**
“You’re not going to believe this, Boss Man,” Fiona McCamish raised her eyebrows after taking a phone call from one of Calgon’s finest.
The spirited young woman approached Tim’s desk, causing the mortician and coroner to glance up from his Embalming Monthly magazine, blinking behind his thick coke-bottle lensed, horn-rimmed glasses. “Oh?” he seemed more irritated than interested.
Fiona had basically badgered Tim into hiring her, because she was fascinated by him and his vocation, and he had given in, with conditions. When he’d met the enterprising young woman, she’d had a black and green mohawk, multiple tattoos and piercings, and chose black as her primary nail, lip and clothing colors. He’d insisted that she get a makeover before he’d allow her to interact with his clients, a task which he dreaded and was glad to pass on. He didn’t insist upon the makeover because he disapproved of her appearance, as such things didn’t faze him at all. He actually secretly admired the art of etching ink into the skin, an art form which transcended even death. Missy and Echo had taken the smart-as-a-whip young woman under their wing, guiding her as she changed her hairstyle, got a manicure, and shopped for a new wardrobe, all with Tim’s clothing allowance. The result was a lovely and competent woman, with a strange passion for all things forensic, whom clients loved, and on whom Tim depended.
“Somebody killed Santa Claus,” she announced in a hushed voice.
Tim continued to blink at her for a few seconds, then went back to his article, muttering, “Mythical creatures can’t be killed.”
Fiona leaned over the desk and plucked the magazine from his fingers. “Seriously, dude, this is big. The guy who played Santa in the Calgon parade got iced, and we need to go check out the body.”
Tim sat up straighter in his chair, and reached for his bag. “Let’s go,” he said, rising.
“I’ll drive,” Fiona trailed down the hallway after him.
“No, you won’t,” was the distracted reply.
“I won’t give you the address if I can’t drive,” she teased, trying unsuccessfully to stifle her sly grin.
“Yes, you will, or I’ll call the detective myself and leave you in the office while I process the scene.”
“You’re no fun,” she pouted, as she always did when they went through this routine.
“Death is a serious business,” Tim replied, as he always did, throwing his bag in the car. “Fasten your seat belt.”
**
Tim shook hands with Chas when he arrived on the scene, and was glad for the boundaries formed by yellow police tape, which were currently holding back a rather sizable crowd.
“This one looks like a pretty obvious one,” Chas sighed.
“Things are often not as they seem,” Tim observed, snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves while Fiona turned on the camera.
They’d take photos of the body from various angles before doing an on-scene investigation, then they’d zip Santa’s remains into a body bag and take him to the morgue for a thorough autopsy, which was standard procedure for homicides. When the photos were done, which was no mean feat, considering that the body had been stashed inside the igloo, leaving very little space for photography, Fiona helped Tim turn the body over for inspection, and together they dragged Arthur Beringer out onto the flatbed, letting him rest between the snowman and the igloo.
“It wasn’t as easy as you may have thought,” Tim glanced at Chas, who came over to see what the mortician was talking about.
Eckels turned Santa over on his side and gestured to the back of his head. “Blunt force trauma,” he pointed out. “The killer may have finished the job with a knife,” Tim explained, referring to the wide gash beneath Santa’s beard, “but he started it with something bigger.”
The detective nodded and made a note. “So now we’re looking for two instruments that were involved in a murder. Good work, Eckels. Let me know what you find out,” he instructed, tucking his notepad in the pocket of his sport coat.
“I always do,” Tim replied, turning back to the task at hand.
Techs on the scene were bagging up anything that might be relevant to the case, and Chas headed for his car, wanting to question the two persons of interest who were waiting for him down at the police station. He saw a banner strung between two street lamps which cheerfully proclaimed, Happy Holidays, and shook his head.
“Not for Arthur Beringer,” he sighed.
The detective never noticed a young girl, who stood on the other side of the police tape, observing the scene, arms crossed, a look of concentration on her face.
CHAPTER FIVE
* * *
“Seriously?” Spencer Bengal sat in a hard plastic chair in Interrogation Room 1, glaring at his boss and friend, arms crossed in indignation.
“Look, the costume that you were wearing in the parade was tossed onto the float merely inches away from where the body was found. How could I not bring you in for questioning? There was a witness who said that you disappeared from your spot at the judges’ stand not too long before the body was found,” Chas explained.
“Who was the witness?” Spencer challenged.
“What difference does it make?”
“Well, wouldn’t you think that the first person to point fingers might be the person who was afraid of getting caught?”
The detective stared at the Marine for a long moment. He had literally trusted this man with his life and the life of his family, and what he was saying at the moment did make sense.
“It’s possible,” Chas allowed, knowing that the man in question was right now cooling his heels in Interrogation Room 2.
“Chas, you know that this isn’t who I am. You know perfectly well that I wouldn’t do something like this, and that if I did, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave my costume behind so that I’d be sure to be caught,” Spencer reasoned.
