* * *
“It’s the least we can do,” Missy told Echo, a bit sternly, as they rode up the elevator to Brock Treadworth’s law office.
“He’s a busy man, it’s not like he’s going to have the time to just drop everything and chat with us about whether or not he murdered his wife,” Echo pointed out. “I think your need for adventure is getting the best of you again.”
“Nonsense,” Missy shook her head. “I’m just being neighborly to a man who lost his wife. I’m bringing cupcakes for goodness’ sake,” she insisted.
“Uh-huh,” Echo was skeptical. “You mean to tell me that you’re not going to mention the case at all?”
“Well, it would be rude not to mention his loss,” Missy avoided her friend’s gaze.
“I knew it,” Echo folded her arms.
“Look, you don’t have to say anything, just keep me company while I deliver my cupcakes to that poor, grieving man.”
“Don’t think that I don’t realize that you started suspecting the husband when we couldn’t find the gardener who is the guy that you really think did this,” Echo challenged.
“It doesn’t hurt to cover all of our bases,” Missy shrugged, one hand running absently over her swollen belly.
“Why are you so invested in this particular case anyway?” Echo demanded.
“I don’t know,” Missy murmured. “I just hate the thought that someone stole the life from that sweet young woman. She deserves to have her killer found and punished.”
“You do realize that your husband makes his living doing that very thing, right?” Echo reminded her.
“Yes, and he’s very good at it, but I just want to be involved. She was Agnes Quisenberry’s neighbor, and I’d feel even more awful if something happened to that sweet old lady too.”
The elevator glided to a stop, the doors opening at the sound of the ding which announced their floor, forestalling any further conversation. A receptionist behind a rather intimidating, heavily-carved desk greeted them with a smile.
Missy, undaunted, marched right up to the desk, cupcakes in hand.
“How may I help you?” the receptionist asked
“My name is Melissa Beckett, and I provided the cupcakes for Mr. Treadworth’s campaign. I was hoping that I might be able to see him for just a second so that I could give him these,” she lifted up the box.
“I don’t know what his schedule looks like today, but you could certainly leave them with me and I’d be happy to make certain that he receives them,” the young woman suggested.
“Oh, that’s so sweet of you,” Missy cooed. “But I really would like to give them to him personally.”
“Hold on just a moment,” the receptionist picked up the phone. “I’ll check and see if he has a few minutes available.
Missy and Echo took a seat in the plush waiting room, and shortly thereafter, a stout woman in sensible shoes approached them.
“Hello, I’m Grace, Mr. Treadworth’s secretary,” she introduced herself. “If you ladies would like to follow me, Mr. Treadworth will see you now.”
“That would be very nice, thank you,” Missy followed the secretary, dragging Echo along with her.
“I think it’s lovely that you brought cupcakes,” Grace commented, leading the way down the hall. “So thoughtful.”
“Thank you. I can’t imagine how awful it must be to lose a mate,” Missy said truthfully. She didn’t know what she’d do if something happened to Chas.
Grace went into an office which had its own reception area, where she obviously sat, and knocked lightly on the door behind it, opening it without awaiting a response.
“Here we are,” she said to Missy and Echo, gesturing for them to enter.
Brock stood up behind his desk and shook hands with each of them. Missy handed him the cupcakes, which he accepted with a polite smile.
“You two ladies were at the debate,” he remarked sitting down when they did.
“Yes, my shop supplied the cupcakes in the reception tent,” Missy reminded him.
“I so appreciate your support,” the line sounded rehearsed, seeming as fake as his smile.
“We wanted to offer our condolences for the loss of your wife. Such a tragedy, she was so sweet,” Missy said sincerely.
Brock nodded, his professional mask not slipping for a second. “Thank you. Yes, a tragedy indeed. Did I hear Grace correctly, is one of you named Beckett?” he asked, looking from Missy to Echo.
“Yes, that’s me,” Missy answered. “I’m Missy Beckett.”
“Any relation to Chas Beckett?”
“Yes, that’s my husband.”
“Has he made any progress on Leigh’s case?”
“Oh, I’m sure he has, he’s quite good at what he does, but he doesn’t discuss his work at home,” Missy crossed her fingers under the edge of the desk.
“I can see how it wouldn’t exactly be polite dinner conversation,” Brock smiled thinly. “Well, I hate to rush you ladies out the door, but I have a deposition to conduct in a few minutes, so…” he glanced at his watch.
“Oh, no problem, we understand,” Echo stood quickly.
“I hope you enjoy the cupcakes,” Missy followed suit and the two women headed toward the door.
“Much appreciated,” Brock Treadworth’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
They made it past Grace’s desk and were almost to the elevator when they heard the unmistakable thunk of a box of cupcakes hitting the bottom of a wastebasket. Missy could barely wait until the elevator doors closed before her anger bubbled over.
“There’s something fishy about that man,” her eyes narrowed.
“Well, no kidding, he’s a politician,” Echo snickered.
“No, I mean…he doesn’t seem like a grieving husband to me. His whole persona was way too…” Missy searched for the right word.
“Polished?” Echo suggested.
