Two Scoops of Murder (Felicity Bell Book 2)

by Nic Saint

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So no scoops for me, huh?”

  “‘fraid not. I’m sorry, Fe.”

  “Me too.”

  They trudged on in silence, and Felicity cursed this sudden officiousness that had come over Alice’s dad. Before long, and with the help of Virgil’s app, they reached the car, and both filed in.

  Suddenly an idea occurred to her. “Didn’t you take pictures of the crime scene?”

  “Sure. Plenty.”

  “Can I see them?”

  He looked pained. “The chief said—”

  “No media access to an ongoing murder investigation. Right.”

  “Sorry.”

  “What about the medical examiner? I can talk to him, right?”

  “You can try,” he suggested.

  Damn skippy she would try. And as they headed back into town she had the distinct impression this article was going to prove a lot harder to write than she’d figured. She settled back in her seat, hugging herself in a bid to keep warm. This first assignment wasn’t going anywhere fast, and she’d only just begun.

  Chapter 14

  “The food is great!” Mrs. Thomson exclaimed when Mary passed by their table.

  “Yes, really excellent,” Mr. Thomson echoed.

  “That’s wonderful,” Mary said with a weak smile. She was having trouble keeping it together. Her husband had been murdered and all she wanted to do was crawl up into a ball and cry her eyes out for a couple of days. But since she still had a business to run she didn’t have the luxury to do so. Good thing Suzy was here to help out. She’d been a pillar of strength and had taken a lot of weight off Mary’s shoulders.

  First she’d had to go to the morgue to identify Alistair’s body. Up until that point the horrible truth of what had happened hadn’t sunk in yet. Somewhere in the back of her mind there was still the vague hope that this was all one big mistake. That Alistair wasn’t dead and that he’d come walking through the door any minute now. Big and wholesome with a smile creasing that waggly beard of his.

  It was only when she laid eyes on his body, stiff and cold and pale, that she realized that she was alone now—that her beloved Alistair would never come home again. That he would never lie by her side in bed at night and cuddle her close and call her his sweet honey bunny.

  She’d collapsed at the morgue and only a policewoman’s support had kept her on her feet.

  Her mind kept going back to the question of who could do such a thing. Who could have harmed her sweet husband?

  She simply didn’t understand what monster was capable of such horror.

  When Suzy had gently informed her that many people were curious to know what was going on and shouldn’t they put up a sign, she’d instructed her to tell the guests that due to a death in the family there would be a wake and anyone who’d known Alistair was welcome to attend. A message to that effect had been posted on the bulletin board and declarations of sympathy had poured in from all over. The inn’s phone had rung off the hook with them.

  It seemed—and this came as no surprise to Mary—that her husband had been a very popular man. Both with the guests and Happy Baysians in general.

  Then the call had come in from Rob and Ruth, letting her know they were arriving in town shortly and could she set them up at the inn. She wasn’t looking forward to her son and daughter’s arrival. Instead of giving her the support she needed at this difficult time they would be an extra burden. Though it was a horrible thing to say she’d told Suzy they were like vultures swooping in to check the carcass and make off with the best pieces.

  She was quite sure all they would talk about was the sale of the inn and the land at Barrow’s Grove. They were probably hoping to finally get their hands on some money.

  The worst thing was that she was inclined to give in to their demands. She no longer wanted to fight, especially in the condition she was in. Perhaps she should simply give up and let them have their way. It would be easier. Much easier.

  Maybe they were right. Maybe it was time to sell and move on. To let go of the past and get her meddlesome children off her back once and for all. And have some peace and quiet in her final years.

  She swept into the kitchen and had to hold onto the countertop for support, a sudden spell of dizziness catching her unawares. Moments later she was recovered and heading upstairs to her room. Suzy would take care of the dinner rush. All she wanted to do was lie down. Lie down and never get up again. Just like her Alistair had done.

  Chapter 15

  Felicity stormed into the house, her mood having plummeted to the depths. Alice looked up from the copy of People Magazine she’d been perusing and, seeing her friend’s face, asked solicitously, “What’s wrong, hon?”

  Felicity flapped her arms before plunking herself down on the couch. “Where do I start?”

  “At the beginning?”

  “The bad news is—Alistair Long has been murdered.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “The good news is—Stephen’s asked me to write a piece about the murder.”

  “That is good news.”

  “The bad news is—your father won’t allow me access to the investigation.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Yeah.”

  In a few brief words she related the events of that afternoon, with Alice’s face reflecting her shifting mood, vacillating from excitement to shock to indignation.

  “Do you want me to ask Dad? He can’t say no to me.”

  “Oh, yes he will. Don’t you remember that one time Bell’s was burgled? They had a suspect and you wanted to know who it was. Your dad was so tight-lipped you thought he’d swallowed his tongue.”

  Alice grinned. “I’d forgotten all about that. And then he gave me some line about police investigations being restricted to police personnel and when I reminded him I was his daughter he said family was no exception to the rule.”

