I Saw Mommy Killing Santa Claus (Book 3) (A Harley and Davidson Mystery)

by Liliana Hart

  “That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” she asked.

  “Did you come here so early just to admonish, Aggie?” Hank asked.

  “Heck no,” she said, tossing her hair. “Hank’s not the only construction worker in the neighborhood, if you get my meaning.” She waggled her fingers. “Catch you later. I need a nap.”

  “I bet I could burn a lot of calories by chasing down her car and beating the crap out of her.”

  Hank grinned, sticking in his ear buds. “I don’t know if I’d chance it. She looks like she fights dirty.”

  Agatha nodded and put in her own ear buds. “She does.”

  They made it about half a block before the road began to dip on a slight grade. It wasn’t so bad, except they both knew that what went down eventually had to come up.

  He pulled out one of his ear buds, and then reached over and yanked out one of hers so she could hear. “What you think about those three Santa deaths?”

  “What about them?”

  “There’s not much Coil can do, and I can say he’s probably not all that interested. Serial killers are a headache, and these three deaths are spread over three jurisdictions. He couldn’t do anything about the other two, if he wanted. Agencies aren’t all that great about sharing information. It’s why so many criminals fall through the cracks.”

  “So who should be involved?” Agatha asked.

  “The FBI would be the agency to coordinate multi-jurisdictional deaths similar in nature.”

  “Then let’s call them.”

  “Yeah, it doesn’t work like that. You should know better.” Hank frowned.

  “I do, but I guess what I feel is the right thing to do versus what politics and red-tape control are very different.”

  “Maybe if we were able to provide Coil and the other two agencies a possible connection to the three deaths, they’d get interested,” Hank suggested.

  “Are you tempting me into a new book? I mean investigation?” Agatha asked.

  “You did say your publishing agent had obligated you to a three-book deal. As my math goes, you still have two more cases to catch.” Hank picked up his pace. “Unless you’re not interested.”

  “You know me better than that.” Agatha also increased her stride.

  “How about we start with our Santa?”

  “You think Coil will give us access to Mr. Gunderson’s autopsy?” Agatha asked.

  “I’d be surprised if he’d ordered one, since COD was natural causes. I’ll see what I can do to convince him.”

  “What if he refuses?”

  “He owes me.”

  “For what?”

  “I promised I’d play Santa for his kids on Christmas Eve. You know, march in, laugh, hand out a few gifts, and then be gone, along with my dignity.”

  “Yep, he owes you big time,” Agatha agreed.

  Agatha had been right about the company. Running wasn’t quite so bad when you had a partner to keep you motivated. It seemed like no time before they were back at his house.

  “You want to come in for breakfast or a bottle of water?” Hank huffed.

  “Can’t today, but thanks. I’m finishing up the edits on the book. Also, I’ve got an interview with Gage McCoy scheduled later today.”

  “Wow, that’s fantastic,” Hank, said. Gage was the man they’d exonerated during their investigation into the murder of Gage’s wife. He hadn’t been out of prison long. “Let me know how it goes.”

  Agatha gave him a thumb up, jogged across the street, and back down to her house. He watched after her, then shook his head. There’s something in the way she moves… The Beatles song popped into his head out of nowhere. There was one thing for certain, Sir Paul could’ve written that song specifically for Agatha Harley.

  “Time for a shower.” Maybe a cold one.

  “Come on, Coil,” Hank said. “You owe me.”

  “You’ve let that woman go to your head,” he responded. “She’s looking for a mystery, and you’re looking for a way to relieve your boredom. Y’all are a match made in heaven.”

  “Why not just accommodate me?” Hank asked. “My gut is telling me there’s something worth looking at here.”

  Hank leaned back in the chair in front of Coil’s desk and crossed his boot over his knee. The sheriff’s office had been recently remodeled, and it still smelled of Kilz, new paint and sheetrock, though the smell of stale coffee was quickly fazing it out. The small, one-story structure was on the corner of Main Street.

  Sheriff Coil didn’t just serve Rusty Gun. He provided law enforcement for the areas of Bell County that were unincorporated and places like Rusty Gun that were too small to have their own police department.

  “I don’t know what I can do to convince you she’s just leading you down a rabbit hole.”

  “Why do you think people look down rabbit holes? It’s because there are rabbits in there, and they’d like to catch them. Oddly enough, that’s the most logical place to find them.”

  Coil scratched his head. “How did we get to talking about rabbits?” He pushed back from his desk and snapped the lid on the plastic container of Thanksgiving leftovers his wife had packed. “I’ve loved my wife since the moment I first laid eyes on her,” Coil said. “but if I eat turkey and cornbread stuffing one more day, I might toss her out.”

  “So is that a yes?” Hank asked.

  Coil sighed. “You’d better be a darned good Santa. What do you need from me?”

  “A look at the autopsy report and the body, if you still have it.”

  “No body. The family had him removed back to their home funeral parlor. Said they didn’t want it to ruin the holidays any more than it already had.”

  “Wow, that’s sentimental,” Hank said. “How about just the autopsy and all photos?”