“I have to check out every lead, Spence. You know that,” the detective gave him a pointed look.
“Fine. Ask whatever questions you need to ask so that I can get out of here,” a muscle flexed in the Marine’s jaw.
Chas asked his questions and heard the story that Spencer had gone back to the van, slipped out of his costume, tossing it on the front seat and locking the van, before returning to the judges’ stand.
“Did you see anything or anyone out of the ordinary when you were at the van?” the detective asked.
“No. Nothing. And with the amount of blood that the Santa had lost, I would’ve smelled it long before I reached the van if he had been murdered before I took off my costume. There was no one in sight, and the van was locked when I got to it, just like I left it.”
“And you said you locked it after you took off your costume and put it inside?”
“Yeah,” Spencer answered gruffly, clearly not pleased with being a person of interest.
“So, you’re thinking that whoever did this deliberately framed you?”
“Not necessarily. If you were going to eliminate someone, wouldn’t you want to point the police in the wrong direction? This doesn’t feel like it was personally directed at me. I just think that whoever did it was trying to misdirect the investigation to buy some time,” the young veteran shrugged. “Did you check the van for marks of forced or jimmied entry?”
“The techs are still processing the van and the scene,” Chas said carefully.
“That means no. Cut me a break here, Chas. Tell your guys to look for evidence of a forced entry.”
“But now that you’ve said that, who’s to say that you didn’t make those marks to cover your tracks?” Beckett sighed and ran a frustrated hand through his hair.
“Are you kidding me?” Spencer shook his head in disbelief. “I worked in a covert capacity for both the United States government and your family for my entire adult life, and you honestly think that I’d be that sloppy?”
Chas clenched his teeth briefly, feeling as though he was merely spinning his wheels. “No, I don’t believe that you did this,
but I have a duty to perform for the people of Calgon. I need to get to the bottom of this, and I’m hoping that we can find evidence that will exonerate you completely, but until I do, I have to follow procedure here, Spence.”
“Yeah, I know,” the Marine stared at the floor. “So you might want to go interview your second person of interest,” he suggested dully.
Chas stared at him in surprise. “What do you know about that?”
“The uniforms around here aren’t great about keeping their voices down. Anyone who’s even halfway paying attention can figure out everything that goes on in this place,” Spencer’s face registered mild disgust.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” the detective nodded. “You want to stay here, or go to a holding cell?”
“You’re actually keeping me here?”
“For a while. Hopefully not too long.”
“I’ll stay here. Order me a pizza?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Chas left the room troubled. Everything that Spencer had said made sense, and yet there was something niggling at the back of his brain. The Marine was never anything but compliant and respectful, but his manner in the interrogation room had bordered on insolence, which was highly unusual. He had been a faithful employee of the Beckett family for years, but his behavior today had the detective questioning how well he really knew the battle-scarred young man. He shook off his worries for the moment and geared up to question Seth Samuels, the rival for Arthur’s coveted Santa spot, and the man who had pointed out the fact that Spencer had gone missing temporarily, just before Arthur’s body was discovered.
“Bout time,” the cranky piano teacher barked, when Chas entered the room. “Thought I was gonna be here ‘til I died,” he complained.
“Interesting word choice, given the present situation,” the detective raised an eyebrow, putting the man in his place.
“Can we get this over with? I have things to do,” Seth asserted, crossing his arms defiantly, but with far less grace than Spencer had.
“You’re in no place to make demands,” Chas reminded him. “You were seen arguing with the victim earlier today. Want to tell me more about that?”
“There isn’t anything to tell beyond what you already witnessed,” Samuels lifted his chin, seeming almost prissy. “We competed against each other for the role of Santa, and he cheated. I merely called him out on it.”
“How does one cheat in a Santa competition?”
“Like I said before, he stacked the deck with judges. He gave special deals to some of the committee members, swayed some folks on the city council to pass permits and such.”
“You got proof of any of that?” Chas challenged.
“Just some seriously coincidental timing,” Seth rolled his eyes.
“Making accusations that you can’t back up with evidence is a dangerous game, Mr. Samuels,” the detective warned. “Why do you suppose that it was so important for Arthur Beringer to have the role of Santa, if your allegations are correct?”
“I think that he’s such a sleaze ball that he figures he has to do everything he can to maintain his fake upstanding identity in this town. Make no mistake, Detective, I have nothing but contempt for the man, but I didn’t kill him. The sight of blood makes my stomach churn.”
“What makes you think that there was blood involved?” Chas pounced.
“I have no idea whether there was blood involved, my mind just tends to conjure up worst case scenarios.”
“Why did you want the Santa role so badly that you’d create a public scene over it?”
“I needed the money,” Seth shrugged. “Giving piano lessons to little Johnny and Susie is admirable, but it doesn’t exactly stock the fridge in caviar. Beringer would’ve donated the cash to charity, but I would’ve paid off bills with it. It’s an ugly truth, but it’s the truth nonetheless.”
