Merciless Legacy: Merciless Murder - A Thrilling Closed Circle Mystery Series

by Tikiri Herath

  “Yeah, I know,” said Katy, her voice low. From the rearview mirror I could see she was trying to hold her tears back. “No, it’s just my hair. I look very different now. It’ll grow back, I guess, but I look awful.”

  There was a long pause as Peace talked at the other end.

  “I know, sweetie,” said Katy, finally, her voice breaking up. “I love you too.”

  I glanced at the rearview mirror to see tears roll down her cheeks.

  Something caught in my throat. Next to me, I heard an audible sigh of relief from Tetyana. I felt my shoulders relax as I turned my attention back to the road.

  After talking with Chantelle for another ten minutes and telling her and Peace she was coming home, Katy hung up.

  Silence echoed in the car.

  No one spoke for the next little while.

  In the back, Katy was wiping her eyes, and trying not to sniffle too loudly. I wanted so badly to turn around and give her a big hug, but I knew she liked her privacy and would tell us everything at the right time.

  “So,” I said after a few minutes. “Do I drop you off at home, Katy?”

  From the rearview mirror I saw her nod.

  “Yeah.” She was trying hard to sound nonchalant when I could hear the strong emotions bubbling inside of her. “I miss them so much,” she said, her voice trembling. “I feel so bad for leaving them.”

  “Oh, honey,” I said. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Besides, you needed some time away, and it was important to let Peace know how you felt, right?”

  “Relationships aren’t easy,” said Katy, blowing her nose in a tissue. It seemed like she was talking to herself more than us. “It takes so much work some days, you know?”

  Tetyana and I nodded.

  “He said he’s not going to bring work home anymore. And we’re going to get back to our Friday date nights. We stopped last year and I don’t think that helped. I really missed them.”

  “That’s wonderful news,” I said. “See? It turned out all right.”

  “I hate fighting though,” sniffed Katy.

  “David and I get into fights too,” I said. “Once I was so mad at him I told him to get his own apartment, but we talked and made up before we went to bed.”

  “I guess the trick is to listen,” said Katy, wiping her nose. “I suck at listening. I don’t let him get a word in when I’m mad.”

  “That’s what I like about you,” said Tetyana, turning around with a grin and punching Katy playfully on her knee. “You can be a firecracker when you get pissed off.”

  “Nothing wrong with getting mad when you feel like someone wronged you,” I said. I smiled at my friend through the rearview mirror. “I think you did the right thing. You have to say what you feel or you’ll end up miserable. You guys will work through this. I know you will.”

  Katy smiled back.

  “This is why I never put up with long-term relationships,” said Tetyana, shaking her head. “Marriage is definitely not for me. All this communication stuff and working things out before going to bed is all well and good, but I don’t have that kind of patience.”

  “As long as you’re happy,” I said, “that’s what matters.” I paused, wondering if this was a good time to ask a question we were all dying to have answered. “Hey, so who are you seeing these days?”

  Tetyana turned to me, a stern expression on her face. “If I tell you, I’d have to kill you.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re dating a spy again,” said Katy.

  “I never said that.”

  “Sometimes I feel like you treat dating like you’re fighting a war.”

  “Different strokes,” said Tetyana with a shrug.

  “Come on,” I said. “Stop stalling. Who are you dating these days? Are you ever going to tell us?”

  “Look, I don’t want to have to bring them over for dinner, make small talk and pretend to be lovey dovey. That’s not me. I don’t want to do any of that.”

  “Can you at least tell us his name?” asked Katy.

  “Or her’s, if it’s a her,” I said. “We love you either way, you know that, don’t you?”

  Tetyana sighed.

  “Would you two stop making such a fuss.” She pointed at the GPS monitor on my dashboard. “Look, you were so busy probing into my love life, you forgot to take the ramp.”

  “Oh, shoot,” I said, signaling and moving over to the right lane. “I’ll take the next one.”

  “You’re changing the topic, Tetyana,” said Katy from the back.

  “Am not,” quipped Tetyana.

  “Are too.”

  I listened to the banter between my friends, one eye on my GPS, glad we were finally heading home.

  THE FIRST THING WE did when we returned to our neighborhood was to drop Katy off at her house.