  “Deal. But I want them back by Wednesday.” Coil opened his desk drawer and tossed a packet on his uncluttered desk.

  Hank looked at the packet, then up at his friend. “You were planning on giving it to me the entire time.”

  “Yeah, unless you refused to play Santa.”

  “My word is my bond. No matter how humiliating it is. Thanks for this,” he said, snatching up the packet.

  “Hey,” Coil said with a serious note as he stepped over to push his office door closed. “You hear from Anna lately?”

  Hank tensed, then shrugged it off. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.”

  “My friend, we’ve been through hell and back together. There is never a question asked for no reason.”

  Coil reached to grab his Stetson from off of the deer antlers mounted on his wall.

  “You were so excited to see her before the holiday, and I’ve not heard a peep about her since. I just figured something went wrong or extremely right. Either way, I’m your friend and just wanted to make sure you were covered.”

  Hank felt a lump in his throat. “Thanks. I appreciate it. Honestly, I have no idea what’s going on. I thought it was going well up until we kissed goodnight.”

  Coil grinned. “So you did kiss her.”

  “I don’t think she liked it.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “I had my eyes open.”

  “I’m sorry, what? Your eyes open? Why in the world would you do that?” Coil slapped him on the shoulder, then squeezed.

  “Habit?” Hank said. “I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I’ve kissed a woman. It just got weird, then I left.”

  Coil tugged his office door open, and Hank walked into the small lobby area. It was empty. Coil still hadn’t hired anyone to replace his secretary, since she went to prison for accessory to murder.

  “Look, whatever your quirks, faults or weaknesses, the right woman isn’t going to care. She’s going to love you for you anyway. I wouldn’t waste my breath worrying about the good doctor. It doesn’t sound like you’ll hear from her again.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Hank said. “Women are complicated.”

  “Hank
, you’ve been married before, but if that’s your excuse, maybe you better buy a manual.”

  “It wasn’t my choice to not be married, Reggie.” Hank’s tone shifted to a somber brooding.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.” Coil reached over to grab his arm. “But, you do need advice on getting back in the game.”

  “I’ve been watching a lot of Dr. Phil.”

  “That works too.”

  Chapter Five

  Sunday

  Agatha’s childhood home was just across the street and a couple of houses down from Hank. The house had been her refuge after she’d left college just shy of graduating. One of her professors had become a little too interested in her, and he’d pursued her relentlessly. To the point that she’d finally dropped his class and reported him to the dean.

  She hadn’t left soon enough. Her professor had been so infuriated with the thought of her leaving him that things escalated, and he’d been waiting in her apartment to confront her. She’d thought she was going to die that night. She almost had.

  She rubbed the place just over her breast subconsciously. It was a permanent reminder that she’d survived. It was by the grace of God that she’d been able to knock him out and escape. That hadn’t ended her nightmare. She found out that he’d been reported a number of times by students over the years, but the university had covered it up, choosing not to deal with bad press of a tenured professor.

  Her parents had still been alive then, and she’d escaped to Rusty Gun and inside the pages of her stories. It was easier to lose herself in fiction most days than to face reality. She liked to think that she wouldn’t be as successful at her job today if she hadn’t gone through the experience of what she had.

  Almost eighteen years later, her parents were no longer with her, and she was still hiding in the same house. She’d limited herself in her relationships, unable to trust men, and she’d vowed to never be vulnerable to a man like that again. She’d spent her substantial earnings making her home like a fortress, updating the security and technology, and even putting in a secret room.

  The house had everything she could ask for despite its small size. It looked like a fairytale cottage. It was two stories of gray stone, and green ivy crawled up the sides. The windows were diamond-paned, and the front door was arched and painted bright red. She’d added that touch a couple of years after her parents’ deaths.

  Starting a new case was always exciting, even if it might not pan out into an actual case. Looking into the possibility of a Santa serial killer really got her creative juices flowing. She had a certain amount of time to work on her edits before Hank was due to arrive, but the man was always early for everything. It drove her crazy. If you say you’re going to be some place at a certain time, then arrive at that time.

  She set her alarm and got to work. The doorbell rang a few hours later, and she looked up at the clock shaking her head. Fifteen minutes early. She should let him wait a few extra minutes, just to prove a point, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good.

  When she opened the door a cold gust of wind blew in, and she held onto the door so it didn’t slam against the wall. Ahh, the Texas winter season, which meant they’d go through three or four months of excruciating cold or ice, followed up with eighty degree temperatures within the following twenty-four hours.

  Hank was sitting on the porch in her red-cushioned rocker, his arms wrapped around his middle to ward off the cold.

  “Come on in,” she said. “I was debating leaving you out here, Mr. Early Bird. I’m losing fifteen minutes of work.”

  “Then you wouldn’t have gotten to see this.” Hank slid the thick manila file folder out from beneath his navy blue windbreaker.

  Agatha raised her brows in surprise. “No way. I guess Coil came through on that favor he owes you.”

  “Now I just have to follow through on my end of the deal. I’m not sure how much help we’ll get with the other two vics if anything turns up here. Mr. Gunderson’s body was already relocated to his hometown and is being dressed out as we speak. Seems the family wants to stash his memory away before it spoils Christmas.”

