In her wildest moments, Clare fantasized about calling the Board of Deacons at New Prospect Baptist Church and blowing Edmund’s cover but she didn’t want to embarrass her mother.
She also fantasied about petitioning the Southern Baptist Convention to have Edmund barred from preaching. But there was a morals clause in her teaching contract, and she realized that could jeopardize her own job. Both she and Edmund had lied. But she wasn’t harboring a husband and had never claimed to be a woman of God.
Back in Richmond, she picked up one of her journals and in a rush of adrenaline, wrote down the whole sordid affair, then tore it into a thousand pieces and locked them away in her jewelry box.
She did not call, text, or tweet Edmund after Christmas.
Then he called and said in his sexy voice, so southern Clare wondered how she’d ever been hoodwinked into thinking he was a Yankee.
“I have something special to give you,” he said. “Something beautiful that you will love. I’m driving all the way to Richmond to bring it. Can you meet me? I know you hate me right now, but I can explain everything.”
“There’s nothing to explain. You are a preacher and a married man who’s been cheating on his pregnant wife. End of story.”
But in the end, she agreed to meet him, not at her house. No way was she going to allow him to wheedle his way into her bed again. He chose the time—midnight—and she the place, the ice cream aisle of Whole Foods. She wanted him to think about what he’d lost when he lost the delights of her bed, made sweeter by their shared fetish for ice cream. Their encounter would make a spectacle for the audience of Chubby Hubby, Willie Nelson Peach Cobbler, and Cherry Garcia, Clare’s sweet men of ice cream, the only men she’d ever been able to count on.
What could he possibly say, she wondered as she drove through the quiet streets. That he was leaving the ministry and divorcing Kirsty so he could teach philosophy? That Kirsty was a young unmarried mother he’d rescued from unspeakable abuse? That Kirsty had an incurable illness?
Clare arrived first at Whole Foods. The parking lot was almost empty. When she went in, the store appeared deserted, not a cashier or shelf stocker in sight.
She established herself in front of the rows of ice cream and waited. As minutes went by, she rummaged through her large purse to pass the time. Trollop lip gloss, a bright red she had worn for Edmund. She’d throw that out first chance she got. The key to the jewelry box that held her ugly secret, she tucked into a zippered pocket. A piece of decaying wood from an abandoned church, a relic she carried to remind herself she still had a soul. And to her surprise, a knife. It was the stubby but deadly knife her father had used to geld steers and stick hogs. He had a name for it, Dynamite. She must have picked it up on the awful Christmas trip so she could feel a little bit of her father’s protection. But her school forbade weapons of any kind. Carrying a knife, even a keepsake from her father, could get her fired. She resolved to find a safer place for Dynamite.
She glanced at her watch. Twelve-fifteen a.m.
Edmund was late. Had the bastard lured her here just to see if she would come—to make a fool of her again? She paced in front of the ice cream freezer and couldn’t resist peering in to see if there were any new Ben and Jerry flavors. Maybe she should give Ben and Jerry another chance. She could almost taste Burnt Bourbon melting in her mouth.
It was twelve-twenty. She would give him till twelve-thirty. She heard footsteps echo in the empty store and turned. Bright lights illuminated him and she saw that he carried a panel of richly stained glass, as if he were an angel carrying a religious icon.
He smiled and opened his arms to her. “I come in peace, my darling. This is for you. I made it myself.”
She found herself moving toward him as if the glass were a magnet. “Beautiful,” she said against her will. “Is it real or another mirage? Can I touch it?”
“I come to free you, not to fool you.” Edmund held the stained glass over his head to catch the light. She took a step closer. Then she saw it. The panel was not what it appeared to be. Edmond had broken the glass at its edges, fashioning it into a sharp and deadly weapon. He grabbed her neck with his free hand. She looked up to see the jagged glass poised above her head, her carotid artery a vulnerable target for Edmund’s murderous intent.
