Snowy Misery (Alaska Cozy Mystery Book 7)

by Wendy Meadows

  Sarah slammed the cell phone down. “Francis is going to kill,” she told Conrad and hit the kitchen table. “And all we can do is sit here.”

  “The entire town is on alert,” Conrad pointed out, feeling stupid for speaking useless words. “Amanda, how is that coffee coming?”

  Amanda hurried back to the coffee pot. “Love, are you sure that awful monster is about to...you know, bring the curtain down on someone?” she asked, scooping coffee out of a green coffee can.

  “I'm sure,” Sarah told her best friend and stood up. She walked over to the kitchen window and yanked back the curtain. “He's out there in that darkness, lurking about, preparing to mark someone in Snow Falls as his victim.” Sarah kept her eyes on the storm. “Francis knows every street, every home, every address, every person in Snow Falls. He would have studied this town inside and out for weeks before daring to drive here with Brad. He knows exactly who he is going after...and we don't.”

  “I feel so helpless,” Amanda confessed.

  “So do I,” Sarah agreed and looked at the phone hanging beside the refrigerator. She was tempted to call Pete but knew better. “Francis planted a bug somewhere in my cabin...he's hearing every word we speak.”

  Amanda scanned the kitchen with her worried eyes. “Creepy,” she admitted.

  Conrad walked to the kitchen door and yanked it open without warning. “What are you doing!” Sarah yelled and ran to the back door and grabbed Conrad's arm.

  “That psycho is out there in the snow, Sarah. He's about to kill someone. I just can't sit here and do nothing. I'm going out into that storm and look for him. If he kills me, then so be it,” Conrad told Sarah and gently yanked his arm away. “I can't sit in this kitchen and do nothing.”

  Sarah blocked blowing snow from her face with her left hand and struggled to pull Conrad back into the kitchen. “What can you do out in this storm?” she asked. “Conrad, we're only going to win by out-thinking this monster.”

  “While innocent people die?” Conrad asked Sarah. He threw his eyes at the back door and watched snow blow in. “There's a rabid dog out in that storm that I'm going to track down.”

  “If you go out into that storm, Conrad,” Sarah warned, “the only goal you'll accomplish is freezing to death. We don't know where Francis is about to strike or who. Now, you ordered me to get my mind back on track. You better do the same.” Sarah looked deep into Conrad's eyes and then, without understanding why, gently touched his face. “Come back inside and close the door. Let's take off our coats and get to work, huh?”

  “Sarah, I'm worried you're not able to think straight right now,” Conrad confessed and touched Sarah's hand. “You've been through a horrible ordeal today.”

  Sarah removed her hand from Conrad's face, closed the back door, and walked over to Amanda and took her hand. “Guys, I know I was a little out of it earlier. I admit my mind collapsed on me,” Sarah explained. “I also admit I wasn't all together right at the hospital when I spoke to Francis on the phone. I saw Brad…lying on a cold, steel slab...I saw years of marriage...dead. It's going to take some time for me to process my feelings.” Sarah squeezed Amanda's hand. “I'm okay now, really.”

  Amanda searched Sarah's eyes. She didn't see a woman that was okay. She saw a woman that was broken, hurt and very scared. But there was no time to address that just now. “Love, you said that monster told you to return to square one. What did he mean?” she asked, turning back to the coffee pot.

  “His first murder,” Sarah explained. “I’m going to need that coffee to go walk you through it. Conrad, sit down.” Sarah quickly removed her coat and sat back down at the kitchen table. Conrad hesitated and then slowly sat down across from Sarah. “You see,” Sarah explained, “Francis’s first victim had a similar profile to Brad, in some ways. The victim was a man named Nathan Miles.”

  “Nathan Miles, age forty, married eight years to Melinda Miles,” Conrad recited from the police file he had read many times. “He was a heavy gambler who ended up divorcing his wife. He remarried Margaret Happs, a seventy-two-year-old widow who was very wealthy, and then divorced her five months later, taking her for half a million dollars. One month later, the man was found dead.”

  “His death was not connected to Francis Clark until he confessed to the murder much later,” Sarah continued, picking up the story. “Initially, it was believed that Mr. Miles was killed by Wayne Richards, a debt collector working for Vincent Moore. Vincent Moore ran an illegal underground gambling operation. He focused on college-affiliated sports events.” Sarah removed her gloves and set them down on the kitchen table.

