Bourbon Creme Killer: Book 9 in The INNcredibly Sweet Series Page 10

  “Do you have any idea who might have sent this?” Officer Bergen asked.

  “No sir,” Joyce shook her head, pulse still racing, bile stinging the back of her throat, even after coffee.

  “Does your boss have any enemies that you know of?”

  “I don’t know how she could. She’s just about the nicest person you could ever meet.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “I’m not sure. She went on vacation with her fiancé, I think.”

  “How long will she be gone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you have contact info for her?” the officer persisted.

  “Yes, sir,” Joyce replied, giving it to him.

  “Thank you Miss Rutledge,” he said, handing her his business card. “If you think of anything else, let me know.”

  “I sure will,” she nodded. “Officer?”

  “Yes ma’am?”

  “Do you think… I mean, am I… should I… ?” she couldn’t quite think of a way to phrase her question, she was so rattled, but the veteran cop knew what she was asking.

  “I don’t think you have anything to worry about, since the package wasn’t addressed to you, but take some extra precautions just in case. Try not to arrive or leave in the dark. Lock the doors when you’re not open for business, and just keep your eyes peeled for anything that seems suspicious.”

  “Okay, thank you,” Joyce shook Bergen’s hand. “I’m going to go home for the rest of today, but I’ll be open tomorrow.”

  “Good luck to you. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”

  She waited until the police cruiser had pulled away from the curb before sending Spencer a text.

  I have a very strange story to tell you tonight, and I’m a little scared, can you come over?

  ***

  County medical examiner and Calgon’s strangest and most prominent mortician, Timothy Eckels, snapped on his blue nitrile gloves and accepted the package from Officer Bergen. His spunky assistant Fiona had a glimmer in her eye, wondering what the plain brown box held that was so important that they’d called Tim out of a high-profile funeral. While her boss held the camera that he used for forensic photography, she pushed the flaps of the box back with her gloved hands, her mouth making an O of surprise when she saw the contents. Wrapped in plastic wrap, lying on a bed of Styrofoam peanuts was a woman’s finger, complete with a perfectly manicured acrylic nail.

  Tim’s face was impassive as he studied the finger, taking it out of the box to get several shots of it with the camera, from many different angles. Officer Bergen left once the medical examiner began his process, and Fiona was practically dancing with excitement.

  “Oooh! Can I unwrap it, please? I know you have to unwrap it to examine it, can I do it?” she practically begged. Fiona’s boss was the best in his field and she soaked up every bit of information that she could from him, often intentionally ruffling his feathers in the process.

  “No. The digit must be handled properly so that any evidence that may exist isn’t disturbed,” he replied mildly, still snapping photos.

  “I handle digits at the mortuary all the time, c’mon,” she wheedled.

  “The digits at the mortuary aren’t part of a crime investigation,” was the implacable response from her bespectacled, taciturn superior.

  “I wonder who did it… I wonder how they did it,” she mused, peering at the finger.

  Tim looked offended and blinked at her from behind his coke-bottle lenses.

  “This is why I can’t trust you with evidentiary material yet,” he shook his head, gesturing at the finger lying on the cold metal exam table. “Clearly it was sheared off cleanly, rather than being chopped or sawn,” he pointed out. “As to the question of who did it, we’ll take scrapings from beneath the nail to see if there’s DNA present. You should know these things.”

  “I do know these things,” she muttered as Tim unwrapped the finger carefully. “I just never get to do them.”

  “And you never will if you continue to distract me,” he replied mildly, squinting down at the finger, turning it back and forth. “Well, there is a bit of good news for the owner of the finger,” he mused.

  “What’s that?” Fiona drew in closer, her eyes fastened on the finger.

  “She’s still alive. Or, at least, she was when it was removed from her hand.”

  “Creepy,” Fiona breathed. “Can you tell if she was awake? Did it hurt? How come it’s not all bloody?” she peppered her reticent boss with questions.