“Yes, exactly. Polished, staged, contrived,” Missy nodded. “And did you notice that once he found out that Chas was my husband, he couldn’t wait to get us out of there?”
“Well, to be fair, it was the middle of his work day and we just dropped in on him,” Echo pointed out.
“Yeah, it was the middle of the work day, and it’s only four days after his wife was murdered. If someone murdered Kel, would you be back at work looking perfectly fine four days later?” Missy demanded.
“You make a good point,” Echo pursed her lips. “There’s no way I’d be functional that quickly. I mourn for longer than that when a pet dies.”
“Exactly. I’m telling you, there’s something weird going on with that man.”
“Do you think he could be the killer?” Echo asked.
“Anything is possible,” Missy murmured, thinking. “The question is, how are we going to find out?”
“We’re not. Chas is,” Echo gave her a look.
“I wonder if Kel knows people in the legal community,” Missy wondered.
“Kel knows everyone in town, he was raised here, but we’re not dragging him into this,” Echo insisted.
“Let’s go talk to him. I haven’t seen him in a while,” Missy grinned.
“Promise you won’t talk about this case?”
“Who me?” Missy chuckled.
CHAPTER TWELVE
* * *
Spencer entered the messy technology center and tossed a bag of burgers and fries onto the desk in front of Ringo.
“What do you have so far?” he asked, standing and staring at the computer screens.
Ringo pawed through the bag of food, checking the wrappers on his burgers.
“You remembered the extra ketchup,” he nodded with approval, opening one of the burgers. “Motorcycle Man has used ATM’s in Calgon in the past few days,” Ringo talked around a mouthful of burger and stuffed some fries in for good measure.
“Motorcycle Man?” Spencer frowned, impatient with Ringo’s riddles.
“The guy’s name is Harley Donaldson,” the hac
ker said slowly, as if talking to a child.
“When was the last time?” Spencer demanded, ignoring the play on words.
“This morning.”
“Anything else?”
“He uses his credit card pretty often at the Alley Kat bar and grill,” Ringo polished off his first burger and licked ketchup from his fingers before tapping on his keyboard again.
“Do you know what time he’s usually there?”
“Not yet. Hey did you happen to grab a shake when you got this?” Ringo pointed at his bag of food.
“No. How long will it take to find out when he hangs out at the bar?”
“Gimme an hour or so,” the hacker shrugged. “He doesn’t have any safeguards on anything.”
“Let me know when you have it,” Spencer headed for Chas’ office.
“So…no shake?” Ringo hollered out the door.
Spencer ignored him.
“Got a minute?” he poked his head in Chas’ door.
“Always. Come on in,” Chas waved him to a chair in front of his desk. “What’s up?”
“Just thought we could review where we’re at on the Treadworth case. I stopped in to check with Ringo and got some leads on Donaldson.”
“Great. We definitely want to get to him as soon as we can.”
Spencer briefed Chas on the conversation with Ringo, then got caught up to speed on the interviews that had already taken place.
“So, are you looking strongly at the husband as the primary suspect?” Spencer asked.
“Right now, yes, but that may change after we speak to Donaldson, and Treadworth’s opponent, Bart Kimbrel.”
“That’s your agenda today?”
“Yep,” Chas nodded. “Stay on top of Ringo, and let me know when he figures out Harley’s bar habit.”
“Will do. Anything else you need from me?”
“Yes, actually. I’m supposed to be comparing notes with the candidate who is interviewing for homicide, but I really need to get these interviews done. We have no concrete leads in this case so far, and until I get the labs and autopsy reports back, I have no evidence to work with,” the detective sighed. “Can you get together with her and see what she knows? I’ll touch base with her once I’ve done the initial interviews, and bring her more into the process. Right now she’s just getting her feet wet and learning her way around.”
“Yep, can do. Do you want me to go to the station, or is she coming here?”
“I think it’d be better to do it here. I’ll text her and ask her to come by. We can let Holly know to take her to your office rather than mine, since I’ll be gone by the time she gets here. If she’s still around when I get back, I’ll be able to sit down with both of you.”
“Sounds good.”
**
“Mr. Bengal, Ms. Robeson is here to see you,” Holly stood in the office door with Claire hovering behind her.
“Great, thanks Holly,” Spencer smiled and stood.
“Ms. Robeson,” he extended his hand as Claire walked in, looking confused.
She shook his hand with a surprisingly firm grip, and stared at him.
“Bengal? As in tiger?” she gave him a half smile.
“Yes, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Please have a seat,” he indicated a chair in front of his desk.
“I’m more than a little confused here, Mr. Bengal,” Robeson confessed. “I’m supposed to be here to talk with Detective Beckett.”
“Yes, I know. He wanted to meet with you, but a pressing matter came up, so he asked me to fill in for him in his absence,” Spencer explained.
“How is it that a Private Investigator is so closely involved in police business?” Claire raised an eyebrow.
“Well, Chas left the department when he opened up this agency, but his replacement was fired several months later, so the Chief asked him to function as interim detective until a replacement was found.”
“Which still doesn’t explain why I’m sitting here talking to a civilian,” Robeson prompted.