  “Don't bookies usually send their thugs to beat someone up until they pay, not kill them?” Amanda asked.

  “Well, yes,” Sarah continued. “But Vincent Moore's phone number was found on Nathan’s body. Plus, the bullet that killed him matched a type that both Vincent Moore and Wayne Richards owned – they both belonged to an elite shooting club. The murder seemed to have been carried out by a person who was either very stupid or very clever. After meeting Mr. Moore, I came to the conclusion that the man wasn't stupid.”

  Conrad placed his chin down on his right palm. “You didn't buy the obvious, did you?”

  “No,” Sarah replied and watched Amanda washing coffee mugs in the sink. “It was too easy, and the story went much, much deeper than that. Follow the money. I started to investigate his second wife, the older Margaret Happs.”

  “Because Nathan Miles took her for half a million dollars in the divorce?” Amanda asked.

  “Yes,” Sarah nodded her head. “Margaret Happs may have been old, though she was still a woman carrying a few vapors of beauty with her.” Sarah brought up the image of a woman with hard, stone-like eyes gazing out from a face that could be beautiful one moment and snake-like the next. “She had spent her prime years walking the corrupt halls of political power. The woman was finally forced to retire after being exposed in several different scandals. Needless to say, she didn't retire gracefully.”

  “Why would a woman like that marry a gambler?” Amanda asked as the smell of fresh coffee began to fill the kitchen.

  “Nathan Miles may have been a gambler, but he was also the son of Brandon Miles,” Sarah explained. “Brandon Miles was a useless bureaucrat living off the taxpayers dime who had his fingers in a number of different pies.”

  “Oh, I see. Margaret wanted to get back into the political game through the back door?” Amanda asked.

  “It seemed to be that way,” Sarah nodded her head. “Margaret Happs met Nathan Miles when his first wife began working for her as a personal assistant. You can put the pieces together from there.”

  “What a scumbag,” Amanda said in a disgusted voice.

  “Yeah, he was,” Conrad agreed. He looked at Sarah. “So Francis offered the cops three gift-wrapped options.”

  “Francis tried to force-feed the obvious option down our throats,” Sarah told Conrad. “Needless to say I wasn't able to gather enough evidence to convict anyone. Every suspect had a reliable alibi. Mrs. Miles was covered by the law firm that hired her after Margaret Happs fired her. Wayne Richards and Vincent Moore were both at their shooting club, and the bullet was never definitively traced to a gun belonging to either man. Margaret Happs was attending a meeting of her ladies’ club. I couldn't get anywhere. And then, a second murder happened.” Sarah looked down at her hands. “At the scene of the second murder, a note was left by Francis Clark.”

  “What did the note say?” Amanda dared to ask.

  Sarah kept her eyes low. “Francis Clark attached an index card to the blouse of Shirley Denkills that read: Poor Nathan and Shirley. Why is life so cruel?”

  Conrad lifted his chin off his hand. “That would have made you automatically begin trying to connect Nathan Miles and Shirley Denkills together.”

  “Exactly,” Sarah said, “but the two were not connected. Shirley Denkills was a thirty-one-year-old waitress who managed to get a few small roles in some of the loca
l plays.” Sarah lifted her eyes. “Shirley Denkills moved to Los Angeles from Omaha, Nebraska. She lived in lousy one-bedroom apartment and after an exhaustive investigation, all I found out was that she was a heavy drug user who had very few friends.”

  “Which means you started investigating the possibility that a drug dealer killed her? Or maybe Vincent Moore might have been running drugs and sold to Shirley Denkills?” Conrad shook his head. “So many paths, so many dead ends.”

  “Francis had me chasing my tail,” Sarah agreed. “I had protocols to follow and he knew that. Francis used the system against me in order to make sure my time was kept tied up. While I chased down one pointless lead after another, he was planning his next attack.”

  “My goodness,” Amanda said in a shocked voice. “How can someone be so evil?”

  “The world is full of evil, sinister, deadly monsters,” Sarah told Amanda. “You're very aware of that by now.”

