Marshmallow Creme Killer: Book 7 in The INNcredibly Sweet Series Read online

  “What the heck is going on here?” Echo wondered.

  “I don’t know, but I’m worried.”

  “Should we go talk to the house sitter again?”

  “What could we possibly say?”

  “We could ask him if he’s gotten her mail since she’s been gone…” Echo stopped talking when Missy’s phone rang, and she pulled over to the curb to take the call.

  “It’s Detective Reubens, shhhh…” she put a finger to her lips. “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Beckett, I’m afraid I have some bad news…” Missy’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Is Carla…?” she whispered.

  “We haven’t found her, but when we talked to Richard Morgan, we found out that the woman who called him for contracting work and asked him to be a house sitter wasn’t Carla Mayhew,” he said quietly.

  “Wait…what? Someone else pretended to be Carla and set all of this up? Who?” Missy was frightened.

  “We had Richard talk to our sketch artist down at the station, and when he finished giving the description, we ran it through a database to see if we could come up with a convincing match.”

  “And did you? Did you find out who the woman is? Who would possible impersonate Carla? And where is the real Carla?” Missy, in her fear, fired out questions in rapid succession.

  “There was a match for the sketch. It very closely matches the photo and description of a woman who was released from prison upstate roughly three months ago. Her name is Renee Manta,” the detective explained, as Missy’s heart pounded in her chest.

  “A criminal was pretending to be Carla? Oh goodness, I hope she didn’t hurt her,” she worried. “What was she in prison for?” she reached for Echo’s hand as the detective answered.

  “Armed robbery, assault, attempted manslaughter,” he said grimly.

  “Oh no…Carla…?” Missy’s voice broke a bit.

  “Now, let’s not jump to any conclusions,” Jim said gently. “We have a description of Renee now, so we know at least where to start looking. Chances are, if we find her, she may have information about Carla,” he soothed.

  “Is there anything at all that I can do?” she asked.

  “Just keep your chin up. I’m doing all I can,” he promised.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Is it done?” Wendell Shropshire sat in front of his fireplace, nursing a hangover with a scotch on the rocks. It wasn’t even a decent scotch, and he was in a foul mood, despite the fact that he may have swindled Reginald Beckett out of the Beckett family fortune.

  “I believe so, sir,” Kosta, his last servant, replied.

  “You believe so? What precisely is that supposed to mean, you daft lummox?” the Earl glared at him, his bloodshot eyes bleary and smarting from the heat of the fire and his drunken stupor from the day before.

  The fiery hatred that burned within the servant for his lackluster master threatened to come out, but Kosta managed to keep a reign on his tongue, for now. Shropshire had tasked him with having the paperwork drawn up in order to become principal shareholder of the Beckett conglomerate. The instructions had been rather simple – make a provision granting the Earl a huge share of Beckett stock, in exchange for a huge share of stock in the Earl’s current venture, which, unbeknownst to Reggie, was on the verge of bankruptcy. When Reg heard it was a diving operation which endeavored to recover treasure from sunken ships, there’d been little explanation needed – he clamored to sign.

  So, faithful Kosta had procured a contract stating that, if anything happened to Chalmers, the overseer of the Beckett fortune, the Earl would rise to that position. What the Earl hadn’t seen, in his inebriated gloating glory, was the additional provision which specified Kosta as the agent of control, if something “unfortunate” were to happen to the Earl. The servant’s plan was to assist his master in a rise to the top of the Beckett food chain, with the ignorant help of Reginald Beckett himself, then, when the soulless Earl was at the pinnacle of his only success to date, he’d have him killed and finally get what was due him.

  Kosta had contacted some of the bad players with whom his master was known to do business across the pond, and had arranged for Chalmers’ demise. Step one of his plan had been completed, now he would help his worthless sap of a boss seem as though he had every right to be in charge, and then the final blow would be dealt, placing him in the seat of power. He had no idea, that at this very moment, Spencer and Chas were on their way for a little visit with the Earl.

