by Jill S. Behe
He took advantage with a kiss. “God, you turn me on.”
I didn’t get any of those boxes opened.
Chapter 21
… MONDAY…
* * *
… August 31st…
* * *
“UNLESS LAVENDER HAD some new insights, this case is stalling. Declan, did you find out anything new?”
“Not really. She was in a fit of tears when I arrived.” He held up a hand. “No. I wasn’t late, and her anger was not directed at me. Rather, it was aimed at her former husband.”
“Why?”
“She said she’d told Tom he was crazy to be going fishing in the rain. He just laughed, and said it wasn’t supposed to rain the whole time. And besides that, fishing in the rain was the best time to fish.”
Rick was nodding. “He was right about both.”
Becca looked up from her notepad. “It wasn’t supposed to rain all weekend?”
“No. It was to be sunny, clear, hot, and humid. If it had been, the fishing would have been lousy.”
“And why is that?” Paul sat up. “I’m a city kid. Never been fishing. Why is it better to fish in the rain, and not when it’s hot?”
Wyatt gave Rick a nod.
“Well, most old-timers will say fishing in the rain—not a downpour, mind you—is a great time to fish because the rain knocks bugs onto the surface of the water, and the fish come up to eat. If you’ve got a line in, you’ll most likely catch a few.”
“And why not on a hot day?”
“Fish like it cool. If the sun is blazing, the fish will stay in deeper water, or under the shade of trees along the bank. You’ll waste your time, and risk a bad sunburn, sitting out in the middle of the lake.”
“Huh. How ’bout that.”
Rick eyed the city kid. “If you ever want a fishing lesson, give me a shout.”
“I will.”
“Okay, now that we’ve got the date made, let’s hear the rest of Declan’s report.”
Paul said, “Gotta take advantage when the mood hits. She might say no later.”
Rick laughed. “Thanks a lot, dude.”
Grinning, Paul pointed at him.
Declan, clearly amused, cleared his throat. “Before the mood is lost, how about a threesome?”
There were multiple cackles, hoots, and snickers.
Rick threw back, “The more the merrier.”
And the hilarity started over again. Even Wyatt was smiling.
“Okay. Sorry,” Rick sputtered. “But I couldn’t resist.”
“Back to the report.” Declan picked up his small notebook. “Once past the initial tears, there was determination in Miss Lavender’s voice. She took the initiative, and called the locksmith. He’s going to personally replace all the locks. She agreed, but did have a stipulation.”
“Oh?”
“She requested a police escort before—as in, to pick her up from her place of residence and be taken to her place of business—the changing of the locks, and then being returned to her home.”
“I think that’s smart.”
“As do I.”
“Did she specify who would be her escort?”
“Yes. It’ll be me.”
Wyatt agreed. “All right. What else we got? Anything?”
“There’s more.” Declan tapped the table. “The whole reason for contacting us in the first place, was because of something she found.”
“I know that. I’m assuming you’re going to tell us what that something was?”
“I am. She was going through his home office desk. On his calendar he noted an appointment: ‘H.T. Keys. Fri. 6 pm. She figured it meant he was going to have the locks changed because it said ‘keys,’ but he never mentioned anything about it to her.
“I’m thinking he was worried about her missing merchandise, and wanted to take precautions.”
“Sounds like it to me. Is that it?”
“Not quite. She had me take her over to the store for a walk-through. She hadn’t been there since she locked up Friday afternoon. She found more pieces missing, including a bronze Cupid. It’s bigger than the other pieces, and was one of her favorites.”
“Yes, of course,” I broke in. “That space I saw when you and I were there, Wyatt? That’s the piece I couldn’t remember.”
“She said it’s about eight inches tall, and chunky. Heavy.”
Well, duh, it’s made of bronze.
Wyatt rubbed his jaw. “Would make a good murder weapon.”
“She also mentioned that all the missing pieces are ones that Maggie had admired, at one time or another.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Just what I said.”
How would that be possible?
Holy Crap!
“The new appointment is on Wednesday, at one in the afternoon.”
“Roger that. Anything else?”
“Not at the moment. I’ll probably have more once the locks are changed.”
“Great. Thanks, Declan.”
Rick raised a hand. “Sort of unrelated, and I don’t want to start the innuendos all over again. But, not to leave the ladies out, the invitation for fishing lessons is legit, and does include y’all, as well.”
Gus smacked his arm. “Thanks, Rick. I might take you up on that.”
“Me, too,” Becca smiled. “Maybe. Not sure about those wiggly worms, and wiggly fish on the end of a hook.” She grimaced. “But, I might want to try it—once.”
Chapter 22
… TUESDAY…
* * *
… September 1st…
MID-WAY THROUGH the morning, the front door opened. Declan, responding to a fender-bender, greeted the visitor and continued out.
Not hearing anything else, I wondered if the person had followed Declan. But at a flicker of motion in my peripheral vision, I glanced towards the entranceway, and tilted my head. “Rory?”
Rory Chapin (Susie’s older brother) gave me a shy half-wave and moved forward.
“What’s up?”
The postal clerk shuffled in, a medium-sized envelope in his latex-gloved left hand.