  “Those things are irrelevant. What matters here is that there is a victim out there somewhere, missing a finger, and she may still be alive.”

  ***

  Chas and Missy were sitting in the airport in Champaign, waiting for their flight, when the detective received a text from dispatch in Calgon. He sighed and shook his head, and Missy asked what was wrong.

  “A box was delivered to Echo’s store. It contained a woman’s severed finger, and I’m betting it belongs to Jeanette Hammond. Things appear to be escalating.”

  “Oh Chas, no! Does that mean that she’s… ?”

  “The M.E. says that the finger was severed while the victim was still alive, that’s a good sign. Someone is trying to send a message of some sort. They don’t necessarily want to kill Jeanette.”

  “What do they want, then?” Missy’s eyes went wide.

  “That’s what we have to find out… and quickly.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Missy was shocked to see Echo walk in to Cupcakes in Paradise the day after she and Chas returned home to Calgon.

  “Sugar, what are you doing here?” she exclaimed. “I thought you and the boys were hiding out somewhere,” her brow furrowed in concern.

  “We were,” she sighed. “But apparently, whoever is tormenting us is better at seeking than we are at hiding.”

  “They found you? How do you know? Did something happen?” Missy worried, sitting down at their favorite table.

  “This was inside our hotel room when we came back in from a hike,” she said dully, tossing a creamy white envelope, which had been mailed from Chicago, onto the table.

  Missy moved quickly to the kitchen, pulled on a pair of plastic gloves, and handled the envelope gingerly, extracting the piece of paper within it.

  Leave it alone and forget about her.

  She read the chilling message and looked up at a pale, tired Echo.

  “This is getting ridiculous, honey,” she said quietly. “I really think that it’s time to go to the police with this.”

  Echo shook her head. “I don’t want to do anything that might put Jeanette in danger.”

  “But it sounds to me like you and Kel and Scott may be the ones in danger, and I hate to say it, but for all we know, Jeanette may not even be alive right now.”

  Missy went to put the paper back in the envelope and stopped suddenly, staring at something inside the envelope. She shook it slightly, and her eyes grew wide.

  “What?” Echo asked, head in hand, noting her friend’s reaction.

  “There’s something…” Missy trailed off, shaking the envelope again.

  “What?” Echo stood up, peering over Missy’s shoulder.

  “There, see it?”

  Echo looked at her friend, and back into the envelope again. “A hair!” she exclaimed. “Do you have tweezers?”

  “I think there’s a pair in the top drawer of my desk, run and get them,” Missy murmured, tapping the edge of the envelope to make the hair more accessible.

  Echo came back with the tweezers and Missy gently extracted the hair from the envelope.

  “Oh,” Echo sighed, disappointed. “It looks like one of mine.”

  Missy shook her head. “Nope, no way. Yours is curly, this one is wavy, and yours is a beautiful shade of copper, this one is a totally different shade of red. We should have Chas see if he can discreetly check it out in the lab. Maybe Ricky the Raccoon has an accomplice.”

  “
I just don’t understand why the mob would be interested in Jeanette Hammond,” Echo frowned.

  “I don’t either, but maybe this clue will make things clearer somehow.”

  “It’s worth a shot,” she shrugged, looking exhausted.

  “You poor thing, you’ve been through the wringer lately. Wanna go lay down by the pool today? I can come over and join you after I close up here this afternoon,” Missy offered, putting the hair back into the envelope and texting Chas.

  “No, I need to get to the shop. Joyce was pretty freaked out, so I told her that she could have today off.”

  “Is Spencer going to help you out?”

  Echo nodded. “I saw him working on the lawn mower on my way in, so I stopped and asked him. Honestly, Missy, I don’t know what I’m going to do when you and Chas move to New York, and Spencer goes wherever he’s going… we’re a family, and it seems like everything is just falling apart,” her voice broke, and a single tear trickled down her cheek.

  Missy brushed the tear away and hugged her best friend.