  “The man is a horror to crime reporting,” Felicity said, now fully realizing the ordeal she was facing. “This means I won’t be able to get the information I need. And since I can’t write an article if I don’t have access to the facts I’m sunk!”

  “Why don’t you ask Stephen? He must know a way around Dad. Maybe he has some secret source at the police station?”

  She pointed a finger at her friend. “Great idea. I should have thought of that myself.” She dug out her phone and put in a call to the editor. If anyone knew how to deal with Chief Curtis Whitehouse it was Stephen.

  “Fossick. Talk to me!” the editor growled into the phone.

  Felicity held it a little further from her ear. It was the man’s unfortunate habit to bark into the phone as if he had to cover the distance with his correspondent by the sheer power of his voice.

  “Hi, Stephen. Fe. I’ve run into a little snag.”

  “Snag? What snag?”

  She told him about the chief’s dislike for nosy reporters and was surprised to hear the editor’s booming laugh assault her eardrum.

  “He gave you that old comedy routine, huh? The man is incorrigible. He should probably read up on first amendment jurisprudence.”

  “So he has to give me access?”

  “Nope. Police can and will restrict access if they think you’re liable to interfere with an ongoing investigation.”

  She slumped. “So what do I do?”

  “Do what I do—talk to the holy trinity.”

  “You mean…pray?”

  “Well, if you’re so inclined, by all means. I usually talk to Mabel, Marjorie and Bettina.”

  Felicity’s eyes swiveled to Alice. “The neighborhood watch committee.”

  “Exactly. Mabel Stokely works at City Hall. You’ll find her extremely well-informed on all things political. Your aunt Bettina knows everything about everybody, and Marjorie…well, I guess you can figure that one out by yourself.”

  “Genius,” Felicity muttered. Virgil’s mother was of the old-fashioned belief that there should be n
o secrets between mother and son, and urged Virgil to tell her all about what went on at the station. A smile creased her lips. “The chief tells Virgil. Virgil tells his mother. And—”

  “Marjorie tells you.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “You’re catching on fast, kid. Now go on winged feet, pump your sources for information, and write like the wind. I need this story on my desk ASAP.”

  “You’ll have it.”

  “Oh, and don’t forget to mention the magic words.”

  “Which are?”

  “Any variation of the old adage ‘Sources close to the investigation have revealed…’. Just drop that in there somewhere and you’re golden.”

  The moment she ended the call, she turned to Alice. “When is the next meeting of the neighborhood watch committee?”

  “Um, Wednesday evening. Why?”

  “How would you like to be a part of this story?”

  Alice’s eyes lit up. “Lay it on me, partner.”

  She explained about Stephen Fossick’s holy trinity and Alice instantly caught her drift. “You mean like Deep Throat, Woodward & Bernstein’s secret source in the Watergate affair?”

  “Better. We’ve got three of them.”

  “Three throats are better than one,” Alice agreed. Then her smile disappeared. “I don’t know if they’re up for it, though. I mean, this is murder, not jaywalking or littering or dog pooping.”

  “We can ask. I’m sure they want to catch the guy responsible for Alistair’s murder as much as we do.”

  A resolute look had stolen over Alice’s face. “You’re right. This murderer must be caught. I’ll call an emergency meeting of the HBNWC right away.”

  “‘Before you do, let’s examine the facts.”

  “There are facts, Nancy Drew?”

  “You betcha, Veronica Mars.”

  Alice wrinkled her nose and furrowed her brow. It was her ‘serious face’. “Hit me.”

  Felicity winced. In light of recent events, Alice’s words seemed ill-chosen. But then she hunkered down, and started to present her case.

  Chapter 16

  As they convened around the coffee table, Alice and Felicity started to work out a plan of campaign. Though Alice would have to sacrifice some of the precious time she’d allotted to her snag-Reece-Hudson campaign, it was worth it. The safety of the community went before her love life.

  Besides, since it had been her dream to become a cop all her life, and this seemed about as close as she would ever get, she was willing to put everything else on hold just to get this project up and running.

  “So what have we got?”

  “Well, we know that Alistair was shot once at close range, that the murderer drove up in a car but that no tire marks were found, so the killer must have parked a little ways away from where Alistair was found.”

  Alice wrote all this down on the whiteboard the two women usually reserved for jotting down messages to each other and the odd bits and pieces of their mutual calendar. She’d wiped the board clean and was feeling like a real police person. In her imagination the board would soon be filled with crime scene photos and snaps of the victim. Well, perhaps not photos, exactly. It was hardly likely that the medical examiner would be that obliging.

  Meticulously, she wrote down all the clues. “What else?”

  Felicity checked her notes. “There’s the fact that Alistair and Mary have this ongoing feud with their kids about the sale of the land and the inn.” She looked up. “I just thought it might be useful. I wasn’t going to put that in the article, of course.”

  Alice put this down under the heading ‘Suspects’. “Rob and Ruth Long. Good thinking, Fe. If anyone wanted Alistair dead, it would be them.”

  “Sad, really. I mean, to have kids who want their father dead?”