Rick got up, and eased closer. “Hey, Rory. How’s it going?”
“Good. Good.” He cleared his throat. “Ah, Miss Maggie, I’ve heard the rumors about that man who’s been watching you. You know we all care about you.” He swiveled his head to include everyone in the room, but then nodded at me. “All y’all, but you especially.”
“Thank you. How can we help you today?”
Paul and Court approached from the other side. I could have told them he wasn’t dangerous, but he was acting … shifty.
Rory held out the thick manila envelope. “This came for you today. I noticed it while I was sorting mail for the routers. Ms. McIntyre was going to bring it her own self, but got … she’s on a conference call with the big bosses in Pittsburgh. She told me to bring it on by.
“It … ah, I didn’t want to overstep, but because of your troubles, and that this is addressed to your maiden name and stuff, that we thought you might need to get it before the regular mail was delivered.”
My hand had been reaching for the package, but at his explanation, my fingers retracted.
Paul pulled a pair of hypo-allergenic gloves from his back pocket and snapped them on.
Rory watched, seeming fascinated, then said, “I tried not to handle it bare-handed, once I realized—”
“We appreciate your initiative, Rory.” Ricky smiled. “Thanks.”
“Sure.”
Paul took the envelope and inspected the outside, then hefted it. “Feels heavier than it looks. Solid mass inside. Nothing explosive that I can sense. Might need a mask, just in case.”
At the raised eyebrows, he expounded, “Poisoned powder.”
“Good God.” Rory took a shaky breath and two steps back from the desk. “Never thought of that. Geez. Do y’all need me for anything else?”
I looked at the three uniformed men in front of my desk. T
hey all shook their heads.
“Nope. Thanks, again, Rory. You can go on back to work now. Tell Miss Gladiola I said hello, and thanks.”
Cheeks pale, a smile bloomed and was gone. “I will. Bye, now.”
I couldn’t tell if he was intimidated by the boys in … khaki, or if he just didn’t like being in a police station. Or, perhaps he didn’t want to be any closer to the envelope. That would be the most probable, I’m thinking.
Rick chuckled at the young man’s rapid retreat.
Court had donned gloves also. “How do you want to do this?”
Gus was handing out painter’s masks.
I blew out a breath, wishing Wyatt was back from his follow up appointment. “Throw it out in the dumpster, for all I care.”
“Now you know we can’t—”
“Yes, I do know you can’t do that. Unfortunately.
Just open the thing.”
Paul swiped the letter opener out of my pencil holder, and the top of the envelope was sliced open. Nothing jumped, or filtered out, so he dumped the contents onto my desk.
Pictures spilled out. Fifty, a hundred, or more.
Glossy.
5” X 7”.
In living color.
All of me.
Only me.
HMM (Holy Massive Migraines).
I tried blinking away the lightheadedness that was threatening to put me … on my face … on the floor, and took deeper breaths, which were then trying to morph into hyperventilation.
A running theme with me lately.
Becca—what a sweetheart—plunked a water bottle in my hands, and stuck another one against the back of my neck. It felt good there, and the fog began to clear.
Court grabbed the one she’d handed me, opened it, and gave it back. “Drink it.”
My hands shook so hard, I almost missed my mouth. “Crap. Crap. Crap.”
Rick snorted. “Are those the most colorful words you can come up with?”
“What’s going on?”
Wyatt!
I took a breath, and held it to a count of two, then took another, and held it for a count of three. As the curtain of bodies parted from in front of me, my breathing started to slow down.
“Maggie?” He tossed his hat, then saw the mess on my desk and made a beeline. “What’s all this?”
Gus looked at me. “Another gift from her admirer.”
“Gift?” He was moving the photos around with the eraser end of a pencil. A few goddamns spewed forth and some other choice words that turned the air blue.
“Yeah.” Rick nodded, still mad. “That sounds more like it.”
I was irritated, but not at him, per se. “So sorry I don’t have your talent as a gutter-mouth.” Oh, dear Lord!
The words were no sooner out, and I regretted them.
I stood and grabbed him into a hug (good thing he hadn’t been standing all that far away). “I’m so sorry, Rick. My brain’s on overload. No excuse, but please forgive me.”
He hugged me back. “Now, now. No need for that. I do have a tendency in that area—as you are aware—and it’s gotten worse in the last several months. But you’re still my best girl. Just don’t tell Lancy, and there’ll be hell to pay if Wyatt finds out.”
Then he grinned, and gave me a smacking kiss on the forehead while everyone laughed. The thick tension was gone, but not the underlying concern.
I sat again, eyes wandering over the mass of photos.
When had these been taken? How long ago? How recent? How had this mad man managed to get so many of me minus an escort of any kind? Was he flaunting the fact that he could have grabbed me at any time?
I heard, “She’s gonna pass out if she doesn’t breathe soon,” and took a couple of timed breaths.
Gus was in my face. “Maggie, why don’t we get some air, and let the menfolk handle this for a few minutes?”
Aren’t they just the sweetest?
She manhandled me to my feet, and with Becca on the other side, we went out to, and twice around, the parking lot.
“I feel like such an idiot.”