But he didn’t know she’d taken a self-defense class when she first moved to the city. Instead of struggling, she slumped into him as hard as she could, spun out of his grasp, brought her knee up, and hit him hard in the groin.
Edmund dropped the glass which shattered on the floor. “Sweet Jesus,” he moaned as he shielded his testicles from another frontal attack.
With that, she pulled Dynamite from her pocket and slid the sharp little knife into Edmund’s soft belly and twisted and turned it.
“Thank you, Daddy,” she whispered as she plunged her weapon again and again, finally sinking it into Edmund’s most vulnerable part. She left it there, a ghastly erection. Edmund tried to run but collapsed in front of the ice cream freezer. He lay on his back in a pool of syrupy blood, shards of glass sticking to him like sugar sprinkles, Dynamite still rising up from his groin.
“Holy fucking Christ,” he howled.
“Fine language for a man of God. Didn’t your seminary cover the Third Commandment?” Clare hissed. She reached into the freezer, grabbed a pint of Chubby Hubby, and spooned its contents into Edmund’s dying mouth with her fingers. Bubbles forming as he choked on the ice cream.
When it was over, she picked her way through blood and broken glass and made her way to the front door. She pulled her hood down over her face, slammed on sunglasses, and called out, “Clean up on aisle six.”
In the parking lot, she almost collided with Edmund’s pregnant wife. She felt a moment’s panic, but Kirsty didn’t recognize her under the hood and didn’t notice the blood on her coat.
“Did you happen to see my husband in there? I sent him to get me some ice cream, but he’s taking the longest time, so I came to find him. Can’t wait another minute for my Phish Food Ben and Jerry’s. You know how pregnant women are.”
“Did not see a living soul.” After all, Edward/Edmund was deceased. “But I too have always depended on the unbearable sweetness of ice cream.” Clare spoke in a deep voice, hoping to fool Edward/Edmund’s wife into thinking she was a drag queen out for a post-show pack of cigarettes. “Be careful, young lady. It’s dangerous out here tonight.”
She could see the headlines now. “Drag Queen Strikes Down Holy Man in Ice Cream Aisle” and “Ice Cream Weapon in Random Act of Urban Violence.”
Once home, in her rocker, with a tummy full of gelato and fudge, Clare thought of Kirsty and her unborn child. She winced thinking about having to listen to her mother going on and on about the murder of her minister. She shuddered to think of an innocent transgendered person accused of her crime in homophobic Richmond, and even more about Dynamite and all the DNA she left at the crime scene. Clare sincerely hoped they would not start collecting DNA samples from public school teachers.
Oh well, she thought, I will not think about any of that tonight. Maybe I’ll think about it tomorrow after I make my snow cream. Snow cream full of raw eggs.
Back to TOC
Name That Killer
J.D. Allen
The Client
Except for the fact his body had decomposed to mere bones, leaving an expressionless skull screaming silently over the pristine lake below, the photo of Henry Mitchell Neil was worthy of the cover of an outdoor magazine. He sat upright, resting easy on a rocky seat, cushioned by several years of ivy and moss. His hands were folded nicely in his lap. Wind, sun, and rain had faded and eroded his suit, but scraps of fine fabric told Jillie it was once an expensive suit.
“Mitchell’s remains were found three weeks ago,” the dead man’s sister said.
Jillie looked up in surprise. The sister called him Mitchell, not Henry as the photo was labelled? Jillie wondered if his parents made that decision or if that was h
is own choice. Not being a Henry? Jillie got that.
The photo of his remains was laid out on Jillian Dolan’s desk among several others. Another showed him straight-on, rather than in profile. A pair of close ups showed his clothing and the jaw bone that rested on crossed legs.
“Even though he’s been there for five years, only a few of his finger bones were missing,” his sister said.
Candice Neil-Upton sat opposite Jillie, prim in her pale blue button-down sweater and fake diamond necklace. Not one hair out of place, decent rings on her left finger. Maybe four total. Engagement, wedding and a couple of anniversary bands to boot. Long-term wife. She didn’t seem too disturbed by the photos of her dead brother. Jillie tried not to judge.
