by Mary Maxwell
“Okay, pen pal,” I said, sliding a letter opener under the flap. “Let’s see what’s on your mind.”
I winced at another wave of the smoky odor as I pulled the contents out and placed them on the desk. It looked like a few sheets of lined notebook paper, folded haphazardly and fastened with an assortment of plastic and metal clips. Like the outside of the envelope, the folded sheets of paper were stippled with reddish-orange crumbs and specks. I smiled as I examined the smudges. Harper was right; the fragments looked exactly like the coating used on Flamin’ Hot Doritos.
“Please don’t be too hateful,” I said, slowly unfolding the sheaf of pages. “And please accept our apology for whatever—”
My voice skidded to a stop when I read two lines of text on a pale green Post-it Note that was attached to the folded sheets of paper:
THIS IS WHY WALKER HAD TO DIE.
MAYBE NOW YOU WILL UNDERSTAND.
A chill slid down my back, thick and clammy and uninvited. I moved the chair closer to the desk, left the folded papers where I’d dropped them and then dialed Dina Kincaid at the Crescent Creek PD.
“Hi, Katie!” Her voice was luminous and upbeat. “What’s shakin’?”
“I need to give you something,” I said. “Can I come right over?”
“Are you okay?” She hesitated briefly. “You don’t sound like your usual self.”
“I just opened an envelope that came today,” I explained. “There’s a bundle of papers with a really creepy note on top. It says, ‘This is why Walker had to die. Maybe now you will understand.’”
Dina sighed. Then she cleared her throat. And then she said, “Was the outside of the envelope covered with orange splotches?”
“Yes.” I pulled in a quick breath. “How did you—” I paused after realizing why she knew about the Doritos dust. “Who did they send it to?” I asked. “You or Trent?”
“Actually, they mailed it to Tyler,” Dina answered. “My guess is they heard that he’s been going around town talking to potential witnesses.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “Especially since I’ve been doing the same thing.”
“Right,” Dina said. “But there is some good news, Katie. We found a couple of partial prints on the back of the envelope, so hopefully that will lead to a suspect.”
“Was there a return address?” I asked.
Dina quickly confirmed that the envelope carried the same return address as the anonymous letter that I’d received: 1450 Foxglove Court in Briarfield. She also told me that a man named Danny Cargill had lived at that location until he moved to Crescent Creek recently to be closer to his job.
“Danny Cargill?” I said. “That would explain the initials with the return address.”
“Want to guess where he works?” she asked.
“No clue,” I said. “Can you just tell me?”
“Crescent Creek Laundry Services,” Dina said. “And that’s one more bit of circumstantial evidence connecting the Walker Oldham case to Ed Lambert’s company.”
“This thing isn’t looking like a straightforward murder case,” I said.
“You got it,” Dina agreed. “We’re dealing with a serial killer and a conspiracy.”
CHAPTER 18
I met Zack at Pepper & Roni’s for dinner that night at six. He had plans to work late on a freelance photography project for one of his local clients, so it made more sense to eat slices of pizza and salad than try and cook something at his place or mine. Of course, we’d both be happy to enjoy the restaurant’s amazing fare even if Zack didn’t have to edit the portfolio of photographs, so I immediately agreed that afternoon when he proposed the idea.
“How was the day?” he asked after we ordered our meal.
I answered with a weary sigh.
“That bad?” He smiled. “You sounded okay on the phone earlier.”
“It wasn’t really a bad day,” I said. “I accidentally knocked a flat of eggs off the counter during the breakfast rush. That put me in a funk the rest of the day.”
“Because of a few broken eggs?”
I shrugged. “I know it’s silly. But whenever something like that happens, I can hear my grandmother whispering in my ear.”
“What’s she saying?” Zack asked. “‘Don’t cry over spilled eggs?”
“That, too,” I said. “But it’s more the way she always focused on efficiency; you know, waste not, want not. Every broken egg is profit down the drain, all the spoiled produce is more of the same.”
Zack frowned. “But you’re doing well, aren’t you?” he asked. “I mean, businesswise.”
“We are,” I said. “It just kills me to be wasteful.”
“Okay, c’mon,” he replied. “It’s not like you intentionally busted the eggs, Katie. You need to keep things in perspective.”
I thought about his comment. Then I said, “I love you for reminding me about those things, sweetie. You’re like Nana Reed 2.0; my very own living guardian angel. That’s how Liv and I thought about her back when we were kids. She was always watching over and protecting us, so we used to tease her about being our guardian angel.”
“How did Nana Reed respond to that?”
“Well, she’d usually blush a little and then tell us to get back to work,” I said.
He laughed. “Waste not, want not.”
“No doubt! Especially when it came to time.”
“And you’re still doing that,” Zack said. “Like us meeting here for a bite to eat. I’m saving time by not driving all the way to my place or yours for dinner, and you’re—”
“I’m saving calories by parking a few blocks away and walking to the restaurant,” I said.
The server arrived with our wine and a basket of bread sticks. We enjoyed the first few sips, and I pushed the carbs across the table toward Zack.