“Why?” Becca tsked. “If it was my face on those pictures, I’d be passed out on the floor, or screaming hysterically. Besides, you’ve been taking shots for the last year and a half—most especially since January. This bastard hasn’t let you catch a break before he hits you again with something different.”
“True.” Gus took up the cause. “I’m amazed at your stamina, to tell you the truth.”
I sniffed. “Oh, please.”
“I’m serious. I don’t know how you cope so well.”
My laugh was halfhearted. “I bake. A lot.”
“Yeah, well, we knew that already. But, Jiminy Christmas, Maggie, if anyone’s got a case for PTSD, it’s you.”
“Yeah,” Gus agreed. “Post Traumatic Stalker Disorder. So whatever you’re doing to alleviate the symptoms, keep it up.”
“Seriously?” Both girls nodded. “You really think so?”
“Classic, I’d say.”
“Becca’s right.”
We adjourned to a park bench near the front steps.
“Feeling better?”
“Well, I don’t feel like I’m going to pass out any more. Actually, that cold water bottle on my neck was a godsend.”
Becca grinned. “Thanks. My volleyball coach had to use that technique on me a few times when I got overheated during a game.”
“Good one.”
“All right, ladies, time to face reality. I haven’t been without an escort—babysitter—bodyguard—in quite some time. How could he have gotten all those pictures of me by myself? Harley’s not even in any of those shots.”
Becca shrugged. “Photoshop?”
“Hmm. Maybe.” Gus scratched her head. “Or good at copy/pasting.”
“So it’s not because I was out alone? Which I really couldn’t have been. Not lately.”
“Well, maybe some of them. I mean, you know, even if you’re with someone, they aren’t glued to your side.”
Becca nodded. “True.”
“Okay. That makes me feel better.”
“Feel like going back inside?”
“Yes, please.” I squinted into the orb of heat above me. “It’s hot out here.”
We laughed and made for the door. By the time we returned, the men had cleaned off my desk.
An evidence bag was propped in my OUT box, and I groaned. “Another offering to the county lab?”
“Yup.”
Declan returned about fifteen minutes later, and was filled in on the most recent episode in my sad-and-mad-and-getting madder saga. He waited until the others were busy and sat in one of my visitor chairs.
Eyes on his, I waited.
“Are you all right?” He held up a hand. “Sorry. Stupid question. How are you … faring?” A grimace, then a grin. “That doesn’t sound any better.”
I smiled, understanding. “I had a moment of madness. Cooler heads walked me around the parking lot a couple times. I’m … steadier. Point of fact, I’m steady.”
“Good.”
“This isn’t going to stop until we nail this guy. I know that. It’s just so hard to do when it’s in my face. I think I handled it better than the flowers, but you’d have to ask for a second opinion. Mine might be biased.”
Wyatt came to stand behind me. “We didn’t see any fingerprints, and they probably didn’t need to go to county, but we’re fairly certain he printed them all from his den of iniquity. Which tells us something else about him. Maybe more than one something.”
“Tell me.”
He joined Declan in the other chair, easing into it. “He has a good camera, with some kind of extra lens, or a zoom, a high resolution printer, and moderately good computer skills. Most of the pictures were photo-shopped, or cropped. Only one or two looked unretouched.” He steepled his fingers. “Can’t tell if he used digital or film, but we’re assuming they were digital photos. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about anyone el
se seeing them when he had them processed.”
“Unless he has a darkroom.”
“Ah. That might explain the no fingerprints. Most people who are around film and prints know to wear Colton gloves when handling them.”
“He was very particular about his shots,” Declan stated. “None were enlarged beyond their pixel limit. None were out of focus.”
“Which leads me to believe these are only a small portion of what he has. Also, all the pics are from the waist up. No long shots. No full body shots. Could have been cropped, but I don’t think they were.”
“That’s very intuitive, Chief. Makes sense, in a weird sort of way.”
“But,” my hand reached for the phone as it rang. “It doesn’t get us any closer to finding out who he is. Mossy Creek Police Department. This is Maggie. How may I help you?”
“Beth?”
My eyes narrowed, heart started to pound, this was the a-h*le (take that, Ricky) attacking my life. Staring straight at Wyatt, I put the phone on speaker.
“Beth, are you there?”
The rest of the crew surrounded the desk, quiet as a cat sneaking up on its lunch.
“I’m here.”
“Did you get my present?” A creepy giggle wafted over the line. “I thought I sent it in time, but you know how unreliable the post office can be.”
“Present?”
“Yes. The photographs. You did get them, didn’t you?”
“I got them.”
“I thought you’d appreciate the sentiment, especially today.”
“Today?” I frowned. Nothing of significance, in my recollection, had happened on September 1st. “What’s so special about today?”
“Seriously?” There was a brief pause, interspersed with harsh breathing. “You don’t remember?” The silly voice was gone, and in its place, a sinister madman. “See what happens when you’re distracted? Take care, my sweet girl. You’re coming close to the edge of my patience, and you really don’t want to make me mad, again.”
There was a click, and dead air. I stared at the phone. Even my brain was stunned. Those around me were silent.
Then Declan summed it up. “Who is this guy?”