Ring Around the Rosy

by Roseanne Dowell

  Ring Around the Rosy

  By

  Roseanne Dowell

  ISBN: 978-1-927476-55-0

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Books We Love Ltd.

  (Electronic Book Publishers)

  Chestermere, Alberta , T1X 1C2

  Canada

  http://bookswelove.net

  Copyright 2012 by Roseanne Dowell

  Cover Art Copyright 2012 by Michelle Lee

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Dedication

  To my family and friends for their support and to my sister, Gloria Klubnik,

  for allowing me to use her name as one of the characters. Thank you and I love you.

  Chapter One

  Georgie Porgie pudding and pie kissed the girls and made them cry — now it’s time to die.

  He released his hands from the victim’s neck, and the lifeless body slumped to the ground. He stood back, and stared at it in disgust.

  “You thought you were so cool, didn’t you, George? Playing all the girls like that. You could’ve had anyone you wanted, but you weren’t satisfied with one. You wanted them all. Then you broke their hearts and left everyone else to pick up the pieces.”

  He stooped down, lifted George’s head, and propped it against a rock, then pulled a tube of lipstick from his pocket and smeared it across the victim’s mouth. How many times had he seen George wipe off his lips coming out of the locker room? “You won’t wipe it off this time, Buddy.”

  He stuffed a paper into George’s hand and tightened his fingers around it. “You don’t look too cool now.” He laughed and pulled a container of pudding and a strawberry pie out of his knapsack, opened them, and dumped them over George’s head. The gooey mixture ran down George’s face.

  He licked his lips. “You poor, pathetic bastard.”

  Gathering up his knapsack, he took one last look at the body, then turned and ran from the park. His job was done.

  ***

  Susan propped the News Gazette on the counter and focused on the headline. ‘Georgie Porgie, Pudding and Die’ by Susan Weston, it blared at her. Her headline. Her story. She’d done it. Finally got her headline. She drummed her hands on the counter and did a little dance step. She swore if her grin got any wider her face would crack. .”Susan Weston, journalist!” she shouted. God, she wanted to shout it from the rooftops.

  The phone rang, startling her. “Who the heck is calling at this hour? “ She grabbed the phone. “Hello.” Bella rubbed against her legs, waiting to be fed. “Hello?” Susan grabbed the box of kitty food, filled the bowl, and set it on the floor.

  “Hello,” she repeated, ready to hang up if no one answered this time.

  The evil, raspy voice on the other end sent goose-bumps up her spine. “Who is this?” she whispered.

  The voice mumbled something she could barely hear.

  “Strawberries? What are you talking about?”

  “Just for you,” the garbled voice continued.

  “I can’t hear you. Who is this?” What kind of sick joke is this?

  She caught the words, “loved your headline,” more garbled words, and “Watch for Jack be nimble.” Then the phone line went dead.

  Susan grabbed the counter to steady herself. Her hand trembled, and she stared at the phone. She dropped the receiver back into its cradle as if it was on fire. But she couldn’t stop the trembling. Her stomach churned. Nausea filled her throat. What was wrong with her? Just someone playing a sick joke. This wasn’t her first crank call, why react like this? Maybe because none of the others had sounded like this.

  He said he liked her story. That shouldn’t bother her. Something about that voice, so harsh, so evil. It gnawed at her. The hair prickled on the back of her neck. Something about it seemed familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.

  After pouring a cup of coffee, she read the story under the headline aloud, trying to keep her mind off the phone call. “Police are investigating the death of thirty-one year old George Lucas, whose body was found last night in Lagoon Park near his west side home.” The sound of her shaky voice surprised her.

  What was the matter with her? “Get a grip, girl.”

  Must be the effect of seeing the lifeless body. The way George Lucas’s eyes stared into space. What was he thinking when he looked into his killer’s eyes? The distant street lamp didn’t help. It cast an eerie shadow on the victim. His face frozen in terror, lips parted in a silent scream, and his head tilted to one side as if it was too heavy for his neck. The way one hand clutched at his throat and the other gripped the note, fingers frozen around it, sent icy chills through her, even now. She shuddered.

  Thank God there wasn’t any blood, since the image would forever be embedded in her mind. Susan rubbed her arms to warm them.

  Picking up the paper, she continued to read. “The coroner will determine the cause of death, but early reports indicate that Mr. Lucas was strangled. Lipstick was smeared across the victim’s mouth, and he clasped the nursery rhyme, ‘Georgie Porgie,’ in his hand. The teen who discovered the body reported seeing a man carrying a bag and wearing a gray shirt running from the park moments before. Police have no suspects at this time.”

  Bella brushed against her legs, jumped on the counter, and snuggled against her.

  Susan’s heart pounded. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. So much for the thrill of seeing her name on the front page. The image of the body filled her mind. Her hands trembled while she held the paper and reread the headline with her name below it. It was exactly as she had written it — not one word changed, short and to the point.

