Murder on the Third Try

by K. P. Gresham

  “Thanks, Bo.” She picked up a rag to start wiping down the counters.

  “Let Tom do that,” Bo said.

  “All right,” she said. “But I’ll put away the food. I’d like to come in to a stocked kitchen tomorrow.”

  Bo’s head came up. “Is he stealing food?”

  She shrugged. “But make sure you lock up the liquor before you leave at night.”

  ***

  I’m sitting in the game room of the Fire and Ice House, my trivia game long finished. I glance at my watch for the umpteenth time, frustrated at how long I have to wait for Chelsea to finish up. My behavior is a definite break in my cover, but what am I going to do? Go back to my Bastrop apartment and endure some more one-on-one time with Kodak?

  The last of the customers are at the cash register waiting as Chelsea rings up their tab. Finally, I think to myself. Bo and Dorothy Jo left fifteen minutes ago, and the only one left besides Chelsea is the kid, Tom Gibbons.

  What the hell? Tom Gibbons is heading toward the front door, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. Isn’t he the one who closes up the place?

  I whip out of the booth hidden in the shadows of the juke box and storm into the kitchen. Chelsea is dragging a floor mat out the back door. The screen door slams shut behind her. “What are you doing?” I demand.

  “I’m closing tonight,” she says, dropping the heavy plastic with a whoosh. She reaches for the garden hose and begins spraying down the mat.

  “I thought we had a date.” I say, coming to a stop on the interior side of the screen door.

  “I said I wanted to talk with you.” She gives the mat one more squirt, then pulls open the screen door. I step back to let her enter.

  “What’s this all about?”

  Chelsea moves to the large stainless steel sink, and begins rinsing plates to put through the dishwasher. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” Chelsea slams the loaded tray down on the rollers, then pulls the dishwasher door down and hits “wash.”

  I feel the anger push up from my diaphragm, and I clench my fists to keep it under control. “The kid’s supposed to close up.”

  “Not tonight.”

  “But Bo could’ve—”

  “Bo came in early today and worked a ten hour shift. It’s my turn.” She moved to the stack of dirty stainless steel pots and pans.

  I look at the fairly small dishwasher. How many loads am I going to have to sit through? “Besides,” she says. “I wanted to talk with you here. In neutral territory.”

  “Neutral territory?” I repeat. “Are we having a fight I’m not aware of?” Jesus, I think. The last thing I need tonight is this. Tomorrow I kill the preacher. Kodak’s a total asshole. And...and.

  Who am I kidding? The thing that’s bothered me the most all day is that it’s my fault eight preschoolers are dead.

  “I think we’re about to.” Chelsea lays a large pot onto the next rack ready to go through the wash. “Have a fight,” she says and turns towards me.

  It’s the first time I’ve been able to really look at her all night. I take note of her pale complexion, her lighter-than-usual makeup, the tight line of her lips. “What are we going to fight about?”

  “I’m going to ask you to tell me something, and you’re not gonna like it.”

  “All right,” I say slowly. “What do you need to ask me?”

  “What were you doing in Benedict County Thursday morning, in that rusted out building right across the street from the McDonald’s that blew up yesterday?”

  My stomach lurches up my throat. I feel my face go red, as if I’ve been slapped. “What are you talking about?” I barely am able to gut out.

  “I followed you. You took my truck—no, you stole my truck—and I borrowed Bo’s to follow you. You drove straight to Benedict County—straight to where the explosion happened.”

  I swallow the bile down that threatens to spew.

  “You parked behind an old metal building, and I parked at the McDonald’s. I sat in that McDonald’s and waited for you to come out for two and a half hours.”

  I edge away from her, trying to think of a way to deny all of this.

  “I saw you leave,” she continues relentlessly. “And you came straight back to Wilks.”

  Jesus. Chelsea has made the connection between me in the shed and the explosion. She thinks I had something to do with the bomb.

  “You parked my truck exactly where I’d left it the night before, and I watched you sneak up my apartment stairs, apparently to put my keys back on the counter because I found them exactly where I had left them Wednesday.”

