The May Day Murders Sequel

by Scott Wittenburg

  “You gotta help me here, Claire. Give me your hand!”

  Mason grabbed her hand and placed it on his penis. “Work it, baby!” he cried. Claire hesitated a moment then took his penis in her hands. She stroked it for several moments but Mason was unable to achieve an erection.

  “What’s wrong with you, slut? Don’t you know how to make a man hard? Work it, baby!”

  Claire began stroking him furiously but he remained limp in her hands. Mason grabbed her breasts again and started tugging at them harder and harder, hoping the action would get him excited. She cried out in pain as she stroked him even harder, clearly wishing for it just to be over with. Mason began feeling desperate as his frustration gave way to anger, his anger to absolute rage.

  “You fucking bitch! You are so lame!”

  In an instant Mason took hold of her neck and squeezed as hard as he possibly could. Claire barely got out a whimper before he had dug the fingers of both his hands into her trachea and totally cut off her airway. He held her like that for several moments, hearing her gasps for air give way to silence as she fell limp in his arms.

  The bitch was dead.

  And damned if he wasn’t as hard as a rock now.

  He remained still, his arms preventing Claire’s body from falling to the floor. Two thoughts went through his head as he stood there huffing. One was this sudden erection. What did that mean? How could he have just murdered somebody and now have a hard-on? Was that sick or what?

  The other thought was what to do about it. Claire was still warm and had only been dead a minute, tops. What would be the difference if he screwed her now as opposed to when she was still alive? Would be the same, either way—she clearly hadn’t been getting into the spirit of things and would have just stood there like a rag doll anyway.

  It took him less than another minute to make up his mind.

  The reality of the situation now forced Mason to rethink his original plan. He had planned to have sex with Claire Fournier—not kill her. And afterwards he was going to tie her up, gag her, take all of her cash and jewelry then split the scene. She would later tell the police that she’d been robbed by an intruder and most likely leave everything else out of her account. She seemed the type that would prefer not to open that can of worms.

  Mason went over and poured himself another glass of wine. As he stared at the body lying on the kitchen floor, he sipped Chardonnay and weighed his options. Nobody had seen him come here, nor would anybody see him leave. Claire was a private person and probably wouldn’t be missed until Monday at the soonest, when she would normally have returned to her Paris apartment. She had no regular job but did volunteer work at a local animal shelter whenever she chose to spice up her monotonous existence. They probably wouldn’t miss her for quite a while.

  But simply leaving her here to rot was not an option. He had to get rid of the body, and the sooner the better. Or he could set the place on fire and destroy everything instead. The cottage wasn’t visible from the main road and by the time somebody spotted the fire and the fire brigade arrived, the place would already be toast.

  But torching the place would only arouse suspicion and there was always a slim chance that somebody might recall seeing his rental car pull on to the road after the place was crawling with people. His ace in the hole was time—he had plenty of it to spare so it would be best to take advantage of that.

  Suddenly he knew what to do. He’d roll Claire up inside one of the large throw rugs and stuff her in the trunk of the rental. He recalled seeing a perfect place to dump a body into the Seine about halfway between here and Paris. The place was unpopulated and well off the beaten path. By the time her body was discovered washed up on the shore, he would be long gone.

  He was through with Paris. He had no choice but to get out of Dodge since the police would be looking for Claire’s murderer. Although he had left nothing to chance, there was always some margin of error in any well-conceived mission.

  But most important of all, he’d had an epiphany while showing Claire Fournier who’s the boss. He’d thought of Ann Middleton and realized that she was the reason he couldn’t regain his self-confidence. She was the last woman he’d been with before being sent to prison. And the only one who had ever paid him any attention while he was Jerry Rankin. He had actually had a chance with Ann after all those years, in fact.

  Until he’d blown it, that is.

  His teenage crush on Ann Middleton had led to his complete undoing. Until she was eradicated from the picture he could never move forward.

  He needed to hook up with her again.

  Chapter 15

  Sam stared out the window at the dark blue Honda Odyssey as it pulled up and parked behind his Jeep. He went out on to the porch to greet his daughter and her family.

  “Hey, Dad!” Amy said.

  “Hi, honey,” Sam replied. “How was the trip?”

  “Fine. We only had to make three stops for snacks and bathroom breaks.”

  Amy swung open the side door to free Hannah from her booster seat.

  “Papa!” the little girl cried, hopping out of the van and into Sam’s arms.

  “Hi, little mouse!” he said as she planted a big wet kiss on his cheek.

  Mark Quinn came around and shook Sam’s hand. “How you doing, Sam?”

  “Fine, Mark. Good seeing you again.”

  “This place is awesome, Dad!” Amy exclaimed. “What a view!”

  “Thanks, kiddo. I’m very happy with it.”

  “Can we throw some Frisbee, Papa?” Hannah asked.

  “Definitely.”

  “In a little while, Hannah,” Amy said. “Give us a chance to see Papa’s new house first.”

  “Okay.”

  “This is unbelievable, Sam,” Mark said, staring out at the panoramic view of Smithtown. “When Amy told me you lived on top of a mountain, I thought she was exaggerating. I was obviously mistaken.”