  George Lucas lived in her neighborhood. She’d seen him a few times in Meliti’s Market talking to old Mrs. Meliti. Although they never spoke, they had nodded and smiled hello. Nice-looking guy, about her age. What a shock seeing him dead. Another shiver shook her body. Seeing a dead body was bad enough, but knowing the victim threw her for a loop. Made it personal.

  Arriving only a few minutes before the police showed up and ordered her to leave, not that they had to tell her twice, she had viewed the crime scene and then skedaddled lickety-split. She knew enough about crime scenes to maintain a distance, knew if she got too close, she’d compromise the scene, maybe even leave trace evidence of herself behind. She didn’t need that. But she’d been close enough to read that paper in his hand, a nursery rhyme. She’d seen every gory detail.

  The nursery rhyme letters, cut out from newspapers and magazines, and bowl of chocolate pudding and the strawberry pie that had been dumped on the victim’s head would stay in her memory for a long time. Of course, the police requested that information not be printed.

  Requested, hell. Demanded was more like it, but Susan understood. Those were facts only the killer knew, and it prevented crank confessions. Couldn’t give the public too much information. After waiting behind the crime scene tape long enough to hear the possible cause of death, she hurried home to write her story before the deadline.

  Susan walked around the kitchen. To sweeten the deal, her colleagues hadn’t shown up until well after they’d taped off the crime scene, hadn’t seen what she’d seen. So Ernie printed her story. Her first big byline! Even that cocky reporter, Dan Hill, hadn’t beat her out this time.

  Staring at the large headline, she sipped her coffee. The words from the phone call rambled around in her mind.

  “Strawberries. The voice on the pho
ne said something about strawberries. Strawberry Pie dumped over the victim’s head.” Her voice cracked at the memory.

  Only the killer knew about the pie. Her body shook. Had she been talking to the killer? What else had the caller said? Jack be nimble. Another nursery rhyme.

  Grabbing the counter to steady herself, she repeated part of the nursery rhyme “Jack be nimble…”

  Her mind raced. She pushed away from the counter and paced the kitchen, trying to remember the rest of the rhyme.

  “Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack jumped over the candlestick. That’s it!”

  What the heck did it mean? Was he going to kill again? Was there a serial killer out there?

  She grabbed the phone and dialed the police department. Maybe it was nothing, but she needed to report it. Something didn’t sit right.

  Susan showered while she waited for Detective David Morgan. The Desk Sergeant had connected them when she explained the strange phone call. Detective Morgan of Homicide, in charge of the case, told her he’d come by within the hour to take her statement. Just what she needed, a detective coming here. Why couldn’t he take her statement over the phone? Yeah, right. She knew better than that. That wasn’t the way it worked.

  A few minutes later, someone pounded on the door. “Hold on, I’m coming.” Good grief, couldn’t they knock like ordinary people. Scared the bejeebers out of me.” Susan opened the door a crack. How the heck did he get past the security door?

  “Detective Morgan.” He flashed his badge. “You called me.”

  Susan pushed the chain aside and opened the door. He brushed past her and walked into her apartment.

  Taken aback by the tall, strikingly handsome man and his rude entry, she caught her breath. Here was Rhett Butler, from Gone with the Wind, reincarnated. He towered over her five-foot-eight height. Yet, she wanted to wipe the cocky grin off his face. Now she knew how Scarlett felt the first time she met Rhett.

  But darn it, what gave him the right to burst in here like that? His coppery brown eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief, mesmerizing her. What a hunk of a man. Too bad rudeness got the better of him. The citrusy scent of his after-shave tickled her nostrils. His unruly, silky, black hair begged her to push it back in place. She resisted the urge to run her fingers through it.

  Good lord, she needed to get a hold of herself; he was just a man. Oh, but what a man, not to mention, a cop. Susan fidgeted with her coffee cup, sipped occasionally, and paced while he questioned her in a quiet, but firm voice.

  She stopped pacing and studied him, guessed him to be a few years older than her, maybe 35. Just because he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring didn’t mean he wasn’t married. Shaking the thoughts from her mind, she tried to concentrate on the phone call. “I could hardly hear him.”

  A quivering sensation ran through her when she stared into the detective’s eyes. This man had the power to seduce her with just a look. “He sounded all garbled, like he was talking through water, or something.” Even her voice trembled.

  Why couldn’t she concentrate? It wasn’t like she’d never seen a handsome man before. But there was something about him.

  His hand moved quickly over his note pad, and she couldn’t help but watch, a habit since taking a course in handwriting analysis.

  His handwriting was neat, but with considerable space between each line. He’s logical and orderly, neither impulsive nor spontaneous. Good qualities for a cop. Good qualities for a man.

  She had to stop this. He wasn’t applying for the position of boyfriend. Besides, she didn’t need a man. Especially a cop.

  “Miss…Miss…” He touched her shoulder, startling her back to awareness. “Are you all right?”

  Susan’s face burned. The touch of his hand seared into her shoulder, igniting flames deep inside her. Never had a man’s touch caused such a reaction.

  Lord, she had to get a grip.

  “Uh, um, yes, I’m okay.”