  **

  “What do we know about the Earl?” Chas asked Spencer.

  “Young guy – he’s been nothing but a failure when it comes to business. He was left a castle, and a considerable trust fund, along with controlling interest in all of his late father’s enterprises, and he managed to single-handedly destroy every one of them. His bank balance is negative, he’s had to fire his entire staff, but one servant, and he spends his days drinking in his castle, according to local sources,” the Marine read from a file in his lap.

  “How on earth did such an entitled twit manage to convince Reggie to sign his life away?” Chas frowned.

  “Begging your pardon, Chas, but I have to make the observation that he and your brother seem to be birds of a feather in that regard. If it hadn’t been for Chalmers’ oversight and leadership, the Becketts might be sitting in dark, empty castles as well,” Spencer pointed out.

  “True enough,” the detective nodded, looking as though he had just swallowed something unpleasant. “So what’s our strategy going in?”

  “We have to determine what the two of them signed, and who else might have an interest in this wretched set of circumstances. The Earl certainly didn’t jet over to New York to attempt to poison Chalmers. He couldn’t afford it, for one thing, so we have to figure out who else is involved. If someone got close enough to poison him, that means they’ve gotten past our security and infiltrated some of the bottom rungs of the organization, which is an even bigger problem.”

  “The organization?” Chas raised an eyebrow.

  “Classified,” Spencer replied, glancing away.

  Chas sighed. “Whatever. Let’s get in there, extract the information from that opportunistic degenerate, and get back to New York, where I plan to sit down and have a long chat with my brother. Any updates on Chalmers?”

  “Getting stronger by the day, and Janssen is keeping an eye on him, so we don’t have to worry about another attempt.”

  “Good,” the detective was relieved.

  The two men travelled in silence for a couple of hours, each absorbed in their own thoughts and content to just enjoy the scenery.

  “Turn left in two hundred feet,” Spencer directed, staring at his watch.

  Chas gave him a look. “You’re aware that there’s no road in two hundred feet, right?”

  “It’s there, we just have to look carefully. The property hasn’t been well-maintained apparently, and it’s a bit overgrown.”

  “A bit?” the detective surveyed the seemingly impenetrable wall of bushes and brambles, not seeing anything that even remotely looked like enough of an opening to allow a car to pass through.

  “Slow down…slower…slower…” Spencer cautioned, his eyes scanning the tangle of greenery. “There,” he pointed, and sure enough, there was a road, nearly invisible to anyone who hadn’t been specifically looking for it.

  “It would’ve been a good cover if it had been intentional,” Chas quipped.

  “I can only imagine what the castle must look like,” Spencer replied.

  The road clearly hadn’t been maintained for quite some time, and weeds grew up in between the cracks in the asphalt, brushing the undercarriage of the car. There were several twists and turns as they passed through a heavily wooded area and into gently rolling, grassy hills. They motored past overgrown gardens, where vines and grasses were engulfing imported statuary and fountains, and finally saw the circular drive that brought them to a halt in front of the castle.

  The two men got out and w
alked up to an impressive set of thick mahogany doors that looked like they might just have the capacity to withstand a medieval battering ram. The castle had been largely updated for modern living prior to Wendell’s father’s death, so when Chas pushed the ornate doorbell, they heard a long gonnnnng sound come from inside.

  Chas looked at Spencer. “Really?” he shook his head at the over-the-top doorbell.

  They waited for quite some time, realizing that it might take a while to get from one end of the massive stone structure to the other. Chas pressed the bell again, snickering at the second gong, and he and Spencer heard someone grousing from inside.

  “Go answer the door, man! Are you deaf, or just that terribly inefficient?” someone, presumably the Earl, bellowed. “I swear to you, Kosta, if I have to hear that gong one more time…”

  “Good afternoon,” a pleasant, olive-skinned man opened one side of the gargantuan set of double doors.

  “Hello,” Chas replied. “We’re here to see the Earl.”

