by Nic Saint
“Just that I’m going to call off my date,” said Alice miserably.
Felicity nodded. She was probably right. Better focus on catching whoever was responsible before resuming their lives. If they could.
“Let’s think things through logically,” she said. “We have a murderer who’s managed to wipe out the entire Long family—father, mother, and kids.”
“And Rob’s wife too.”
“Collateral damage, I should think. I don’t think Maggie had anything to do with this.”
“Or she could have been the focus of the whole thing,” said Alice, shifting her attention from her love life back to the case.
Felicity frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Bear with me a moment. The killer kills five random people, right?”
“Yeah, but they’re not random. They’re all related.”
“No, this is just a theory. Killer kills five people. Only one of them is the real target, the others were chosen as distraction. Happens all the time.”
Felicity’s eyebrows rose. “All the time, huh?”
“Sure. Standard operating procedure for murderers the world over. I’ve seen it a million times.” When her friend gave her an odd look, she quickly added, “In movies, honey. In movies.”
“Oh. Right. Of course.”
“So what if the real target was Maggie, and the others are just distraction? The killer trying to throw us off the scent?”
Felicity thought it was a theory, though perhaps not the best one out there. “I don’t know, Alice. Seems like a lot of trouble to go through just to get rid of a single person.”
“Yeah, but what do we really know about Maggie Long?”
“Um. Nothing?”
“Exactly.”
“But what do we know about Rob Long, for that matter? Or Ruth?”
“Nothing,” Alice admitted.
“Exactly.”
Both friends were silent for a moment, reflecting that there wasn’t a whole lot they did know, and once again Felicity had the sinking feeling that they were way out of their depth here.
They pulled up in front of Uncle Charlie’s small cottage, and Felicity was happy to see a light still burning in the window. “He’s up late.”
“Uncle Charlie never sleeps. Sometimes I think he’s one of the living dead. Which is probably what you get from spending so much time around the dead in the first place.”
“You’re spending an awful time around the dead lately.”
“Yeah, but I’m a woman. We’re immune to the virus.”
Felicity decided to let this rest. Immune or not, now was not the time to go into the finer points of what constitutes a zombie. She slammed the door of the van shut and followed Alice up to Uncle Charlie’s front door. When they arrived, they found it slightly ajar. Alice didn’t seem to think this strange, for she entered the house and called out, “Uncle Charlie! Good people!”
No reply came, and they headed deeper into the house. “What’s that smell?” Felicity asked, holding her hand before her nose. If the hallway was anything to go by the place was as dank as the dwelling of the living dead, and Felicity was beginning to wonder if there was any truth to what Alice had said. Could Uncle Charlie be a zombie? It seemed preposterous, as zombies don’t exist, of course. She nudged her friend. “Maybe we should come back tomorrow.”
“Nonsense. We’re here now. Let’s ask him about the picture. I won’t be able to go to sleep otherwise.”
That was true. They were both so riled up now they needed answers, even if they had to drag Uncle Charlie out of bed to get them.
“Uncle Charlie?” Alice asked as she stepped into the living room. The lights were on and the television blaring—The Walking Dead—but of Uncle Charlie there was no trace. A look at the kitchen told them he wasn’t there either, and Felicity was starting to get a bad feeling about this.
“You don’t think something happened to him, do you?” she asked quietly.
“You mean…the murderer?”
Felicity nodded, chewing her lower lip anxiously. If the murderer had gone after Uncle Charlie next, he might still be in the house. Both she and Alice came to the same conclusion simultaneously, and while Felicity grabbed a vase from the table, Alice picked up a footstool and held it out before her like a miniature battering ram. This would have been a great time to test out her new shooting skills, but unfortunately she’d left her gun in the van.
“I think we should check the basement first,” Alice whispered. “Killers always lurk in basements. It’s in all the movies.”
“I think we should check upstairs.”
“Or we could split up?” Alice suggested.
“No!” Felicity cried, then lowered her voice, startled by her own cry. “Never split up. It’s what the killer wants!”
