect of hurting those nice little fishies swimming in the sea. In the end Mr. Shaw had returned them to shore and had advised Mom never to bother him again.
They watched as the first stretcher was being carried out, the solemn faces of the EMTs an indication of the gravity of the situation.
“Terrible, terrible tragedy,” murmured Mr. Shaw and Felicity agreed wholeheartedly.
She walked over to Alice, who was studying the bulletin board. “We have to crack this case, Alice,” she whispered. “This has got to stop.”
“Look,” said Alice, pointing to a picture that had been tacked to the board.
Felicity stared at it. It was a picture of one of the many activities Alistair used to organize for the guests of the inn. This was a fishing trip aboard a trawler. She recognized Alistair, Mary, and was surprised to see the youthful faces of Rob and Ruth as well. They must have been teenagers when the picture was taken. Her gaze traveled to the other members of the company, but they were all faces she didn’t recognize, except for one. Mr. Shaw, proudly holding up his fishing rod.
“Weird, huh?” Alice asked with a soft voice.
“What’s weird?”
“They’re all dead.” She pointed to a small man with a flat head. “He died only a couple of weeks ago. Hunting accident. Shot himself in the face. I remember because Uncle Charlie told me he’d never had so much trouble making a man presentable for an open casket. And he—” She pointed to the man standing next to Alistair, tall and thin with a stupid grin on his face. “—died last week. Accidental drowning.”
Felicity frowned. “So what are you saying? That everybody in this picture is dead except—”
“Except old Mr. Shaw.”
Felicity stared at her for a moment. “That is weird. I mean, what are the odds?”
“Pretty slim I should think.”
For a moment, they both pondered the mathematical possibility that six people in the same company would all die in the space of a couple of weeks. A tickle in Felicity’s stomach told her they were on to something here. She didn’t know what, but it was definitely something.
“Do you have the names of these people?”
“Sure. I can ask Uncle Charlie. He will know. He buried them both.” She grimaced. “Well, actually he buried four of them. And now he’s going to bury a couple more I should guess.”
“Ask him, will you?”
Alice suddenly grinned. “You know what would be funny? If Uncle Charlie was behind all this. He was complaining that business was slow a couple of weeks ago and now suddenly it’s booming.”
Felicity stared at her friend. “That’s not funny.”
Alice’s face fell. “I guess it’s not. Sorry, just trying to help.”
What would be helpful was if they would find a connection between all these murders, and as far as Felicity knew this was the first real one they’d found. Just then, Virgil entered the lobby, looking like he’d just been chewed out by a member of the NYPD, which most probably he had.
She waved him over. “Psst, Virgil!”
Virgil, slightly tottering, joined them. “Tell me it was worth it,” he said.
“It was,” Felicity assured him, then pointed to the picture. “See that? That might be our first real clue.”
Virgil stared at the picture. “It’s a fishing boat.”
Felicity wondered not for the first time how this man had ever passed the police exam, but before she could ask, Alice had launched into an explanation of the strange coincidence that practically everyone in that picture was now dead.
“Just a coincidence,” Virgil said. “Like so many things in this case. Just one big coincidence.” Then he seemed to pull himself together with a supreme effort and announced, “I’m going home now. Have a good night,” and abruptly walked off, stared after by Felicity and Alice.
“I don’t think we can expect a lot of help from him,” Alice said, voicing a thought that had also occurred to Felicity.
She took a quick peek around the lobby and when she was sure no one was looking removed the picture from the board and snuck it into her coat. “Let’s go and have a chat with your Uncle Charlie.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” said Alice with a grin.
Chapter 63
They headed along the road and Felicity thought about the lives that had been lost since Stephen had given her this assignment. Who could have thought this case would lead to so much murder and mayhem?
“I think I should probably postpone my date,” Alice suddenly said. “It just doesn’t seem right for us to be wining and dining while all this is going on.”
“Murders happen every day, hon. It doesn’t stop people from living their lives.”
“I know. But it just seems so…pointless. I mean, people are being murdered, Fee! Right here in Happy Bays! Can you imagine?”