  “Is there anything else you can think of? It’s obvious the caller disguised his voice. Did he give you any other indication why he called you, other than he liked your headline?”

  “I can’t think of anything. It was so hard to understand him. His voice was harsh, almost grating. There was something evil sounding about it, yet something familiar. I just can’t put my finger on it. I’m not even sure it was a man.” Susan looked at the ceiling while she spoke, not trusting herself to look into his eyes.

  “I couldn’t hear him at first, and even when he repeated himself, his voice was so muffled.” She pulled the clip out of her hair, shook her head and gathered her hair back into the clip. “Oh, and he said something about strawberries. That’s why I called you.”

  “Strawberries. That’s interesting.” Detective Morgan pulled something from his pocket “Do you recognize this?” He held an evidence bag in front of her.

  Recognize it? Of course she recognized it. It had her name on it. “That’s my I.D. bracelet. Where did you get it?” Susan reached for it. “I was going to have it fixed. The clasp is broke.”

  He pulled it away, nodded, and put the bag back in his pocket. “It was at the crime scene. Maybe you can explain how it got there.”

  “I, uh, um... It was in my pocket. I must have dropped it. The crime scene tape wasn’t up yet, and I got pretty close to the body before anyone stopped me. You can’t possibly think I’m responsible for this...this heinous crime.” Suddenly, the room spun. Cold engulfed her. She grabbed onto the counter. He considered her a suspect. Like she was even capable of committing that crime. .

  “Besides, the killer called here. How could I do that?” She pulled herself together and stomped her foot. How dare he accuse her? She wanted to reach out and slap that suspicious look off his face.

  Suddenly her hand came up and made contact with his face as if it had a mind of its own. Horrified, she pulled it back. Oh God, she just hit a cop. “I’m sorry. Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” She wanted to reach up and wipe the slap away, caress his cheek.

  “I could arrest you for that, you know.”

  “I really am sorry. I’ve never slapped anyone in my life, even when they deserved it.”

  “So you think I deserved it?”

  “Yes. I mean, no.” Shoot, she didn’t know what she meant. “Look, I’m sorry, honest. I don’t know what came over me. This whole thing has me crazy.”

  Detective Morgan nodded. “Anything else you remember, you give me a call.” He ignored her apology and wrote something in his notebook. “Oh, and if he contacts you again, I want to know about it immediately. Understand?” He handed her his card.

  “That’s my cell phone on the back. If you can’t reach me any other way, you call that.” He turned and left.

  Her stomach tightened. Susan slammed the door behind him and locked it. What had come over her, slapping him like that? Violence wasn’t in her nature. Neither was losing control.

  Nausea filled her throat, maybe from the phone call, the effect of the detective, his attitude, or the thought she was a suspect. Maybe it was a combination of all four. Whatever it was, she didn’t like this feeling.

  Put him out of your mind, she thought. She’d probably never see him again.

  Besides, he was probably married. What did she care, anyway? She wasn’t interested in him or any man. She had a career to think about. A man in her life would only complicate things. Men created problems. She had enough of those already.

  Bella curled around her legs. Susan picked up the purring cat, cradling her for a minute before setting her down and turning on the police scanner. Hopefully, she hadn’t missed any newsworthy stories. It squawked in the background while she straightened up her apartment.

  The phone rang a few more times with congratulatory calls on the story from her mother and sisters.

  “What if the killer comes after you?” her mother asked.

  Even though her mother sounded proud, her voice held a note of concern. After almost an hour spent reassuring her mother that killers
didn’t come after reporters, Susan hung up. No point telling her mother about the early-morning caller. Why upset her further? Knowing her mother, there’d be no calming her down.

  Besides, it probably was just a crank call; reporters got them all the time.

  She had to do something, had to get out of her apartment, and forget that phone call.

  That voice.

  She grabbed her purse and keys and locked the door behind her.

  * * *

  Dave sat in his car and took stock of Susan Weston.

  Good-looking. Pretty in a masculine sort of way, probably because of her height. He liked the way she wore her long dark hair pulled back in a clip. Casual, but neat. Right off, he could tell she was independent. Maybe it was the way she carried herself, not hunched over the way many tall girls seemed to do. Self-assured.

  Something told him she didn’t take crap from anybody. She couldn’t — not with the kind of job she had. He’d learned from the reporters he knew it was a dog-eat-dog world. Yet, something about her screamed femininity. She looked soft and cuddly all at the same time.

  What was Susan’s role in all this? And what made the killer seek her out, call her? If, in fact, it was the killer. More likely just a crank call, but he had to follow every lead. Still, the caller said something about strawberries. No one but the killer knew that. Too bad Susan couldn’t understand everything the caller said.

  Damn it, they had 48 hours before the case ran cold.

  And damn, if it didn’t look like Susan was flirting with him with the sexy way she shook her hair out. So casual, yet so alluring. Like she didn’t even know she was doing it. What a beauty when she let it loose. Too bad she gathered it back up. And those dark eyes, they had to be the darkest brown he’d ever seen. Sure was distracting.

  Damn it, he couldn’t let a witness get to him like this. Yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.