“I’m far from a civilian, but you’re correct in assuming that I’m not a cop. When the Chief asked Chas to help out, we took that as an invitation to put all of Chas’ resources at the disposal of Calgon PD until a new detective is hired.”
“That’s very…unorthodox,” Claire commented.
“It tends to work out quite well. Think of me as a public service volunteer,” Spencer smiled. “Ready to get down to business?”
“Ready when you are,” she shrugged, still not seeming convinced.
“Seven o’clock,” a voice called from the doorway.
Spencer looked up to see Ringo loitering there, munching on a cookie from the bag that he had tucked under his arm.
“Great, thanks,” Spencer replied dismissively.
“Don’t you want to know what else I found?” the hacker asked, crunching his cookie.
“Is it important?”
“How should I know, man? That’s your department, right?” Ringo chuckled.
“What else did you find?” Spencer kept a lid on his annoyance.
“A ten thousand dollar deposit in his bank account. Looks like he’s trying to drink it all away at the Alley Kat.”
“Ten thousand dollars? When was it deposited?”
“Saturday.”
Spencer stared at him. “Where did it come from?”
“I’m working on that, but you said you wanted to know what time he hung out at the bar,” Ringo chewed thoughtfully.
“Find out where he got the money and let me know,” Spencer shooed the hacker away.
“It’d be a lot easier with a bag of donuts and a shake, I’m just saying,” Ringo called out, meandering back down the hall.
Claire gave Spencer a sidelong glance. “Who was that?” she asked.
“The bane of my existence,” was the wry response. “Now, where were we?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
* * *
“It’s so weird,” Fiona McCamish commented, peering down at the corpse of Leigh Treadworth. “Most of the stiffs we get in here look awful, but she looks like this perfect wax sculpture, even with all those little red dots on her face.”
“Conjunctival petechiae,” Timothy Eckels muttered, examining the victim closely.
“And in English that means…?”
“The little red dots,” Tim mumbled impatiently. “They’re characteristic of a strangulation death. What have we here?” he parted Leigh’s lips with gloved fingers and reached for his tweezers.
“Is there something in her mouth?” Fiona’s eyes went wide.
“Bring the light down closer,” the coroner ordered, ignoring her question.
Brow furrowed, he probed carefully with the tweezers, extracting a thin, red object that looked as delicate as tissue paper. He held it closer to the light, turning it from side to side.
“What is it?” Fiona breathed.
“Look at the shape of it,” he spread the thin material out over his gloved fingertip. “It’s a flower petal. A rose petal to be specific.”
“There were rose petals scattered on the table at the crime scene. Did she try to eat one or something?” Fiona wondered, puzzled.
Tim gave her a look.
“What?” her tone was defensive.
“Do you see teeth marks in this?” he thrust the petal closer to her. “If she had attempted to eat it, it would have been positioned further back in her mouth. This was tucked neatly under her tongue, and it’s unblemished. Her killer had to have placed it there.”
“But why on earth would he do that?”
“Clearly the perpetrator was trying to communicate something. This isn’t one of the petals that was on the tabletop,” Tim peered at the petal with a magnifying glass.
“How do you know that?” Fiona never ceased to be the tiniest bit in awe of her nerdy, but oh-so-smart boss.
“Look,” he held the magnifying glass and his hand with the petal closer, where she could see it. “See the jagged marks on th
e left side?”
Fiona nodded, observing closely.
“The flower that produced this petal was not a commercially grown rose. It’s literally a garden variety flower. You’ll note that the size, coloration and shape are different from the petals found at the scene as well,” Tim pointed out. “This came from a common type of rose that can be found in any garden.”
“It is different,” Fiona nodded. “So, the killer brought flowers and used one of them to send a message?”
“Whoever did this wanted the petal to be found. The killer is playing a game and wanted us to know it,” Tim commented grimly.
“And I’m guessing that since it’s a common variety, it’ll be nearly impossible to trace,” Fiona sighed.
“So it would seem.”
**
“How does the forensics report look?” Spencer asked Chas.
“Dismal. Of course there was a ton of DNA from the husband, but he lives there, so that’s to be expected. The scene was also contaminated because our candidate for detective didn’t follow proper protocol and wear gloves and a hair net,” Chas grimaced.
“That doesn’t bode well,” Spencer commented. “When I interviewed her, she seemed very nice, but she hadn’t made any observations that weren’t already in your notes, other than to note repeatedly that the victim’s husband seemed to be behaving oddly.”
“To be fair, there really hasn’t been anything significant found by any of us so far, although, Timothy Eckels did note a couple of interesting things after the autopsy.”
“Oh?”
“He found a rose petal that wasn’t the same species of roses that were present at the scene, tucked under the victim’s tongue.”
“The killer is trying to tell us something,” Spencer commented, correctly.
“Exactly. Tim also said that her body showed faint and early signs of starvation internally.”
“So, the strange flower petals point to the gardener who was obsessed with her, and the starvation could theoretically point to the husband as a source of her unhappiness, which takes us directly back to square one,” Spencer summarized.
German Chocolate Killer (Cupcakes in Paradise Book 11) Page 6