  “Unfortunately,” Amanda sighed and dried the last of the three coffee mugs with the yellow checked kitchen towel. “I'm always in shock at how evil a person can be, though. And what is so scary is that...some of these people are very clever. That kid in Oregon wasn't working with a full bag of marbles, but this Francis Clark...it sounds like he's the type of a person who can work a chessboard.”

  “Francis is very skilled in the art of deception,” Sarah confessed. “I was still investigating if Vincent Moore was running drugs when Francis struck for a third time. I was zero for two and getting nowhere fast. When Francis struck the third time I knew I was in some serious trouble.”

  “And now we're all in some serious trouble,” Amanda told Sarah and slowly began to fill the three coffee mugs she had retrieved with coffee.

  Outside in the snow, Francis turned away from Sarah’s cabin and moved into the thickly wooded forest toward his next destination. “Oh, the weather outside is frightful,” he sang as he pushed his way through the snow on a pair of skis, “but the fire is so delightful...and since we've no place to go, let's go pay Claire Raillings a visit.”

  Miles away, Claire Raillings placed a log on the fire burning in the fireplace and cuddled up in her toasty living room. At the age of seventy-two, Claire didn't give two hoots if a serial killer was loose in Snow Falls. All she cared about was staying warm, having her bowl of chicken soup, and doing her crossword puzzles in her favorite recliner. She seriously doubted that the killer in Snow Falls she’d heard about on the radio would mess with her. “Bad night,” she commented to the gray cat sleeping nearby and sat back down in the recliner, not knowing that her night was going to get even worse.

  Chapter Five

  Francis leaned his skis against the back wall of Claire Raillings’ cabin, studied a backdoor made of good, strong wood and then removed his lock-picking tool from the front pocket of his coat. With skilled, silent hands he inserted the narrow pick into the lock of the back door and slowly worked the tool until he unlocked the back door. “Perfect,” he whispered. He pulled out an ugly gun from his other coat pocket, pushed the back door open, and stepped into a warm kitchen. The kitchen was small and smelled of oatmeal and apple pie. “Nice,” Francis whispered again and walked through the kitchen on silent feet. When he spotted Claire sitting in her recliner he raised his hand in greeting and said: “Hello, Mrs. Raillings.”

  Claire nearly had a heart attack. She let out a loud scream, threw her crossword puzzle down onto the floor and gripped the arms of the recliner. One look at Francis was all it took to know that the man had come to kill her. “Get out!” she screamed. “Leave me alone! I'm just an old woman!”

  Francis began to laugh. “Oh, come now, Mrs. Railings, stop being so dramatic. I haven't come to harm you.” Francis walked over to a comfortable brown couch close to the fireplace and sat down. “Very snowy outside. I'm glad to be out of the cold for...well, at least for the moment.”

  Claire stared at Francis. Her heart was racing faster than she could handle. And even worse, she thought, she was going to be killed wearing her old blue bathrobe, with her hair up in curlers. “What do you want with me?”

  “A favor,” Francis said and began fiddling with his gun. “Guns are ugly things. I really don't care for them, do you?”

  Claire swallowed. As she did, her gray cat scurried out of the living room. “Please, leave me alone.”

  “Oh, don't be so rude,” Francis complained. “I've only come to ask you a favor and offer you a choice.”

  “I...I don't understand.”

  “If you do me a favor, I'll let you live, Mrs. Raillings. If you don't, well…then you'll take a long walk in the snow storm. The choice is yours,” Francis explained. He stopped fiddling with his gun and cast a hard eye at Claire. “I know all about you, Mrs. Raillings. I did my homework. I know that your husband was arrested for stealing money from the railroad he worked for. How many years did he spend in prison? Oh yes, thirteen.”

  “You leave my Edward out of this!” Claire snapped. “My Edward served his time and now he's in the grave. He's been in the grave for the last ten years.”

  “Sure,” Francis replied, “and you've been living off the money he stole from the railroad.”

  Claire's face drained of color. “You're...you're a liar,” she said in a trembling voice.

  “Oh, come now, Mrs. Raillings, don't insult me for speaking the truth.” Francis stood up, put his gun away, removed his gloves, and warmed his hands beside the fire. “Mrs. Raillings, I need you to do me a favor. If you do me the favor I need then I'll go away and you'll never see me again.”