  “Chelsea—”

  She holds up her hand to stop my interruption. Her eyes are on fire, and her lips are trembling. “And then you created your alibi. You made sure you and I were together when that bomb went off. First the movie, and then a toss in the sheets.” A tear slipped down her cheek and she slapped it away. “Several tosses in the sheets.”

  “Chelsea, I didn’t have anything to do with—”

  “Don’t bother.” Her voice was low, almost animalistic in its growl. “Now I know why you’ve been so mysteriously absent the last two weeks. You’ve treated me like a dog. Worse than a dog. Is it because you had an explosion to plan? And why? Why would you do such a horrible thing? Children died!”

  She has me dead to rights. And when the preacher dies tomorrow, she’ll put that into the equation too.

  “Chelsea, honey,” I step closer to her, my arms at my side, pleading for her to understand. “I love you. I finally figured that out. I’m sorry it took me so long.” And I realize I’m not making this up. It’s how I feel.

  But she doesn’t. She raises her hand to stop me from coming closer. Her eyes are filled with hate, and I realize what we could’ve had is over. Then she slaps me so hard I tip toward the dishwasher.

  My face stings, and I actually have to take a breath to get my bearings. In that millisecond I know what must be done. I grab the large cast iron skillet from the dish rack and swing it at her for all I’m worth.

  The first blow lands on the back of her head and she falls to her knees. She’s still alive. Still conscious.

  I can’t stop now.

  I raise the skillet high over my head and, with both hands clenched around its handle, I plunge it as hard as I can onto her skull. Blood spatters across the floor and onto the shelves behind her.

  Still, she might be alive. I have to be sure.

  As I bring the skillet up for another blow, blood drips down onto my head and arms. Chelsea’s blood.

  I look down at her. She’s not moving, but maybe one more blow…

  I swing the skillet down and her skull cracks beneath the percussion. White bone and red brains spill onto the floor.

  I study her still form. There’s no movement. No signs of respiration. I want to reach down and check her pulse, but I’m already leaving too much information at this murder scene.

  To make sure the deed is done, I hit her with the skillet one last time, but my strength is leaving me. I know her blood has splashed on me, know that there’s little chance of me leaving without making foot prints.

  Then I spot a stack of hand towels within grabbing distance on the counter. I throw two on the floor, then step onto them so that my shoes can’t be traced. I take another towel and wipe any blood that might drip from my clothes or arms as I leave. I wipe down the skillet, then skate my way over to the screened door. I turn out the lights, push the door lock on the knob and go outside. I take off my shoes, grab all the towels and quietly walk away.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Another Murder

  James W. had to admit. When it came time for going to nine a.m. Sunday School, it sure helped that free coffee and doughnuts were available in Grace Lutheran’s fellowship hall. He poured himself a cup of coffee and prided himself on not adding any cream or sugar. Who needed those, when warm, sticky Shipley’s glazed doughnuts were waiting for his studied appreciation?
/>   Mandy Culver was in her usual spot manning the coffee bar. “Good morning, Sheriff,” she said.

  “Now Miss Mandy, I told you to call me James W.” He reached for a doughnut and took a bite.

  “And I told you to stop calling me Miss Mandy. I’m not sixty years old. Yet.” She winked at him.

  It was a familiar banter shared between the two, and James W. smiled. “What do you have goin’ in Sunday School for the kiddos today?”

  Along with the after-school day care program, Mandy was in charge of the pre-school Sunday School. Even Elsbeth had to admit the enrollment for those ages was up.

  “Word’s getting around that Pastor Hayden is out of the neuro care unit. We’re going to make get well cards for him today. That should brighten up a hospital room.”

  James W. nodded. “That’s a fine idea. I’m going up to Brackenridge after church to make sure his security is sound now that Matt’s on a general floor. Would you like me to take them up for you?”

  “Miss Mandy! Miss Mandy!” A little, round-faced girl with uneven bangs ran up to the child care director. “Look!” The child grinned, and in doing so showed she was missing a tooth.

  Mandy picked up the girl in delight. “My goodness, Shiloh! Is it your first one?”