  “Well, if the coroner did a decent job, then all we need is a start,” she said. “If we can get the Texas Rangers interested, maybe the FBI will reopen their offices. I’m sure they’ve already shut it down for the holidays.”

  “I wouldn’t count on them too much. Old men dying of natural causes isn’t exactly their highest priority.” Hank said.

  Hank went into her kitchen and made himself at home. She liked seeing him move around her space. He always seemed comfortable, no matter where he was. He made a cup of coffee from the Keurig and warmed his hands around the mug.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s talk through a few possibilities with the assumption that one person killed all three Santas.”

  Agatha combed through the reports until she came to the coroner’s files. She frowned. As expected, there was no autopsy conducted.

  “Think the family will sign off on an exhumation of the body?” she asked.

  Hank stared at her drolly. “They couldn’t wait to get him in the ground. You think they’ll want to dig him back up?”

  “Let’s just deal with what we’ve got. We’re lucky to have these files at all. Coil wasn’t too thrilled with handing them over. Maybe this will lead us to the other two bodies in Fort Worth, but no need wishing for what we’re not going to get.”

  “Kinda like Christmas, right?” Agatha asked.

  “What did you ask for that Santa never brought?”

  “A Snoopy Sno-Cone machine,” she said, reminiscently. “I asked for one every year. What about you?”

  “A Philadelphia Eagle’s uniform. Christmases were kind of lean at our house.” Hank frowned, “What does the coroner’s report say?”

  “COD was cardiac arrest. He had no history of heart disease or congestive heart failure symptoms. Family said he was healthy, but sedentary.”

  “Any history of arrhythmia?” Hank slid on a pair of reading glasses as he examined the photos.

  “Doesn’t say. No blood or samples were drawn, so no telling if he had secondary medical issues. I gotta tell ya, I know you and Coil think I’m just interested in the next book, but the coroner rushed this job. I’m sure he wanted to get back to his Thanksgiving dinner. Come on. Early sixties, decent health, and sudden cardiac arrest kills him?”

  “A small-town doc isn’t going to go above and beyond on a holiday, much less when the family is barking at him to release gramps to the funeral home. You might have a point, but you don’t have a case.”

  “Petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes is consistent with cardiac arrest, but a streaking rash on his neck isn’t,” she muttered.

  “Maybe not, but wasn’t he wearing a polyester and synthetic nylon Santa wig and beard? I’m sure that would irritate anyone’s skin.”

  Agatha rolled her chair next to Hank’s and looked over the coroner’s photographs. She breathed in the scent of his subtle cologne and smiled. He always smelled nice.

  “He looked like a nice man,” Hank said, clearly unaware of the detour her thoughts had taken.

  Agatha leaned back and looked at the pictures from a different angle, shaking her head. There was something there. She just couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

  “Got something?” Hank asked.

  “I don’t know. Thought I almost had something, and then it disappeared.”

  “Try clearing your head. Like a garage sale. You’re making space for the new. It works. Unclutter your thoughts and it’ll come to…”

  “Got it,” she said.

  She spun a series of pics around so that they lined up for Hank. Her unpainted fingernail tapped the center of each photograph. Then, she found the piece that didn’t belong.

  “See there?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Right here.”

  “Where?”

  “Come on, Hank.”

  “No. You come on, Aggie.�
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  “Look at the discoloration across his lips. They’re blue.”

  “Bluish,” he agreed.

  “He was murdered,” she proclaimed.

  “I hope you got more than that and an attitude. He stopped breathing, so sure his lips would be blue.”

  “He didn’t suffocate, Hank. He had a heart attack. No time for this discoloring to occur. Something bruised or stained his lips pre-mortem. It’s murder.”

  “If Coil heard you jump to that conclusion, he’d yank this file and accuse us of playing childish games for the sake of a book plot.”

  “This is no game. I’m serious. There’s no reason why his lips would be blue.”

  “Oh, yeah? Maybe he ate a blue candy cane.”

  Chapter Six

  Tuesday

  Tuesday morning held a promise of optimism and a wind chill that dipped into the low thirties. Agatha waited impatiently on her porch as she looked towards Hank’s house. He was always fifteen minutes early for everything, so why he was two minutes late puzzled her. Agatha dug into her jacket for her cell phone.

  Her pocket was empty. “Shoot,” she muttered. She’d left her phone and the coroner’s report on the table.

  She rushed back inside and moved toward her war room right as the phone rang. Too late. It was Hank and he’d already hung up. She hit the redial button.

  “Hank are you okay?”

  “Yes, I called to ask you the same thing. Where are you?” he asked.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, but came back inside to get my phone and the report.”

  “I saw your front door wide open and thought you had something going on.”

  “Seriously?” she asked, rolling her eyes. “You thought there was trouble, so you decided to sit in your car and call me? My hero.”

  “Just hurry up. We’re already late.” He said.

  “You mean you’re late,” she said, as she rushed back through the house and locked the front door behind her.

  “You told me to stop showing up early.”

  Oh, right. She guessed she had. She hung up the phone and saw his BMW in her driveway.