  Claire swallowed again. “What...what favor do you need of me? I'm only an old woman. I can't go out into this storm. Please...”

  “You'll go out into the storm if you refuse to do this favor for me,” Francis warned. “Now listen closely, Mrs. Raillings,” Francis said and put his gloves back on, “I need you to call Detective Sarah Garland for me.”

  “Sarah Garland?” Claire asked.

  “That’s correct,” Francis nodded his head. “When you call Detective Garland, I want you to tell her that I'm going to kill you unless she orders every cop in town to lock themselves in a jail cell.”

  Claire panicked and felt confusion grip her mind. “What?”

  Francis rolled his eyes and let out an annoyed breath. “I'm a killer, Mrs. Raillings. Killers don't like cops. And at the moment there are too many cops wandering around for my liking. I want to lock all the cops away. Can you understand that?”

  Claire stared at Francis. She slowly nodded her head up and down. “I understand,” she promised.

  Francis pulled a piece of paper out of his coat pocket. “This is a list of every cop in town,” he explained. “I want every man on this list locked in a jail cell. However, I don't expect everyone on my list to play nice. But that's what I want.”

  “Why don't you call her yourself?” Claire asked.

  “Because,” Francis grinned, “I want Detective Garland to understand how clever I really am. Now,” he said and retrieved his cell phone, “it's time to make the call.”

  Claire didn't know what to do. What she did know was that whoever the man standing in her living was, he knew all about her dark secret. If her secret was somehow exposed to the public eye, she would face a harsh penalty, one she felt far too old to be able to handle. “I'll call Sarah Garland.”

  “Very good, Mrs. Raillings,” Francis applauded Claire. He handed her his list and the cell phone. “Now, I want you to sound very scared and very convincing. Can you do that for me?”

  “Yes,” Claire promised.

  “Good,” Francis smiled. “Now, all you have to do is press that little green button on the phone.”

  Claire pushed a green call button located on the cell phone. Sarah picked up on the third ring. “I'm here, Francis,” Claire heard Sarah speak in a firm tone. “Sarah...Sarah Garland, this is Claire Raillings.”

  Sarah gave Conrad and Amanda an urgent look. “What can I do for you Mrs. Raillings?” she
asked even though the obvious was very clear. Claire had called the black cell phone, which meant Francis had her.

  “A man is standing in my living room,” Claire spoke in a trembling voice. “He's threatening to kill me unless you do what he says.”

  “What does that man want, Mrs. Raillings?” Sarah asked.

  Claire unfolded the piece of paper Francis had handed her. “The man standing in my living room wants every cop in town locked in a jail cell. He's given me a list of names,” Claire informed Sarah.

  “Read off the names, Mrs. Raillings,” Francis ordered in a pleasant but firm tone.

  Claire began reading off the names on the list. She finished with Conrad's name. “Please, do as this man wants,” Claire begged Sarah.

  Francis grinned and snatched the phone out of Claire's wrinkled hand. “Detective Garland, you have one hour to comply or this woman dies. She will be the first and I assure you there will many, many others.” Francis looked at the fireplace. “I will be watching the jail. You have one hour.”

  “I might need more than one hour,” Sarah told Francis in a voice that appeared too desperate.

  “I'm setting explosives in the cabin the old woman sitting before me calls home,” Francis warned Sarah. “In one hour, this cabin will go boom unless I decide otherwise. And if anyone attempts to enter the cabin, well then, they will suffer the consequence along with this old woman. You have one hour.” Francis ended the call, looked at Mrs. Raillings, and grinned. “Relax, I don't really have explosives. I like to make the cops believe that I do, though.”

  “You lied?” Claire asked.

  “I'm a killer, Mrs. Raillings. It's my job to deceive.” Francis grew silent and then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a roll of gray duct tape. “Mrs. Raillings, I'm going to need you to accompany me into the kitchen. You see, even though I lied, well, sometimes visual effects are needed.”

  Claire nearly fainted. Somehow she found the strength to stand up and walk into her kitchen. Once she was in the kitchen she was ordered to sit down in a kitchen chair. “Please,” she begged.