  Tetyana and I waited in the car and watched Peace fling open the door and embrace Katy.

  Archie, their three-year-old golden retriever, dashed out the door, almost knocking them over. He whirled in excitement around the front yard, barking indiscriminately at an imaginary squirrel or the other. Chantelle shot out soon after and skipped around her parents’ legs, laughing and giggling to herself.

  “I’m so glad they’re together again,” I said, a sense of immense relief wash over me. I felt my eyes well up.

  “They were never going to break up for good,” said Tetyana. “You worry too much, Asha.”

  I watched Katy and Peace silently, thinking there was truth to that old saying. Sometimes, a bit of distance can make the heart grow fonder.

  “They’ll be fine,” said Tetyana, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s leave them be.”

  I rolled down the window and waved.

  “See you all tomorrow!” I hollered and blew them a kiss. “Love you!”

  Chantelle let out an excited shriek and waved madly. She made a move to run toward the car, but Katy held her back, smiling. With a happy sigh, I rolled back on the road and Tetyana and I waved out the window till we turned the corner.

  I was going to miss my friend.

  For almost two weeks, Katy had been staying at my home, in our guest bedroom. I hadn’t wanted to interfere, but I’d fervently hoped Peace and her would make up and rediscover the love they’d found so long ago in the middle of one of our crazy missions, traveling across East Africa.

  “It feels like forever, doesn’t it?” I said, turning to Tetyana. “Since we were running around in Peace’s open Jeep across the savannas?”

  She leaned back in her seat. “Those were the days,” she said. “We were brash, foolish, and young.”

  I jabbed her with my elbow.

  “Oi, we’re still young,” I said, giving her a side glance. “Young enough to hook up with hot guys every week.”

  “Hot? Who said hot?”

  “I know you. You’d never go out with anyone who’s not ripped, toned, and looks like a cover model for a muscle and fitness magazine. Am I right or am I right?”

  Tetyana smiled, but didn’t say anything.

  I dropped her off at her apartment and turned around to head back to my own house, only a few blocks away.

  I parked the car and walked up the steps to my small brownstone home. The door banged open before I could get to the top of the stairs. David jumped out and picked me up, without even saying hello, and twirled me around.

  “David,” I said, laughing. “Put me down.”

  Instead of answering me, he pulled me in for a kiss. I don’t know how long we stood at our doorway kissing, but I pulled back realizing we were in full view of all our neighbors.

  “This is very nice, but my suitcase is still in the car,” I said, snuggling up to his chest.

  “I’ll get it for you later,” he said. “But right now, I made dinner for us. I’ve been cooking all day.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. I was the officially trained chef in the family. David usually stuck to making sandwiches, soup, and coffee.

  “You? You were cooking all day?�
�

  “Better believe it. I tried something from one of your Chef Pierre recipe books.”

  “Chef Pierre? Honey, are you feeling all right?”

  “Yeah, why?” said David, looking slightly offended. “Don’t you think I can do it?”

  “No... it’s just that... that’s serious gourmet cuisine.”

  “Give me a chance, will you?”

  I sniffed the air. “Whatever you did does smell good.”

  With a grin, he pulled me inside and closed the door behind us.

  My jaw dropped as I saw the dining table in the corner of our open living room.

  He’d set it with our finest cutlery and dishes and my best blue table cloth. A champagne bottle sat patiently in a silver bucket filled with ice, next to a vase filled with baby white roses. Set around the room, on the coffee table, dining table, and window sill, were small glass candle holders with lit candles.

  “Sweetie, this is beautiful,” I said, taking it all in.

  Suddenly, a jolt of worry went through me.

  “What’s the date today? It’s not our anniversary, is it?” I said, feeling my stomach sink. “It’s not my birthday, and it’s not yours either. Oh, my god, did I miss our anniversary?”

  David pulled out a chair and grinned. “It’s a new day I made up.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s our I-wish-you-didn’t-go-on-dangerous-missions-but-I’m-glad-you’re-home-in-one-piece-and-now-we’re-gonna-have-an-awesome-evening day.”

  I laughed and took my seat.