“Right,” agreed Alice. “Of course. Okay, let’s go upstairs first.”
They backtracked through the living room, then into the hallway and started ascending the stairs, one creaking step after another. Felicity took the lead, with Alice picking up the rear. Wherever Felicity encountered a light switch, she flipped it, bathing the house in light. If there was one thing she knew about killers and zombies, it was that they preferred to work in darkness, so she hoped the light would at least give them pause before attacking them.
They arrived on the landing and she looked around, wondering where to go next, when Alice cried out, “Uncle Charlie? Where are you?”
“Shhh!” she hissed, then noticed that one of the doors was open a crack. Her heart beating wildly she motioned with her head. “Look!”
“That’s Uncle Charlie’s bedroom,” Alice whispered.
Weapons held aloft they approached the room on tiptoes, then Felicity nudged open the door, taking a firmer grip on the vase. Her jaw dropped at the sight that met her eyes.
Chapter 64
There, tied down on the bed, buck naked except for his hat and rhinestone boots, lay Uncle Charlie. The reason he hadn’t responded to their cries was because of the rag stuffed into his mouth.
“Oh, you poor thing!” cried Alice and, averting her eyes, picked up a blanket to cover her uncle’s modesty, threw it over the man, and proceeded to remove the ropes tying his wrists and ankles to the bedposts.
Felicity set down the vase to spring to the man’s aid. “What happened?” She surreptitiously glanced around. “Is it the killer? Is he here?”
Uncle Charlie, eyes wide, uttered some words, but they were hard to comprehend—possibly because of the rag.
“I better check the bathroom,” Alice said, picking up the footstool again. “Killers have a habit of barricading themselves in the shower.”
“I’ll come with,” Felicity decided. They ignored Uncle Charlie’s feeble mutterings for a moment. They had bigger fish to fry.
“I’ll yank back the shower curtain,” Alice suggested, “while you take a swing. All right?”
“Great idea,” Felicity agreed, and picked up her weapon of choice once more.
They tripped into the bathroom and stared at the drawn curtain, steam rising and a loud voice caroling Wrecking Ball. It was the killer!
Felicity gulped. She was beginning to have second thoughts about their plan of campaign. What kind of killer takes showers and sings songs? The deranged kind, she felt. The kind who’s into ritualistic stuff. First he ties up his victim, cleanses himself, then proceeds to cut the poor sap into ribbons.
But before she could think things through Alice had already yanked back the curtain and Felicity automatically raised the vase to bring it down on the culprit’s head. Great was her surprise, therefore, when instead of a killer she found herself staring into the startled face of Jacqueline Bouchard, wife of Bud Bouchard, the butcher on Drew Street. The heavyset woman with russet curls, who’d just been singing the high note, had her voice flip over and belt out an even higher note that turned into a startled screech.
Her cries were mimicked by both Alice and Felicity, who, having expec
ted a killer, were not prepared to be faced with a naked butcher’s wife instead.
Instantly, Alice returned the shower curtain to its proper place, but Jacqueline seemed intent on threshing this thing out and pulled it aside.
“What are you two doing here?” she cried, visibly shaken.
“I could ask you the same, “Alice snapped. “What are you doing with my uncle? And why is he tied to the bed?”
Then, as the truth came home to them, both Alice and Felicity let out a startled yelp of surprise.
“You? And Uncle Charlie?” shrieked Alice.
Jacqueline’s face turned as red as her signature curls. “It’s not what it looks like,” she said lamely.
“It looks like you’re really into Elvis Presley,” said Felicity.
“Yeah, well, that part is exactly what it looks like,” the butcher’s wife said, then folded her hands. “Please don’t tell Bud? He thinks I’m at a meeting of the women’s club.”
Felicity felt a little disappointed. With all this buildup she’d hoped to finally catch the killer. “Sure, Jackie. What you do with Uncle Charlie is your business,” she muttered, stepping from the room, followed by an equally discouraged Alice.