  Shiloh nodded importantly. “I’m going to be a big girl, now.” She spied a little boy grabbing a doughnut. “Miguel!” she cried out, almost jumping out of Mandy’s arms. “Look at this!”

  “She’s a big girl already. You’ve got a lot of muscle for being a pretty little thing,” James W. observed. “You’re really good at your job, Miss Mandy.”

  “It helps that I love kids,” she laughed. “They give the best hugs.”

  His phone buzzed, and he took it from his suit pocket. “Sheriff Novak,” he said.

  Where a smile had been only seconds ago, James W.’s mouth turned grim. “Don’t touch anything. Where are you calling me from?” He listened. “Stand right where you are, Dorothy Jo. Don’t move. I’ll be right over.” He clicked off the phone.

  Mandy’s brows furrowed. “Is something wrong?”

  “Tell Elsbeth I’ve got an emergency at the Ice House. I won’t be back for church.”

  ***

  Angie eased into the hospital recliner, still gaping in disbelief at her phone. “Oh, my God.”

  Noting Angie’s stunned expression Mike immediately sensed there was a problem. He reached for the TV control and turned down the volume on the Sunday morning news show. “What’s wrong?”

  The blood was draining from her face. “That was Dorothy Jo. She went in early to start prepping food for today. She found…” She raked a shaking hand through her hair. “My waitress. Chelsea. She’s dead.”

  Alarmed, he watched her eyes fill with tears. “Is this the woman that passed out the other night?” he asked.

  “That was Dorothy Jo, my cook. Chelsea’s my waitress and bartender.” She shook her head. “No. Chelsea was more than that.” A sob broke from her chest. “This girl was young. Vibrant. Smart as a whip. Pretty, too, if you could get past the goth look. My God.” Tears streaked down her face.

  Mike searched his memory of yesterday’s conversation with Bo. Had he mentioned a Chelsea? “I take it she wasn’t sick or anything?”

  “Someone killed her.” Angie’s lips trembled. “In the Ice House kitchen. It must’ve happened sometime last night. Her body was cold and hard when Dorothy Jo came in to open up this morning.” Angie considered. “But Chelsea was sick. Yesterday morning. I had to send her home. She almost fainted in the bar.”

  “Dorothy Jo’s sure the girl was murdered?”

  “She said the back of Chelsea’s head is busted open.” Angie brought her hand quickly to her mouth as if now just realizing what Dorothy Jo had seen.

  Mike grimaced. “She could’ve fallen?”

  “No. Whoever did this used Dorothy Jo’s favorite fifteen-inch cast iron skillet to bash her head open. Dorothy Jo said there’s blood everywhere.” Angie let out a sob. “Why would anyone want to kill Chelsea?”

  Slowly Mike felt his cop’s hat descending upon his head. He’d had a sixth sense about these things when he was an undercover cop in Miami’s drug scene. Right now, alarms were going off in his head, and they had nothing to do with the missing chunk of his skull. “How many people live in Wilks?” he asked.

  Angie stared at him for a moment. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Mike persisted. “What’s the population of Wilks?”

  Distracted, Angie thought for a moment. “Five, six hundred maybe? Why?”

  “In the course of two weeks, someone’s tried to kill me, and someone has murdered your waitress.” He leveled his gaze at her. “In a town that small? I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  ***

  James W. rushed through the Fire and Ice House front door and was immediately overwhelmed by the smell of death. He saw Dorothy Jo standing in the kitchen at the pass-through. Her face was pale, streaked with tears and something else.

  “I’m sorry, James W. You said not to touch anything, but I couldn’t help it.”

  He came around the bar and punched through the swinging half-doors. On the pass-through counter was a saucepan filled with vomit.

  “I tried to hold it back,” she sobbed. “But it’s so awful.”

  He looked beyond her to the back of the Ice House kitchen, then felt his own stomach lurch. “Yes, it is.”

  Chelsea’s body was sprawled, face down, in front of the dishwasher. That is, if she had a face left. The back of her head sure didn’t exist anymore.

  He took a deep breath, realizing too late the stench that permeated the air promoted nausea. Pucker up, he told himself, and began to observe the scene.