  “Let’s go inside and I’ll show you around the place. You guys thirsty?”

  “I could use a beer,” Amy replied.

  “Me, too,” said Mark.

  “What would you like, honey?”

  “Lemonade!”

  “You got it.”

  Sam led the way inside into the kitchen. “I plan on updating this eventually. It’s still sort of stuck in the Seventies as you can see.”

  “Great potential, though.”

  Sam got out some beers and poured Hannah a glass of lemonade.

  “I love the fireplace,” Amy said as Sam handed her a Miller Lite.

  “Especially nice on a day like this,” Sam stated. “This room could use some upgrading as well but I think I’ll wait until after the kitchen’s done first.”

  Sam commenced showing them the interior of his new house and took them outside to see the pool.

  “I can’t wait to swim here!” Hannah said. “I’ve already learned how.”

  “That’s what I hear,” Sam said.

  “Does everything work?” Mark asked.

  “Tell you the truth, I don’t know. I hope so. At least the pool is clean and looks solid. As for the filtration system, that is yet to be seen.”

  They went back inside and took seats in the family room. As Amy and Mark brought him up to speed with their lives in Columbus, Sam, as always, marveled at the striking resemblance between Amy and her mother. Like Ann, Amy looked fit and gorgeous with auburn hair and a trace of freckles on her fair face. Amy shared her mother’s practical nature and desire for everything to be in order—in striking contrast to how she’d been as a teenager. Amy and Mark were a good match and Sam was thankful that his only daughter had found a good man and happiness in the world.

  “So how’s retirement?” Mark asked Sam.

  Amy elbowed her husband, casting him a look of disdain.

  “I haven’t retired, Mark. I’m just no longer working at the newspaper.”

  “I think what he meant is how do you like being free to spend more time on your writing,”
Amy said.

  “Couldn’t be happier. I’m making good progress on my newest manuscript and have found it much easier to concentrate than ever before.”

  “That’s great,” Mark said.

  “Have you been getting out any more, Dad?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, are you like, socializing more?”

  “Not really. I mean, it’s only been a week—not that much has changed.”

  “Mommy wants to know if you have a girlfriend yet, Papa,” Hannah piped up.

  “Hannah!” Amy scolded.

  From the mouths of babes, Sam thought.

  Amy quickly said, “I think she overheard Mark and I talking about you on the way down. All I said was something like maybe you’ll have more time to look for a girlfriend now.”

  “Is that something you think I should do?”

  “Honestly? Yes, I do. I mean, I think that’s what Mom would want you to do.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “She told me once,” Amy said softly.

  “How’s that?”

  “We were talking one day and she came right out and said that if she, uh, passed before you, that you should find yourself a nice woman to spend your life with, not sit around feeling sad all the time.”

  Sam was touched by this. Clearly it had been difficult for Amy to say and was heartfelt.

  Amy added, “She even told me that I am not to let you be all by yourself—that I should encourage you to move on, was the way she put it.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to say other than I’m glad you told me this. As you know, your mother was special and always put others before herself. But I can’t sit here and say that I hope to find somebody else someday or that I’m even looking. Why don’t we just leave it at that for now, okay?”

  “Sure, Dad.”

  Sam got up and went over to the hall closet. When he returned, he was hiding something behind his back.

  “Frisbee, anybody?” he said, displaying the brand new purple Frisbee he’d bought for Hannah.

  His granddaughter shot up and stared at him wide-eyed. “Wow, it’s so pretty!”

  Sam handed it to her. “Let’s go see if it works as well as it looks!”

  They spent the next half hour outside throwing Frisbee while Amy and Mark ran to the store to pick up a few things for the meal Amy was preparing. Not long after they left, Sam got a call from Mitch Stevens, his literary agent.

  “Hey, Mitch, what’s up?”

  “Just thought I’d call to see how things are going with your latest.”

  “Great, actually. I quit my job Tuesday so I can dedicate more time to writing.”

  “You actually quit the paper? I’m shocked.”

  “Well, I figured it was now or never. My days at the Observer have been numbered anyway, so I decided not to put it off any longer.”

  “I must say I’m impressed. And your timing couldn’t be more perfect.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Remember that book tour I’ve been trying to get for you? Well, I think I may have something for you—not a tour but something else. How would you feel about doing a book reading in London?”

  “Ohio?”

  “No, England.”

  “You serious?”

  “As a heart attack. Here’s the scoop. There’s a fairly large chain of bookshops in the UK that have organized what they call a ‘Meet the Authors Marathon’ at one of their London locations. They hand-pick five authors to speak, answer questions and sign books at the shop on a rotating basis throughout the day. The owner, Harold Kinsey, is known for his interest in promoting unestablished authors that he feels deserve recognition. To cut to the chase, one of the authors—the only American on the list, by the way—has backed out due to a sudden health issue and Mr. Kinsey needs another American writer to go in his place. That’s where you come in.