“Are you in financial trouble?”
Samuels stared at him with contempt. “Define trouble. Am I starving? No. But I still have bills to pay, including dental work and car repairs and cute little luxuries like that. I don’t gamble, I don’t overspend. I live a humble existence and let kids tell me what they want for Christmas. Somehow I don’t think that makes me a criminal,” he explained bitterly.
“Why did you think that it was significant to tell me that the young man standing beside my wife at the judges’ stand had disappeared just before the prize announcements?”
Seth’s eyes darted to the side briefly. “I just thought it was odd, that’s all,” he replied, his face flushing with color.
“You left before the prize announcements as well. I had to have officers pick you up at home. It strikes me as odd that when you were questioned about your whereabouts and why you had left the parade, the first thing that you recalled was the young man who left the judges’ stand. Seems awfully convenient,” Chas observed.
“Convenient? It would only be convenient if I had done something wrong, which I haven’t,” Samuels sounded defensive.
“We’ll see about that. You’re going to be spending some time with us until I get some things figured out. I’ll be back to speak with you again later.”
Chas gestured to the officer who was standing in the back of the room. “Make him comfortable in holding, and let me know when he has something useful to say,” he directed, gathering his notes and leaving the room.
It was going to be a long day, with lots of folks to talk to. The murder had happened in broad daylight, near a major event, someone had to have seen something. The detective also planned to check out Arthur Beringer’s dealings with the Santa committee and the town council to see if there might be anyone who held a grudge against the wheeler-dealer, but his first stop would be to talk with his widow and son, who had been at home when he died, and were notified hours later.
CHAPTER SIX
* * *
“Echo, honey, are you okay?” Missy called her friend as soon as she got in the car to drive home from the parade.
Sounding a bit breathless, her best friend answered in the affirmative. “Yes, I’m fine. My ankles are swollen to the size of oranges, and this baby is doing calisthenics in my belly, but I’ll be fine. Kel just brought me home because I was tired and having a few contractions.”
“Is it time?” Missy asked, her eyes wide.
“Not yet. Just a few contractions every now and then, nothing steady,” Echo assured her.
Missy filled her in about what had happened at the parade, and told her about having seen Destiny. Echo had been with her when she met the delightful pre-teen in Louisiana.
“Oh, that’s great! I hope they’re able to make it to the Christmas party.”
“Me too, but I’m also hoping that this mess with Spencer gets cleared up before we even get close to Christmas,” Missy worried.
She heard some shuffling around, and suddenly heard Kel’s voice on the phone. “Tell me about what’s going on with Spencer,” he demanded.
Missy told the artist what little she knew, and he listened attentively.
“We can’t have suspicion cast over the dear boy,” Kel tutted. “I’ll go start asking around. I have a feeling there were probably quite a few people who might want to see Arthur Beringer dead, and we need to figure out who was the most motivated.”
“Oh Kel, you have no idea how glad I am to hear you say that,” Missy breathed a sigh of relief.
“Not a problem, but I would like you to keep my dear wife company while I’m out and about,” he requested.
“Oh, if I have to,” Missy teased, delighted at the prospect. “If you can drop her off over here, we can work on making some Christmas decorations for the party.”
“A capital idea,” Kel agreed, eager to get to his task. “We’ll see you shortly, and I’ll bring her delivery bag with us, just in case.”
After Missy hung up with Kel, she dialed Izzy’s number.
“Hey, Izzy. Echo is coming over to help me make some Christmas decorations, are you up fo
r some high quality girl time?”
“I could probably be persuaded. I’ve hit a major roadblock in my latest book and could use a break. Will there be food involved?” the author asked hopefully.
“Honey, I am a southern woman; do you even need to ask that question?” Missy chuckled.
“Right. What was I thinking?” there was a smile in Izzy’s voice. “I’ll see you soon.”
**
“Babs, I’m so sorry,” Kel gushed when Barbara Beringer opened the door of her palatial home. “I came over as soon as I heard. How are you and Bern?” he asked, referring to her son Bernard.
The plump, tear-stained societal matron dabbed at her eyes with a linen handkerchief and invited Kel inside. She was an enthusiastic supporter of his art, and the two knew each other fairly well from the various charitable events in which they both participated.
“Oh, Kel, I can’t believe it. Who would do such a thing? Artie would never hurt a fly. He loved helping his fellow man, and this is how his kindness is repaid? It’s just terrible,” her lower lip trembled.
“Yes it is,” Kel took a seat on the chintz sofa in the parlor. “Was there someone at work who may have been upset with him?”
“Heavens no, his employees loved him, and they knew that they were going to receive their holiday bonuses next week. Would you care for some tea? Or perhaps something stronger?” Barbara offered.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having, dear lady,” he accepted gracefully.
Babs poured them each two fingers of a very expensive scotch and sat across from him on the edge of a rose-colored wingback chair.
Peppermint Mocha Killer Page 3