  “Well, we don’t know for sure they wanted him dead. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

  “No, but simply the fact that all they care about is getting their hands on the money is enough to make you feel sorry for Mary and Alistair.”

  Felicity was right. She hoped that if one day she had kids they would be the prop of her declining years, not vultures waiting for her to croak. She tapped the board. “I don’t like this suspect list. Too short. Did Alistair have any enemies?”

  “Not that I know of. He was such a sweet man. I think everyone loved him.”

  “Not everyone. Remember that kid he got into an argument with last fall? Billy Conch? I think Alistair even spent the night in jail.”

  Felicity’s eyes widened. “Billy Conch. He found the body!”

  “No way.”

  “Way.” She’d forgotten all about the incident. Billy had kicked his dog and Alistair happened to see it. So he went over, kicked the boy and asked how he liked it. The kid didn’t like it and neither did his father, so he called the cops and Alistair had to spend the night in jail.

  “That’s not a reason to kill anyone,” Alice mused. “The Conches got even, right?”

  Felicity shook her head. “The case attracted the attention of an animal rights group out of TriBeCa and they made a whole case about it. Camped out in front of the Conch place for weeks, remember?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So Stephen Conch lost his job over that. The power plant didn’t like all the negative publicity and they fired him. I can imagine he was pretty sore about it.”

  Alice nodded and added Stephen Conch’s name to the suspect list, though without much conviction. She felt that he made a weak suspect and she didn’t hesitate to state her opinion that they would be wasting their time going after him. But since she believed in being thorough she dutifully jotted down the name.

  Both women stared at the whiteboard.

  “We need more information,” Felicity said, and Alice agreed.

  “Perhaps the holy trinity will know more.”

  “The holy trinity is bound to know more. They’re the holy trinity, after all.”

  Alice laughed. “We’re doing this, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  Alice held up her hand and Felicity high-fived it. They were going to solve this case or die trying. Well…perhaps not that last part. But they were going to do their utmost. For Alistair and Happy Bays.

  Chapter 17

  Virgil stared at his phone. It didn’t often happen that his mother called him during office hours, for she knew that Chief Whitehouse was a stickler for discipline and productivity.

  “Mom?” he said, surreptitiously glancing in the direction of the chief’s office.

  “Just heard about Alistair,” his mother said in her customary clipped tones. “Dreadful business! How are you holding up?”

  “I’m fine, Mom,” he said, gulping a little. “I can’t talk now.”

  “Sure, sure.” There was a brief pause, in which he fully expected Mom to hang up and leave him to get on with his work. Instead, she asked, “Who did it?”

  “Mom!”

  “What? You’re a policeman, aren’t you?”

  “So?”

  “So aren’t you supposed to know who shot Alistair Long in the head?”

  “Not the head,” he said automatically.

  “What was that?”

  He bitterly regretted not having drawn a line in the sand the way Chief Whitehouse had told him. “Never discuss your work with anyone, Virgil,” the chief had said. “Once you start, you don’t know where it ends. Just make it clear from the get-go that they won’t get zip from you. Not even your own sweet mother.”

  Instead, he’d made it a habit to discuss police business at the dinner table. And that was all fine and dandy as long as it concerned minor traffic violations. But murder? That was a whole other beast altogether.

  “He wasn’t shot in the head, mom.”

  “Well? Where was he shot then? Don’t make me drag it out of you, son. I’m your mother, remember? I fed you, I raised you, I put you through police academy. And you know my lips are sealed. I won’t breathe this to a
living soul!”

  At least that much was true. Mom was discretion personified. Maybe she would tell one or two friends, but that was as far as it went. He sighed. “I’ll tell you all about it tonight, all right? But now I gotta go. I’ve got work to do.”

  “I expect a full report.” And with those words she promptly hung up.

  He cursed silently under his breath. Just at that moment his boss appeared. The police chief, a stocky man with a gray buzz cut and perpetual scowl on his jowly face, didn’t look happy. “Who was that on the phone?”

  “My mother,” he admitted, his cheeks reddening.

  The chief grunted. “You didn’t tell her about the investigation, did you?”

  “No, of course not. I would never—”

  “Because you know she’ll blab. All mothers blab.”

  “Not Mom,” he assured the chief.

  “Especially your mother. She’s in that group—that vigilante thing—”

  “The watch committee?”

  “A bunch of gossipmongers led by my own flesh and blood. You talk to your mother, she’ll tell her vigilante friends, and before you know it, it’s splattered all over the front page of the Happy Bays Gazette. Mark my words.”

  He marked the chief’s words, though he resented this slur on his mother’s character. “She wouldn’t do that,” he insisted.

  “Oh? Remember the case of the neutered squirrel?”

  He remembered. Peter North, Happy Bays’s resident vet, had been brought a pet squirrel to be neutered, and had allowed the rodent to bite him in the nose. He’d filed a report against its owner and before long the whole story had appeared in the Gazette, turning Dr. North into the town’s laughing stock.

  “That wasn’t Mom.”

  “You told her, didn’t you?” barked the chief.

  “I did,” he confessed.