“Hey, I talked to Art Bricker today,” he said.
I was thinking about the broken eggs again, so I shook off the image of shattered shells and yellow splotches.
“Yeah? What did he have to say?”
Zack leaned in. “You know the other three victims connected to Walker Oldham’s murder?” he whispered. “The FBI told someone at the Crescent Creek PD that Ed Lambert visited the three cities where those people lived during the last two months.” He paused, waiting for me to nod. Then he added, “On the day of the three murders.”
“Ed Lambert from Crescent Creek Laundry?”
Zack nodded.
“And Art Bricker told you that?”
He grinned. “Isn’t that what I just said, babe?”
I nodded again. “You did, but it seems strange that his source would reveal that kind of information to a newspaper reporter.”
The grin turned into a wide, self-satisfied smile. “Well, that’s surprising, Katie. You weren’t listening.”
“What?”
“I said that the FBI told someone at the CCPD,” Zack told me. “I didn’t say anything about them giving the information directly to Bricker.”
“Ah, well you’re right, big guy,” I said. “And that raises another question.”
“Bricker was waiting outside somebody’s office at the station,” Zack said.
“So he was eavesdropping on a cop?” I asked.
“Not a uniformed officer,” Zack replied. “It was a detective.”
“Dina or Tyler?” I asked.
“I’ve probably said too much already, sweetie. I don’t want to get Bricker in hot water. I thought you might like to know because it seems like a pretty significant development in the Oldham case.”
“Well, you’re right about that,” I said as my face went red. “But it’s definitely not cool for Art to listen to confidential conversations.”
Zack raised both hands, holding the palms toward me. “Whoa, let’s calm down. He isn’t going to use the information in a story until he’s got it confirmed.”
“How does he plan to do that?” I asked. “The minute he mentions it to Dina or Tyler, they�
�ll both want to know where he got the scoop.”
“He’ll come clean,” Zack said. “He really is a good guy. And I don’t condone that kind of thing, okay? I just happen to work with him, and he just happened to pass along that info to me today.”
I drank some wine. I didn’t want to get into an argument about unethical reporting practices. But I would definitely mention it to Dina. If I didn’t tell her about Art Bricker snooping around their offices, I’d land in hot water alongside the snoop from The Crescent Creek Gazette.
CHAPTER 19
“You’re crinkling your nose, aren’t you?” I asked Dina later that night when she returned my call.
“No, I’m not,” she said brusquely. “But who gave you that information?”
I’d mentioned the scoop that Art Bricker had overheard in the voicemail that I left from the parking lot at Pepper & Roni’s. By the time she called back, I was home on the sofa with my bathrobe, fuzzy slippers and a pair of oatmeal raisin cookies.
“Can’t it be an anonymous source?” I asked.
She huffed into the phone. “Please don’t push it tonight, Katie. I’m not in the mood for games.”
“I don’t want to divulge the source until I’ve had a chance to follow-up with them,” I told her. “But I promise to tell you as soon as possible.”
Another sigh came down the line. “I swear!” she said. “You can be so infuriating sometimes. Has anyone else told you that?”
I kept quiet; the answer was obvious to us both. I never intentionally wrinkled feathers, but I was human. Every now and then, I inadvertently stepped on toes, crossed a line or dropped a ball.
“Anyway, let’s put a pin in that for now,” I said. “What do you think about Ed Lambert taking multiple trips to the three cities where the other victims died?”
“Well, I obviously think it’s highly suspicious,” she said. “But after reviewing the contents of the anonymous envelopes that you and Tyler received, things are starting to come into focus regarding the four murders and Zoey Sutton’s suicide last year.”
“Can you tell me what was inside the envelopes?” I asked.
“They both contained excerpts from Zoey’s childhood diary,” Dina answered. “It would’ve helped explain so much about her suicide if we’d had them last year.”
“Did you work that case?” I asked.
“Tyler and I both did,” she said. “As usual, we launched a homicide investigation until irrefutable proof surfaced that proved it was a suicide.”
“What kind of proof?” I asked.
“We found a video on her phone,” Dina explained. “She’d planned the whole thing methodically. She positioned her phone on the bedroom dresser to record each step of the plan. I won’t get into those details right now, but the coroner definitively concluded that Zoey Sutton’s death was the result of an overdose of opioids and alcohol.”
“In that case,” I said, “how would having the diary last year have helped with the inquiry?”
“She referenced being bullied as a child in the video,” Dina said, “but the diary contains granular details about those childhood experiences: names, places, things they did to her, hateful names they called her. Reading them was difficult.”
“Was Zoey married?” I asked. “Did she have family here in town?”
“She wasn’t married,” Dina said. “According to her neighbors, Zoey was essentially a recluse. She’d become estranged from her family, but no one seems to know much about that. She earned a living as a virtual assistant for a wealthy couple from Florida. She had groceries delivered from Food Town, household essentials from Amazon and anything else from a variety of retailers that either delivered or shipped directly to her home.”
“That’s really sad,” I offered in a hushed tone.