  “The owner’s eldest daughter manages this shop and she suggested you as the replacement author. This woman is apparently a big fan of yours. Her father agreed and his secretary just rang me a few minutes ago to see if you would be interested in participating in this event. And here’s the best part: the owner has agreed to share the cost of your travel and hotel accommodation if you agree to do it. The store is charging a fairly hefty admission to this special event and they are expecting a big turnout. They also get a cut of any books sold. So what do you think?”

  “Jesus, that’s awesome! I mean, I’m totally thrilled but what if I don’t attract any participants? It’s not like I’m a household name over there.”

  “I think you’re forgetting that you actually have strong readership in the UK. You’re probably more popular than you think. What do you say?”

  “I would love to do it—I’ve never been to London so what could be better? When would I have to be there?”

  “Uh, that’s rather the down side. You would be leaving for London next week. Next Friday in fact. The event will take place on Sunday, which will give you enough time to recover from the flight. You will be the first author to appear. Also, you have to commit to do it today or the deal is off the table since they’ll have to find somebody else on short notice. So you think you can clear that on your calendar?”

  “Are you kidding? Next Friday? That’s really soon!”

  “You got something more important to do?”

  In his excitement Sam had actually forgotten he no longer had a regular job—he was a free man. And how could he turn down a trip to London at half price? He would never get a sweeter deal than this. “It just so happens I can work that into my schedule.”

  “I thought so.” Mitch chuckled. “Listen, I’ll call them back to let them know you’re coming and get back to you with the details.”

  “Great. Thanks a million, Mitch. You are the best!”

  Sam was ecstatic. London! He’d wanted to go there for as long as he could remember but for one reason or another it had never happened. And now he was going to promote his books!

  “Can we throw some more now, Papa?” Hannah asked.

  “We sure can!”

  Later that evening after Amy’s family left, Sam sat on the sofa in front of the fireplace drinking a beer. When he had mentioned the call from his agent they had been excited for him. The book signing trip to London helped legitimize his leaving his job at the paper, he realized. Maybe he was on the right track after all, eh?

  He was tempted to call Maisy to share the good news but decided to hold off. After all, nothing was absolutely set in stone yet—no sense in getting her all worked up until everything was in place. She would definitely be thrilled and it took all he had to not pick up the phone that moment in spite of himself.

  He thought of Ann’s conversation with Amy and felt a pang of guilt. Hearing Ann’s wish for him to find somebody else if she were the first to die had been gut wrenching. And although Ann had granted him carte blanche to be with another woman, he felt unworthy of it. His wife had been the most loving, unselfish person he’d ever known and it just didn’t seem appropriate having another life partner.

  As was always the case, thoughts of Ann conjured up Stanley Jenkins. He wondered if there would ever come a day that he could cherish Ann’s memory without having it sullied by the likes of that appalling bastard. He would give his right eye to hear that Jenkins had been found dead. Nothing would bring him more satisfaction.

  He still hadn’t heard any more from Roger about the driver of the stolen Nissan and now that he’d had several days to process everything, Sam had some doubts. Maybe in fact it hadn’t been Jenkins he’d seen, but somebody who just resembled him. In hindsight, Sam hadn’t had that great a look at the guy and the man he’d seen looked like the Jerry Rankin he knew nearly ten years ago. But how would Jerry Rankin/Stanley Jenkins look now after all those years in prison? No doubt older and rougher around the edges. So as much as he hated to admit it, there was a decent chance that his Stanley Jenkins sighting had been a red herring.


  He took another slug of beer and closed his eyes. If only he could simply sit here and enjoy the prospects of the future without dwelling on the past for a change. Three wonderful things had happened in the past week and he had good reason to be ecstatic. He had met a wonderful woman he was truly excited about, he’d quit the Observer once and for all and now he was going to go to London for a book reading. How much better could life be?

  As he drifted off to sleep, Sam had a smile on his face. He was going to London!

  Chapter 16

  When Sarah Clark first awoke that morning she had no idea where she was. Then she looked over and saw the familiar coffee table and realized that she was lying flat on her back on the sofa in her living room.

  How in the hell did I get here?

  She started to get up but stopped herself immediately. Her head felt like a stone and her joints ached. She looked down at herself and noticed that she was still wearing her favorite outfit. Molly once told her that everyone in the office thought this sweater made her look like a sex kitten—

  The office! She needed to get to work—what time is it?

  She bolted to her feet in spite of a throbbing headache and glanced over at the mantle clock. It was half past eight—she was already late! Horrified that this would be the first time she’d ever been late to work she ran to her bedroom to change clothes. As she removed her sweater a thought suddenly came to mind. She ran over and picked up yesterday’s newspaper still lying on her bed and heaved a great sigh of relief. It was Friday’s Times—which would make this Saturday.

  Dizzy and disoriented, she sat on the edge of her bed, staring blankly ahead. What had happened to Friday? She struggled to recall the last thing she’d done the day before and came up with nothing. But surely she’d gone to work, right? Of course she had. She had been in a fine mood because it was the end of the week. It had been a particularly rough one, she recalled. And afterwards all she wanted to do was relax.