Uncle Charlie, who was still tied to the bed with one hand, was making frantic noises.
“Maybe we should remove the gag,” Alice suggested.
“Good idea.”
After remedying this problem, Uncle Charlie gasped, “What the heck?”
“We wanted your opinion on a theory of ours,” Alice said, “though if you’re too busy, I understand.” She darted a pointed look at the bathroom, where the shower had finally been turned off and the warbling had ceased.
Felicity had the distinct impression they’d interrupted a very pleasant little tryst. She wondered if she should turn this into an article for the Gazette. Stephen would be most delighted and so would most of Happy Bays. But then again, she didn’t want to come between Jackie and Bud, especially since the butcher was famous for his very short fuse and might come after her with his favorite meat cleaver.
She stared down at Uncle Charlie, who was rubbing his wrists and nursing his bruised ego. “What theory?” he asked irately. “And what the devil are you doing barging in here in the middle of the night?”
“The door was open,” Alice pointed out. “And what with this killer on the loose…”
“What killer? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Haven’t you heard? There’s been three more murders tonight.”
“Oh, Christ,” said Uncle Charlie. Then his eyes narrowed. “Locals?”
“Rob Long, his wife Maggie and his sister Ruth.”
He pondered this. “They’ll probably want to be buried back home.”
“Uncle!”
“What?”
“Three people have been brutally murdered and all you can think about is business? Really?”
He merely shrugged, and Felicity decided the man had forfeited her compassion, so she took out the picture of the fishing trip and showed it to him. “All of the people in this picture are now dead and we were wondering if there was some sort of connection.”
He stared at the picture blankly. “So?”
“So do you know who these people are?” She indicated the two unknowns. “Alice says you buried them.”
He squinted at the picture. “Yeah, that’s Alan Shaw. Loves to fish.”
“No, these two. Mr. Shaw is the only one who’s still alive.”
“Is he?” He seemed to feel this reflected poorly on Mr. Shaw. He gazed at the picture for a bit, trying to remember, then nodded. “This guy’s face was so damaged it took me hours to reconstruct. Why people like that want an open casket I don’t know.”
“Who was he?”
“Jack Rafter. Long-time friend of the Longs. And the other guy was his brother Jules. They used to work at the inn.”
Felicity got an idea. “Could they have been murdered?”
Uncle Charlie scratched his scalp. “Lemme see. Jack Rafter was a hunting accident. Shot himself in the face, apparently. So yeah, I guess he could have been murdered. You’ll have to ask Virgil about that. He did the reporting on that one. And Jules, he drowned. In his own tub.”<>
“So that could have been murder too,” Alice said breathlessly.
They shared a look of horror. “That makes nine murders in all…”
“And now could you please leave?” Jacqueline Bouchard had appeared in the door, dressed in a pink tutu. Felicity stared from her to Uncle Charlie. “Sure. Let’s give your uncle some privacy, Alice.”
Alice smirked at the butcher’s wife. “Have fun, you two. And don’t overdo it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” grunted Uncle Charlie. “Just get the hell out of here, will you?”
As they descended the stairs, Alice said in a reverent tone, “Nine murders! Fe, this is starting to look like one of those Agatha Christie novels.”
Felicity had to admit her friend was right. “We better ask Virgil about the Rafter brothers. If he ruled them both accidents I want to know why.”
Chapter 65
They drove home in silence, the sight of Uncle Charlie making whoopee with Jackie Bouchard too much for their tender souls.
Then Alice had an idea. “Why don’t we drive over to Virgil’s now? That way we can thresh this thing out once and for all.”
“I don’t think Virgil will be in the mood to thresh out anything.”
“I don’t care,” said Alice. “Happy Bays is under attack and now’s the time to fight back. Virgil has taken an oath. To uphold the law and catch killers. So I want to remind him of that oath.”
Felicity shrugged. It wasn’t as if they were going to get a lot of sleep tonight anyway, so she turned left on Lake Street and headed in the direction of Hopkins Street, where Marjorie lived with her son.