“The police are going to close the case as a suicide,” Candice continued. She tossed the next piece of evidence from her file onto Jillie’s desk.
The dead man’s sister had clearly rehearsed her pitch. Many clients did. As if to skew the sympathy in one way or another. Not that they needed to. Jillie got paid by the billable hour, whether she found what her client wanted or not. Having a strong opinion often hurt an investigation. Tainted one’s thinking.
The “reveal” was the autopsy report. More pictures, sans the suit. Several shots of stuff—bones, a few bits of hair, the contents of Mitchell’s pockets when he was found, including his wallet, his white-gold wedding ring, one quarter, two dimes, and two pennies. Forty-seven cents.
Who dies with only forty-seven cents while wearing a thousand-dollar suit, Jillie thought.
Lastly, a Casio solar-powered watch that was still keeping perfect time.
Keeping time for, she glanced at the estimated date of death, five years. Holy crap. I should get one of those watches.
She couldn’t help but picture the morbid situation as a great ad campaign for the brand. Dead guy on a hill, bulky black watch still strapped to his boney arm, and still ticking. Cue the voiceover: “You may die, but your Casio won’t!”
She bit her lip so not to grin as while looking over the report. She made a humming sound and nodded her head to appear serious and cover any hint she found humor in Ms. Neil-Upton’s loss.
“So it wasn’t a robbery,” Jillie said. “Anything at all missing? From the house? The car?”
“The police report said they never found his phone. Nothing was missing from his home.” She sat straight, her hands folded over the now empty green folder in her lap. “It’s in the police report I gave you.”
Jillie nodded. She’d study that in detail over a glass of wine this evening. She glanced at the non-solar-powered athletic tracker strapped to her arm. It had buzzed at her three times today for sitting on her ass longer than it thought she should. The thing was in danger of not making two months, much less years in the woods like the Casio. Piece of crap. Her partner had given it to her for her fortieth birthday. Like Jillie wanted a reminder that her rear was spreading and she didn’t move enough? Buzz. You fat slob. Buzz. Move a little would ya? Buzz. Buzz.
Happy Birthday.
“And his car.” Candice’s sharp tone brought Jillie’s attention back into the conversation. “They never found his car.”
Right. Probably not robbery. She wrote that on the oversized blue Post-it pad she jotted thoughts on. So, she had a perfectly preserved skeleton on a cliff overlooking a lake. Five years missing. Insurance and property paid out to the wifey. Motive. Motive, and more motive.
“I have to ask this, so don’t get upset.”
If it was possible, Candice Neil-Upton sat even straighter. She nodded.
“Do you think he committed suicide?”
She didn’t blink. “No. His finances weren’t great, but that was the dot-com bust. Everyone was strained at the time. The market had crashed. And being a financial advisor…” Candice almost shrugged. “He was good at his job, Miss. Dolan. It meant something to him. His clients meant something. To give up, quit on them?”
Rhetorical question, answered with her incredulous tone. “He would have considered getting them through the crash and saving their money as important as saving their lives.”
“And if there came a point where he realized he could not be the hero of their financial lives?”
She arched a pointy eyebrow. “He’d keep trying until he was.”
The Scene
Jillie stumbled as she made her way over a pile of boulders. Okay, they were rocks, but they were big rocks. At least her stupid fit band would be happy with her step count for the first time since she’d donned it. Might even make the fucking goal today. It was an amazing fall morning, but hiking hadn’t been on her to-do list in a few years. She was sweating more than she’d like to admit. If someone asked her, she would have classified the trek up to Henry’s final resting place as an expert-level trail. Except, she’d left the marked path at least a mile back. The rest had been a trek through thick woods. She was about four miles from where she left her car at the trail head in the boat ramp parking lot.