  “I’m sorry, he’s not expecting anyone, and we don’t accept solicitations, so if you’ll excuse me,” Kosta moved to shut the door.

  “We’re not bill collectors,” Spencer put his foot in the door, preventing him from closing it. “We have a business venture to speak with the Earl about that we think he’ll find very interesting.”

  “I’m sorry, perhaps you should give me your names and call later to make an appointment…” he attempted to shut the door again, but Spencer didn’t budge.

  “Look, man, we know that dear Wendell is running seriously low in the cash department at the moment, and we’re here to offer him a way to make some serious bank without so much as lifting a finger. If I were him, and you turned me away, I’d make your life very, very difficult for quite some time,” the Marine smiled, but his eyes were chips of ice.

  “Give it up, Kosta, just let the blokes in, since they’re not going to go away easily,” Wendell called from somewhere behind his servant, sounding irritated. “Blimey!”

  “Please, come with me,” the servant gave them a tight smile that looked as though he could bite through nails if given the chance.

  CHAPTER 18

  Missy stirred the batter for a batch of Cocoa Mocha cupcakes in her very own kitchen. She was baking at home, in the evening, a sure sign that she was upset about something.

  “Are those vegan?” Echo asked, eyeing the batter with interest.

  The feisty redhead had been staying with her friend while Chas was gone, to keep her company and to keep her from embarking upon a mission to find Carla. She believed that if Carla wanted to be found, she would be, and since she obviously wanted to get away, she should be left alone, although, there were times that she was as worried about the “missing” decorator as her friend was.

  “No, the vegan ones are under the cake plate over there,” Missy pointed across the kitchen to a luscious batch of cupcakes displayed under a glass dome.

  “Okay, let’s have it,” Echo said, heading for a cupcake. “You’re baking in the evening, what’s the matter?”

  “I just can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong over at Carla’s. How is her credit card getting used in town? And how are her bills getting paid when she’s not even there? I just don’t get it,” she shook her head, stirring faster.

  “Maybe she just comes by to get her mail,” Echo suggested.

  “If that were true, Richard would have seen her,” Missy pointed out.

  “Well, obviously someone is getting her mail for her.”

  “And maybe that someone would know where she is,” she mused. “But, what if it’s that criminal, Renee, who’s getting the mail and pretending to be Carla?”

  “Richard would’ve seen her, too,” Echo shrugged.

  “This is all so frustrating,” Missy sighed.

  “I know one way that we could figure out if Carla is actually getting her mail…” Echo commented.

  “Really, how?” her friend put down the wooden spoon.

  “Let’s mail her something. We could send her an invitation to something and see if she answers. We could send her an invitation to your birthday party,” she grinned.

  “But my birthday isn’t anytime soon,” Missy protested.

  “Exactly! So, if we get a response from her saying that she’ll be there, we’ll know that someone other than Carla is getting her mail, because Carla knows when your birthday is,” Echo smiled triumphantly.

  “That’s good,” Missy nodded, impressed. “I think I have some blank birthday cards in my desk drawer. Will you go find one for me?” she asked, picking her spoon up again.

  “Of course. I’ll be right back.”

  Echo was only gone a minute, and came back with a floral, blank-inside card. Missy filled it out, addressed it, and put on a stamp.

  “While you’re putting those in the oven, I’ll run this down to the post office,” Echo suggested.

  “Thanks, sugar, I appreciate it,” Missy replied.

  “I can’t wait to see what happens,” Echo confided.

  “Hopefully, Carla will call me when she gets it and will tell me what the heck is going on.”

  “Fingers crossed,” Echo waved on her way out the door.

  **

  The response from Carla came back two days later. Missy opened up a card that had the decorator’s return address on it.

  Inside, it said, “Happy Birthday, Missy! Will see you when I get back.” And it was signed, “Love, Carla.”

  Missy looked at Echo, her eyes filled with concern.

  “This looks like Carla’s handwriting, but she would know that it’s not my birthday,” she worried, taking her lower lip between her teeth.