“Besides, if I know Marjorie, she won’t be happy that Virgil got kicked off the investigation.”
Alice was right. Marjorie wasn’t too well pleased, as became evident when they arrived at the Scattering residence, a small house adjacent to a Chinese restaurant, and Marjorie opened the door, looking defiant.
“Well? What do you have to say for yourselves?” she demanded.
“Hello to you too, Marjorie,” said Alice. “Is Virgil home?”
“You didn’t answer my question,” she snapped. “Is it true that you got my son kicked off his own investigation?”
Felicity stared at the woman. “What do you mean?”
Marjorie took a deep breath, then launched into her ‘J’accuse’ speech. “Virgil tells me you practically forced him to show you the crime scene tonight. When the man from the NYPD found out, he reprimanded Virgil severely and told him he was off the investigation.”
“That’s such nonsense!” scoffed Alice. “Virgil—”
Just at that moment the stricken policeman appeared in the hallway, attracted by the sound of arguing voices, and shook his head vehemently when he realized what Alice was about to say. It was obvious that rather than face his mother’s wrath when presenting her with the truth he had opted to spread lies instead.
But Alice wasn’t having any of it. Ignoring Virgil, she continued, “—had already been booted off the investigation. Apparently some big shot detective from New York has stepped in and taken over the investigation. Virgil valiantly decided to defy orders,” she added with a nod to the pained-looking man, “by allowing me and Felicity a glimpse at the scene, hoping we could shed some light on the terrible events.”
Marjorie’s head snapped round so fast Felicity thought she could hear several vertebrae loudly creak in protest. “Is this true, Virgil?”
The policeman’s mouth opened to protest, but confronted with his mother’s and Alice’s incensed faces, he broke down. “Yes, it is,” he admitted in a hollow voice.
“So you chose to lie to me,” Marjorie concluded bitterly.
“Just a little fib, Mom,” he said, eyes downcast.
Felicity imagined he must have looked exactly like this when he came home, age eight, trying to explain the sticky mess in his pants, and telling his mother that Felicity had stuffed Twizzlers into his pocket while the truth was that he’d stolen the candy from her, and when the teacher confronted him about it, had tried to conceal them.
Marjorie’s lips were pursed as she folded her arms across her chest. “And what are you two doing here?” she asked, seeming to feel that at least part of the blame befell her fellow watch committee members.
“We have a theory about the murderer,” Alice announced, “and we wanted to ask Virgil’s opinion.” Then, seeing Marjorie’s disappointment, she quickly added, “And yours, of course.”
Hurt pride quickly gave way to curiosity. “Let’s have a look then, shall we? With seven murders I think it’s time to put a stop to this madness.”
“Nine murders,” Felicity corrected, and nodded gravely when both Marjorie and Virgil goggled at her.
They gathered around the dining room table where Felicity laid the picture of the fishing boat party in front of her host. “Remember Jack and Jules Rafter, Virgil?”
The policeman stared at the picture. “Hunting accident and accidental drowning,” he said automatically.
“Or was it a double homicide?” Alice asked meaningfully. “Uncle Charlie, who buried both men, says he doesn’t rule out foul play.”
Marjorie frowned darkly. “Did you make a mistake, Virgil? Did you cover up two murders?”
“No!” cried her son. “I mean, yes. I mean, maybe.” He blinked. “Well, the man’s fingerprints were on the weapon, weren’t they? And he did trip and fall, didn’t he?”
“Did he?” asked Marjorie.
Virgil raked his fingers through his receding hairline. “There were no witnesses. But, I mean, anyone would have ruled it an accident.”
“Is it true that the Rafter brothers were close friends of the Longs and worked at the inn?” asked Felicity.
“Yes, that’s quite true,” Marjorie said. “The Rafter boys worked at the inn when it first opened for business. Jack did the bookings, and his brother worked as a handyman.” She pointed to Jules. “What about the drowning? Are you sure there was no foul play involved?”