Where the trail turned east, the map from the police report turned due west. The catalyst for finding the body in the first place had been a naughty puppy. The dog slipped his leash and took his owner on a wild goose chase that ended at one of the strangest crime scenes in years. Once found it would be treated that way until the ME confirmed it as a suicide.
She had to shimmy around a real boulder to find the right spot. No doubt about it when she did. Police tape still dangled from branches, as if they had to keep onlookers out way up here.
Who the fuck would climb up here to lookie-loo? she wondered. Cops and their procedures.
She retrieved the file from her pack. She’d brought all the data Candice gave her and some more she’d gathered from her source at the department.
She held up the photo of the remains to get the exact location. She placed herself in the spot. Legs crossed, hands in lap.
Wow.
The view was amazing. Not a bad place to spend eternity, in her opinion. The hidden cut-out in the rock overlook offered a great view of the lake from about eighty feet up. Even if anyone had smelled a dead body, Henry Mitchell Neil would have been obscured from the lake below by a stand of short scrub bushes along the base of the ridge. Anyone on a boat would only see rocks and leaves from lake level.
Except for the runaway puppy, they’d never have found him. Probably the best place to hide a body Jillie had ever seen. Strange place for a killer to know about. She scoured the area for an hour. The police missed no shell fragments or casings that she found. No indication of bullet damage to nearby trees or chips in the rocks. No knives, arrows, hammers, swords, or rope. No discarded pill bottles or needles to indicate the surmised overdose. And none of those things indicated in the evidence logs.
His bones were intact. No trauma indicated.
By all accounts he just came up here and died of amazing-view-overdose, or maybe a heart attack from the climb in dress shoes.
What the hell happened to Henry Mitchell Neil?
The Partner
Jillie liked full names. Thought a lot about them. She should. She had five of them. Jillian Adele Vance Agnew Dolan.
She studied the certificate on the wall behind a desk that was too clean for a finance guy—in Jillie’s opinion. The desk should be covered with papers and forms that showed he was hard at work making money. The diploma proclaimed that Frazier McWilliam Xander had earned his degree in business management from University of Virginia. She inwardly smiled that his name was weirder than hers. Xs always won. Xander was defiantly German. She expected a portly man with an ill-fitting suit to enter the room. His hair combed neatly, his clothing loose enough to surround his belly, the extra fabric difficult to keep in check.
Her instinct was dead on. Frazier was a six-and-a-half footer with thinning red hair and freckles which were quickly turning to age spots. His coloring far more Irish than German.
He dropped backward into his overstuffed chair like a diver falling into the ocean. His feet even rose fro
m the floor as the chair rocked back from the inertia.
“I understand you’re here about Mitch.” He didn’t give her a chance to respond. “Not sure what I can add at this point.” He dragged a finger under a bulbous nose.
You could add a hello and an introduction, she thought.
But she wasn’t a client and would make him no money, and he clearly resented her being in his office taking up his time. Jillie was used that kind of treatment from men who thought themselves important.
Fine. “Did you and Henry Mitchell Neil keep key employee insurance on your partnership?” If he wanted to get to the point, she would oblige him.
He pushed himself away from his desk a couple inches, blinked a few times, as a scowl grew on his face. “I’m sure that has no bearing on the current situation.”
“Then I’m not sure you understand why I’m here, Mr. Xander.” She said it slowly. “The situation, as you called it, is a death. I have been hired to investigate it. Is there anything left of his property in the office?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“How about a note? Was there anything in the last of your correspondence that might have indicated he was about to commit suicide?”
He shook his head but didn’t answer within a beat so she added to the barrage. “And did you have the insurance or not?”
“We did not.”
“Huh.” Jillie re-crossed her legs as she pulled a note pad from her back pocket. “According to my notes, you made a claim of about two million dollars with Transport American Insurance once he was declared dead. Not that you notified the family of this claim.”
He sighed and crossed his arms. “If you knew I had the policy, then why did you ask the question?”
Carolina Crimes Page 7