  “Are you sure? She might’ve just forgotten, especially since she’s been working so hard, and now she’s on vacation,” Echo pointed out.

  “Yeah, I suppose so,” Missy agreed, not convinced. “Or, what if she’s in some kind of trouble and sent this back to let me know that she needs help. Maybe she said happy birthday because she knew it would tip me off to something.”

  “If you’re really worried about it, turn the card in to Detective Reubens and see what he thinks,” her friend suggested. “I just don’t understand what possibly could have happened to her where she’d still be receiving her mail, but is unable to text or call. Hey…wait a minute…what’s the postmark on the envelope? If it’s from Hawaii or Fiji or something, we’ll know that she’s just on vacation and having her mail forwarded to her.”

  “It’s local,” Missy said softly, examining the envelope. “I just don’t understand what is going on here.”

  “Let’s get this card to Detective Reubens…maybe he can do that thing where they have an expert compare the handwriting on one thing to the handwriting on another and see if they match up,” Echo replied, grasping at straws at this point.

  “That’s a good idea,” her friend nodded.

  **

  “We brought the card, and a sample of Carla’s handwriting that had been provided when she wrote out a statement after her husband’s death, to a crime lab in Miami, as well as several copies of her signature from the bank, and they match up,” Jim told Missy on the phone, later that week. “Our expert says that it’s Carla who wrote the card.”

  “What’s the degree of certainty?” she asked, mystified.

  “He’s pretty darn sure. I think we’ve got a homeowner who just wants to lay low for a while, but we’re still going to be investigating and monitoring things,” the detective assured her.

  “Okay,” Missy murmured.

  She thanked him for the call and hung up, lost in thought. She wondered what possible reasons Carla might have for “laying low,” and wished that her friend would get in touch with her. What if Echo had been correct? What if the card had been Carla’s way to warn her that something was amiss? It was fortunate that she had very few customers in the cupcake shop that afternoon, because her mind was working overtime, trying to figure out what on earth was
going on.

  CHAPTER 19

  Janssen slipped in and out of the shadows. He had been making the most of his time at the mansion, subtly observing staff interactions, asking innocent-sounding questions, and keeping an ever-present eye on Chalmers. No one went into the caretaker’s room without notifying Janssen and receiving authorization. The elderly gent had been improving, but was still fragile. The Marine had just finished his dinner in the massive and spotless kitchen, when Bonnie, a maid who had been with the family for several years, came hurrying in.

  “Mr. Janssen,” she said, breathless and holding a hand over her heart, red-faced. “The nurse told me to come get you. Mr. Chalmers isn’t doing so well, poor dear,” she explained hurriedly, the Irish accent thickening with her angst.

  “Why didn’t you text?” he asked sharply, setting his plate aside and leaping to his feet, halfway out the door before the aging maid drew enough breath for a reply.

  “I’m sorry Mr. Janssen, I…” her words faded into nothing when he ran down the hall toward the elevator.

  Janssen flew through security, tapping in override codes on his phone so that every door through which he had to pass opened just as he approached it. He finally made his way into the medical wing and Chalmer’s room, heart pounding, eyes darting this way and that, making certain that no trouble lurked in the halls outside the caretaker’s room. He couldn’t be too careful.

  The Marine burst into Chalmers’ room, startling the nurse who had just tossed a used syringe into the red container on the wall that was designated for such things. No alarms blared, the elderly gentleman was asleep, and the nurse put a finger to her lips, warning Janssen to be quiet. He frowned, wondering why it had been so important for him to rush down here. The nurse pulled him aside, and quietly gave him a synopsis of what had happened.

  “I didn’t want to alarm you, Sir, but you asked me to inform you immediately when some sort of event took place. Mr. Chalmers woke up and was in quite a bit of pain, so I gave him a shot, and he dozed off peacefully. While he was experiencing the pain, I didn’t have time to text you, because I had to get his pain contained as quickly as possible, so I found the first person that I saw in the hall and told her to go get you,” the young woman explained.