  “I know, I’m going to miss Spencer too—that boy is like a son to me, but don’t you worry, I’m going to be back and forth between New York and Calgon so often that you’re going to get tired of having me around,” she promised.

  “I can’t do this whole birth and motherhood thing without you,” Echo sniffled against her shoulder.

  “And you won’t have to, darlin, I’m gonna be right here.”

  ***

  Chas took the envelope with the hair to the lab, along with a sample of Echo’s hair for comparison purposes.

  “Don’t you think that it’s strange that Jeanette is missing—and clearly someone has her—and is threatening Kel and her son, but there haven’t been any demands made?” Missy asked Chas. “I mean, no one has asked for money or anything, isn’t that weird? Aren’t kidnappings usually motivated by the desire for something else?”

  The detective nodded. “Typically, yes. Usually the kidnapper wants something, whether it’s money or power, or political influence, but that doesn’t seem to be the case here.”

  “What other things can motivate a kidnapper?” Missy wondered, sipping her wine as she snuggled into the crook of her husband’s arm on the couch.

  “Depends on the kidnapper. Revenge, jealousy, narcissism, control… there’s a wide range of human emotion that could prompt an unstable person to take action,” Chas commented, nuzzling his wife’s hair.

  “Well, yeah, but who on earth would be vengeful toward or envious of a middle-aged, middle-class mom who sells houses?”

  A thought occurred to Missy as the words left her mouth, and she turned to Chas, who had clearly had the same thought. Realization had dawned on both of them at the same time, and they shared a long look.

  “I’m guessing that you’re flying back to Champaign tomorrow,” the detective commented, his face grave.

  “You can’t go with me?”

  “Unfortunately, no. But I’ll want you to stay in contact with me every step of the way,” he cupped her cheek in his palm and kissed her gently.

  “I will.”

  ***

  Missy checked back into the downtown hotel where she’d stayed before, and wasted no time in heading over to Sal’s Garage.

  “Are we besties now?” Tommy Mancino joked when he saw Missy.

  “We’re getting there,” she grinned, glad that she no longer had to be afraid of the mechanic. If her hunch was correct, not only did she not have to worry about being around Tommy, but she might be able to use him to trap the real kidnapper… if he was willing. “Can we talk privately?”

  “Is that a proposition?” he teased.

  “Of sorts,” Missy shot back, following him into the office.

  There was a small television on the back counter in the office, which was currently tuned to a local news channel, and the report that was on the screen caught Missy’s attention.

  “Turn it up,” she ordered, suddenly serious.

  In other news… the body of a local woman, who died under suspicious circumstances, was found today near a vacant house in the rural community of Saint Joe. Identification has been made, but will not be released, pending notification of the victim’s family. Police are currently investigating…

  Missy swallowed hard, somehow knowing in her gut that the woman who’d been killed was Jeanette Hammond.

  “You all right, Mindy?” Tommy asked, noticing how Missy had paled after watching the newscast.

  Unable to speak, she just shook her head.

  ***

  William “Billy Boy” MacGregor had been in the real estate business for a long time, and he’d encountered his share of difficult clients, but the ones that he’d been chauffeuring around for the past couple of weeks, really took the cake. They were very specific about what they were looking for, and found something wrong with every property that he’d shown them in and around Champaign.

  “Now, this one is a little bit further out, so you’d have to commute, but I think it has everything that you’re looking for. It’s on a full acre, and your nearest neighbor is about a half mile away. It has big trees for shade, a pond, and plenty of space for the kids to play. There are five bedrooms, so that your yorkies can have their own room, and the master suite is on the first floor. The décor is a bit dated, but you’ve said you’d want to repaint and update any house that you’d move into anyhow, so this might just be the one,” Billy Boy said, hoping that the house worked out.