  First he studied the floor. The violence seemed to be confined to the back of the kitchen. No bloody footsteps came his way, so his first thought was the murderer had gone out the back door. There didn’t seem to be any sign of a struggle, either. The pots, pans, ovens, stoves, fryers, all seemed in order. But once he looked to the dishwashing area in the back, he had to swallow back his own vomit.

  “How far did you get into the kitchen, Dorothy Jo?” he asked.

  “Just to right here. I saw her on the floor as soon as I came through the swinging doors.”

  “You didn’t go to her? See if she was still alive?”

  Dorothy Jo closed her eyes and shook her head. “I could tell.”

  The front door opened and Richard Dube, still buckling his belt hurried in. “I got here as quick as I could, Sheriff.”

  James W. threw out his hand to stop his deputy. “Don’t come in here, Richard.” The last thing he needed was more vomit to violate the crime scene.

  Richard did as he was told, but kept on with his report. “I called Castleburry and Martens in,” he said, referring to the Wilks County sheriff deputies who mostly worked the night shifts.

  “Take Dorothy Jo outside. She needs some air.” James W. nodded for her to head to the front. “Then put up the crime scene tape.”

  “Yes, sir.” Richard Dube took the old cook’s arm, then stopped. “Where do you want the tape?”

  “Around the entire building. And get me some booties and gloves out of the squad car. I gotta figure out what the hell happened here.”

  ***

  Mike had turned the TV volume back up to distract Angie from waiting for a phone call from James W. He hadn’t counted on the pictures flashing across the screen making her even more distraught. Angie was in shock as the local news station updated the Benedict County explosion’s death count, and his own reaction wasn’t far behind.

  “Twenty dead,” Angie whispered, her eyes round with horror.

  Mike could only shake his head. “They’re saying it was possibly a terrorist attack? That makes no sense.”

  “They said the truck came through the border at Brownsville,” Angie said. “That says some outsider planned this, right?”

  There was a knock on the d
oor and Sergeant Bauers stuck his head in. “Pastor? Deputy Ballard insists on seeing that you’re all right. James W. said it would be okay if he looked in from the doorway.”

  Angie sucked in her breath. Mike raised an eyebrow at her.

  “Your federal marshal babysitter,” she whispered, and pursed her lips in fear.

  Mike blinked, trying to remember the name or the person. Nothing came to mind, but the skin on the back of his neck seemed to crawl of its own accord. At Angie’s reaction and the defensive instinct that had suddenly manifested itself, Mike braced himself for the unwelcome visitor. “Maybe for a minute.”

  Bauers opened the door wider, and in walked a sloppily dressed man with wiry, thinning hair heading toward gray. In Mike’s cop eye, he looked to be about five foot ten, right around two hundred pounds. Between the age spots on the face and the saddle-worn skin, Mike put him at right around fifty years of age.

  When the unpleasant looking man offered a ghost of a smile, Mike noted his teeth were yellowed and cracked. “Good morning,” the man said.

  Mike studied him for a moment, deciding the correct tack to take. He glanced briefly at Angie. She actually had her hands fisted, and the glare in her eyes said she was ready to beat the hell out of the guy if he stepped one foot out of place. Well, that told him how to proceed. Keep the upper hand, no matter what. “Hi, Frank,” he said, making sure his voice was low and threatening.

  “I thought I’d come in and see how you’re doing, now that you’re out of jail.”

  “How thoughtful.” Mike crossed his arms. “I’m doing well. Is there anything else?”

  Frank smirked. “Glad to see you’re back to your old, cheerful self.”

  “I’ll be cheerful as soon as you leave.”

  Frank nodded towards Angie. “And how nice that your fiancée is here with you. Lovely to see you again.”

  Angie said nothing, Mike noted, but if looks could kill...

  Frank nodded at the TV. “That explosion was quite a tragedy, wasn’t it?” He looked back at Mike. “Of course, you benefited from the aftermath. It must be nice to be out of Neuro PCU.” Frank glanced at the breakfast tray that had yet to be cleared. “And pancakes for breakfast? Back to real food, too.”