No, it was a little hard to imagine such horrible events taking place in Happy Bays, probably the most peaceful place on Long Island. “Whoever is doing this is obviously carrying out some agenda,” she thought out loud. “This isn’t some random thing. He or she is following a clear pattern and that fishing trip picture is just about the first lead we’ve got. I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
“Just that I’m going to call off my date,” said Alice miserably.
Felicity nodded. She was probably right. Better focus on catching whoever was responsible before resuming their lives. If they could.
“Let’s think things through logically,” she said. “We have a murderer who’s managed to wipe out the entire Long family—father, mother, and kids.”
“And Rob’s wife too.”
“Collateral damage, I should think. I don’t think Maggie had anything to do with this.”
“Or she could have been the focus of the whole thing,” said Alice, shifting her attention from her love life back to the case.
Felicity frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Bear with me a moment. The killer kills five random people, right?”
“Yeah, but they’re not random. They’re all related.”
“No, this is just a theory. Killer kills five people. Only one of them is the real target, the others were chosen as distraction. Happens all the time.”
Felicity’s eyebrows rose. “All the time, huh?”
“Sure. Standard operating procedure for murderers the world over. I’ve seen it a million times.” When her friend gave her an odd look, she quickly added, “In movies, honey. In movies.”
“Oh. Right. Of course.”
“So what if the real target was Maggie, and the others are just distraction? The killer trying to throw us off the scent?”
Felicity thought it was a theory, though perhaps not the best one out there. “I don’t know, Alice. Seems like a lot of trouble to go through just to get rid of a single person.”
“Yeah, but what do we really know about Maggie Long?”
“Um. Nothing?”
“Exactly.”
“But what do we know about Rob Long, for that matter? Or Ruth?”
“Nothing,” Alice admitted.
“Exactly.”
Both friends were silent for a moment, reflecting that there wasn’t a whole lot they did know, and once again Felicity had the sinking feeling that they were way out of their depth here.
They pulled up in front of Uncle Charlie’s small cottage, and Felicity was happy to see a light still burning in the window. “He’s up late.”
“Uncle Charlie never sleeps. Sometimes I think he’s one of the living dead. Which is probably what you get from spending so much time around the dead in the first place.”
“You’re spending an awful time around the dead lately.”
“Yeah, but I’m a woman. We’re immune to the virus.”
Felicity decided to let this rest. Immune or not, now was not the time to go into the finer points of what constitutes a zombie. She slammed the door of the van shut and followed Alice up to Uncle Charlie’s front door. When they arrived, they found it slightly ajar. Alice didn’t seem to think this strange, for she entered the house and called out, “Uncle Charlie! Good people!”
No reply came, and they headed deeper into the house. “What’s that smell?” Felicity asked, holding her hand before her nose. If the hallway was anything to go by the place was as dank as the dwelling of the living dead, and Felicity was beginning to wonder if there was any truth to what Alice had said. Could Uncle Charlie be a zombie? It seemed preposterous, as zombies don’t exist, of course. She nudged her friend. “Maybe we should come back tomorrow.”
“Nonsense. We’re here now. Let’s ask him about the picture. I won’t be able to go to sleep otherwise.”
That was true. They were both so riled up now they needed answers, even if they had to drag Uncle Charlie out of bed to get them.
“Uncle Charlie?” Alice asked as she stepped into the living room. The lights were on and the television blaring—The Walking Dead—but of Uncle Charlie there was no trace. A look at the kitchen told them he wasn’t there either, and Felicity was starting to get a bad feeling about this.
“You don’t think something happened to him, do you?” she asked quietly.
“You mean…the murderer?”
Felicity nodded, chewing her lower lip anxiously. If the murderer had gone after Uncle Charlie next, he might still be in the house. Both she and Alice came to the same conclusion simultaneously, and while Felicity grabbed a vase from the table, Alice picked up a footstool and held it out before her like a miniature battering ram. This would have been a great time to test out her new shooting skills, but unfortunately she’d left her gun in the van.
“I think we should check the basement first,” Alice whispered. “Killers always lurk in basements. It’s in all the movies.”
“I think we should check upstairs.”
“Or we could split up?” Alice suggested.
“No!” Felicity cried, then lowered her voice, startled by her own cry. “Never split up. It’s what the killer wants!”
“Right,” agreed Alice. “Of course. Okay, let’s go upstairs first.”