  He’d shown them every listing he could think of, and nothing had met with their approval. At this point, he wanted them to find a place simply so he could stop driving them all over central Illinois, listening to them complain. The couple had five yorkies, four of which were back home in Olympia, Washington. The fifth, Francis, they had brought house-hunting with them. They’d rejected two homes so far because Francis wasn’t “comfortable enough in the yard to even lift his leg.” Billy Boy loved dogs in general, but would have been more than happy to let Francis stay napping in the car while his owners made a human-based decision. The dog was obnoxious, running from room to room in every house that they toured, most of the time barking to announce his presence, but the owners insisted that if Francis wasn’t comfortable, they wouldn’t buy, so he stocked up on gluten-free, organic dog treats and made the best of it.

  “Here we are,” he said, handing the husband, a rotund man with thinning hair, a listing sheet, while the wife peered at the house from the back seat of his SUV, absently petting Francis. “Shall we?”

  “Francis wants to get out of the car, I guess that’s a good sign,” the wife observed.

  Billy Boy gritted his teeth and smiled. “Well, sounds like we’re halfway there. Let’s go have a look,” he encouraged, wondering this particular couple had chosen him from online realtors.

  He opened up the house, leaving the front door slightly ajar, and took the couple through, gratified to see some nodding, and even a couple of smiles. Francis yapped happily, and dashed throughout the large house, making himself at home, walking across furniture, and sniffing every corner. The couple was upstairs, discussing potential furniture arrangements for a children’s playroom, always a good buying sign, when they noticed that they hadn’t seen Francis for quite some time. They called his name several times, making little kissy noises that usually made him come running, and became alarmed when he didn’t appear. They dashed down the stairs and called his name again, relieved to hear him yapping, though it sounded like he was quite a distance away. Rushing out the front door, the wife put a hand over her eyes to block the sun, and called for Francis again. This time it was evident that the yapped response came from behind the house, and the trio trotted around the side, seeing Francis digging up the ground in front of a clump of bushes like his little life depended on it.

  “Francis! No! You’re going to break a nail, stop that,” the wife scolded, crossing the great expanse of yard between the back of the house and the clump of bushes which lin
ed the edge of the large property.

  “Francis, down boy,” the husband gasped, trying his best to keep up with his wife’s longer stride, the back of his shirt darkened with sweat.

  She was too fast for him, however, and reached the little dog before her husband and the realtor, who had adopted a slower pace to keep the larger man company on the walk. When she neared the bushes, her hands went to her throat in horror and she screamed long and loud, plucking her yapping, dirty little dog up in a panic and running pell mell back toward the house, not stopping when she reached the two men, but sprinting past them toward the front of the house.

  Billy Boy and the husband stopped and stared after her, then looked at each other, nonplussed.

  “Wonder what that’s all about,” the realtor commented.

  “Why don’t you go check it out, and I’ll go talk to her,” the husband puffed, turning and heading back toward the car.

  “Sure, I’d love to. It’s in my job description. That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” Billy Boy muttered under his breath once the large, sweaty client was out of earshot.

  He trudged over to where the dog had been digging, disgusted that yet again the furry little beast had ruined the chance to sell a perfectly good house, and when he saw what the dog had discovered, he paled and stopped in his tracks. In the midst of the freshly dug earth was a pale woman’s foot, partially covered in a tattered silk stocking. Knowing that this was a story he’d tell to new agents for the rest of his career, he numbly reached into his pocket for his phone and called the police.

  ***

  “Tommy, you’re going to help me catch a murderer, not a kidnapper,” Missy whispered, looking away from the TV after the newscast ended.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Rhonda Cooper smiled coyly and tried hard not to bat her eyes at the handsome hunk of a man sitting across from her at the bar. She’d worn her sexiest dress, splurged on a new pair of black patent leather heels, which were currently destroying her feet, and had swept her red hair up into an intricate up-do that exposed the creamy curve of her neck. Yep, Rhonda the realtor was working it with Tommy Mancino, who had finally invited her out for a date, just as she’d been expecting him to.