“Zoey was tormented and traumatized by a pack of bullies when she was in school,” Dina said. “The letter that Tyler received also included a cryptic reference to Ed Lambert’s travel schedule during the past few months, Walker Oldham’s shooting and the deaths of Lawton Gleave, Natalie Packwood and Dixie Corcoran.”
“Are you saying that Lambert really is responsible for all four murders?”
“It could be coincidence,” Dina answered. “But only in an imaginary world. I think it’s clear that we’re looking for a connection between Zoey’s suicide, the four murders and Crescent Creek Laundry. Since Mr. Lambert is the president of the company and his credit card statements show airline tickets and hotels in Sacramento on the day that Natalie died, Atlanta when Lawton was killed and Houston around the time that Dixie was murdered, he was our prime suspect in the Oldham case.”
“Was?” I said. “Does that mean he isn’t a suspect now?”
“No,” Dina said. “He was here in town during all three periods of time.”
“Did you ask Lambert about the trips?” I said.
“Tyler and a special agent from the FBI did that follow-up,” Dina answered. “Lambert denied being out of town on those dates and he’s provided irrefutable alibis for all three.”
“But the airlines show him on the flight manifests?” I asked.
“That’s right,” she said. “Someone claiming to be Ed Lambert used the tickets, so the FBI is looking into airport surveillance tapes. That’ll take a minute or two, so we’re still working to identify who impersonated Lambert.”
“Isn’t the why pretty obvious?” I asked. “They’re trying to frame him for the murders.”
She shrugged. “Or something else nefarious. There’s no evidence that ties Lambert to the murder scenes.”
“So no fingerprints or DNA, right?”
“Right,” Dina said. “But we still have a forensics consultant looking at all of his banking and financial records. Just to make sure we have a concise history on Mr. Lambert, his business associates and the company’s overall financial health.”
“Do you know if the fake Ed Lambert traveled alone?” I asked.
She smiled. “You’re good, Katie. The credit card receipts showed two round-trip tickets and two hotel rooms for each of the three destinations.”
“Aha! The game is on!”
I heard her groan softly. “Don’t start with the Sherlock business,” she said. “I’m not—”
“I know,” I said. “You’re not in the mood. And I’m sorry about that.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m fading fast. I need to shutdown my computer and get out of here.”
“Sounds like a great idea,” I said. “Do you mind one more question before that?”
“Go ahead,” she replied.
“Did you get a chance to read the diary entries all the way through?”
“Three times,” she said. “And thank you for dropping off the pages that were left at your place.”
“No problem,” I said. “Were they helpful?”
“They were heartbreaking,” Dina said. “Zoey was obviously dedicated to capturing as much detail as possible in her journal. She included lists of what she ate, how much she exercised and all of the horrible names the other kids called her. She also mentioned three friends from middle school that may be helpful for our case: Krista Fenner, Lonnie Gordon and Danny Cargill. Krista and Danny both still live in town, too.”
“Sure,” I said. “Krista comes in every so often with her family, but I don’t know Danny Cargill. The first time I heard his name was in relation to the return address on the anonymous letters. Speaking of which, whatever happened with the partial prints on the envelope Tyler received?”
“They weren’t a match to Cargill,” Dina said. “He’s in the system because he worked as a bank teller for a couple of years. He got printed during the background check for the job.”
“That’s good news for him,” I said.
“Exactly,” she said. “And for you, too, because I’ve already invited Danny and Krista to meet me at Sky High Pies in a couple of days. I’d like to see what they remember about Zoey from back when they were going to school together.
If I can’t make it, I’d like you to have a chat and see what they remember about Zoey from back in the day.”
I laughed. “You already set it up?”
“I did,” she said. “Because I was pretty confident that you’d be okay with that idea.”
“You know me too well, Detective Kincaid!”
“I don’t know about that,” she said. “I think we know one another just the right amount, considering how many years we’ve been friends.”
“I’d agree with that,” I said.
“So one more thing,” Dina said. “Didn’t you cater the employee picnic for Ed Lambert’s company last year?”
“We did. He was so pleased with the results that it could become an annual gig.”
“That’s perfect! Would you mind talking to him?”
“About what?” I said. “You already know that he wasn’t in the three cities at the time of the other murders.”
“Some threatening phone calls were made to Natalie Packwood before she was murdered,” Dina explained. “The FBI traced the calls to the conference room at Lambert’s company. I’ll send you an email in a bit with some of the details. If they have surveillance video of the corridor leading to the conference room, there’s a chance we can cross-reference the phone records and see who was in the area around the time the calls were placed. That facility isn’t exactly state-of-the-art, but it’s worth a shot.”
“I’ll go by later today,” I said. “And you’ll keep me posted about Krista Fenner and Danny Cargill?”
“Definitely,” she replied.
“Okay,” I said. “But what about the third friend that Zoey mentioned in her diary?”
“Lonnie Gordon,” Dina said. “He died five years ago. It was a massive heart attack while he was behind the wheel of a semi hauling a load of caskets.”
“You’re joking,” I said.
“Not this time,” Dina replied. “Doesn’t it seem fitting?”
“My father would call that ironical,” I said.