They backtracked through the living room, then into the hallway and started ascending the stairs, one creaking step after another. Felicity took the lead, with Alice picking up the rear. Wherever Felicity encountered a light switch, she flipped it, bathing the house in light. If there was one thing she knew about killers and zombies, it was that they preferred to work in darkness, so she hoped the light would at least give them pause before attacking them.
They arrived on the landing and she looked around, wondering where to go next, when Alice cried out, “Uncle Charlie? Where are you?”
“Shhh!” she hissed, then noticed that one of the doors was open a crack. Her heart beating wildly she motioned with her head. “Look!”
“That’s Uncle Charlie’s bedroom,” Alice whispered.
Weapons held aloft they approached the room on tiptoes, then Felicity nudged open the door, taking a firmer grip on the vase. Her jaw dropped at the sight that met her eyes.
Chapter 64
There, tied down on the bed, buck naked except for his hat and rhinestone boots, lay Uncle Charlie. The reason he hadn’t responded to their cries was because of the rag stuffed into his mouth.
“Oh, you poor thing!” cried Alice and, averting her eyes, picked up a blanket to cover her uncle’s modesty, threw it over the man, and proceeded to remove the ropes tying his wrists and ankles to the bedposts.
Felicity set down the vase to spring to the man’s aid. “What happened?” She surreptitiously glanced around. “Is it the killer? Is he here?”
Uncle Charlie, eyes wide, uttered some words, but they were hard to comprehend—possibly because of the rag.
“I better check the bathroom,” Alice said, picking up the footstool again. “Killers have a habit of barricading themselves in the shower.”
“I’ll come with,” Felicity decided. They ignored Uncle Charlie’s feeble mutterings for a moment. They had bigger fish to fry.
“I’ll yank back the shower curtain,” Alice suggested, “while you take a swing. All right?”
“Great idea,” Felicity agreed, and picked up her weapon of choice once more.
They tripped into the bathroom and stared at the drawn curtain, steam rising and a loud voice caroling Wrecking Ball. It was the killer!
Felicity gulped. She was beginning to have second thoughts about their plan of campaign. What kind of killer takes showers and sings songs? The deranged kind, she felt. The kind who’s into ritualistic stuff. First he ties up his victim, cleanses himself, then proceeds to cut the poor sap into ribbons.
But before she could think things through Alice had alrea
dy yanked back the curtain and Felicity automatically raised the vase to bring it down on the culprit’s head. Great was her surprise, therefore, when instead of a killer she found herself staring into the startled face of Jacqueline Bouchard, wife of Bud Bouchard, the butcher on Drew Street. The heavyset woman with russet curls, who’d just been singing the high note, had her voice flip over and belt out an even higher note that turned into a startled screech.
Her cries were mimicked by both Alice and Felicity, who, having expected a killer, were not prepared to be faced with a naked butcher’s wife instead.
Instantly, Alice returned the shower curtain to its proper place, but Jacqueline seemed intent on threshing this thing out and pulled it aside.
“What are you two doing here?” she cried, visibly shaken.
“I could ask you the same, “Alice snapped. “What are you doing with my uncle? And why is he tied to the bed?”
Then, as the truth came home to them, both Alice and Felicity let out a startled yelp of surprise.
“You? And Uncle Charlie?” shrieked Alice.
Jacqueline’s face turned as red as her signature curls. “It’s not what it looks like,” she said lamely.
“It looks like you’re really into Elvis Presley,” said Felicity.
“Yeah, well, that part is exactly what it looks like,” the butcher’s wife said, then folded her hands. “Please don’t tell Bud? He thinks I’m at a meeting of the women’s club.”
Felicity felt a little disappointed. With all this buildup she’d hoped to finally catch the killer. “Sure, Jackie. What you do with Uncle Charlie is your business,” she muttered, stepping from the room, followed by an equally discouraged Alice.
Uncle Charlie, who was still tied to the bed with one hand, was making frantic noises.
“Maybe we should remove the gag,” Alice suggested.
“Good idea.”
After remedying this problem, Uncle Charlie gasped, “What the heck?”
“We wanted your opinion on a theory of ours,” Alice said, “though if you’re too busy, I understand.” She darted a pointed look at the bathroom, where the shower had finally been turned off and the warbling had ceased.