  “That’s a mouthful,” I said, turning around to kiss him. “I’ll take it though. Should I have brought a bottle of wine or something for the celebration?”

  “You just sit right there,” said David, turning around and walking into the open kitchen. “I’ve got everything.”

  The smell of something delicious wafted from the oven. I didn’t smell anything burning. Maybe he had a special talent for cooking, after all.

  The candles on the table winked at me.

  For one blissful moment, I forgot about my worries and constant speculations of where Madame Bouchard would send us next. I took a deep breath in, thinking what a lucky woman I was to have David to come home to.

  READ THE FIRST CHAPTERS of the next Merciless Murder Mystery Thriller and find out what Asha and Katy confront next - right here!

  MERCILESS GAMES - CHAPTER ONE

  “It’s spooky here,” said Katy. “I don’t like this.”

  “It’s just a short trip,” I said.

  “Famous last words,” she said, making a face.

  Though I didn’t let on, my gut was churning.

  Go home, it warned me. Turn around now.

  But I was ignoring all the red flags, doing my best to pretend everything was just fine.

  It was early afternoon, but the sky was already gray and the clouds hung stiflingly low.

  I was glad we’d ditched our city dresses and heels for more sensible and layered hiking attire and flat boots.

  A storm was coming. The swells rushed in, crashing furiously on the rocky shore. The howling wind whipped everything into frozen icicles and the seagulls screeched as they got whisked up by the strong currents.

  I brushed the long hair strands off my face, wondering about my crazy decision to come here and invite my BFF to join me.

  “Maybe they made a mistake, Asha,” said Katy, as if reading my mind. She took out the crumpled photo from her pocket. “Maybe this wasn’t meant for us.”

  “They paid up, and they were generous, weren’t they?” I said, pushing my fears to the back of my mind. “It had to be for us.”

  But it hadn’t been an ordinary order for an ordinary cake.

  I knew it as soon as I saw the gruesome image.

  The unsigned message that had popped into my bakery’s inbox four days ago had come with something extra.

  A photograph of a dead man. A naked corpse on a desolate beach.

  A shudder went through me as I stared at the picture in Katy’s hand.

  The sand dunes and cactus in the background reminded me of a remote area I’d been to before. One at the Mexican border where only outlaws dared to go.

  It was this photo that brought Katy and me to this small town of Trembling Cypress Bay, off the Oregon coast. It was a place so remote it felt like the end of the world.

  We were waiting for the next ferry on the town’s fishing jetty, trying not to get soaked by the ocean spray crashing around us.

  Underneath the muddy water near the pier, long strands of dark green kelp waved madly, like those wacky inflatable air dancers you find at county fairs.

  It was like even they were warning us to stay away.

  I pulled the jacket zipper up to my neck and curled my toes in my boots. The humidity on the West Coast soaked right into your bones and, I swore, chilled your blood.

  We were a long way from home and our upscale New York bakery.

  “When someone promises a weekend at an exclusive resort, I expect Laguna Beach or Cancun,” grumbled Katy, “not a dinky little fishing village in the middle of nowhere.”

  She poked me with her elbow.

  “If they lied about this, how do we know they’re not lying about everything else?”

  She was right.

  I had no idea what to expect.

  Minutes after we got the cake order, they, whoever they were, sent a ten-thousand-dollar retainer. An electronic transfer from an anonymous payee, explained our bank.

  Who pays that much money for a Dulce de Leche cheesecake?

  Then came the message.

  We were to hand-deliver the cake to a luxury retreat on an island off the Oregon coast. Another twenty thousand dollars would be ours if we served the cake for dinner the first night and stayed the complete weekend at the resort.

  The signature line simply said, The Host, a friend of Madame Bouchard.

  That, I knew, was a call for help.

  I could use thirty thousand dollars to expand the Red Heeled Rebels bakery and buy my chef team a set of new industrial-strength mixers. All I had to do was serve my cheesecake and stay the weekend at a resort? That would be the fastest money I’d ever made.

  Of course, I said yes.

  The money was nice, but as I stood on this remote ocean front at the other end of the country, I felt a knot forming in my stomach like those kelp strands under the sea tangling into a gnarled mess.

  My mind swirled with unanswered questions.

  Why did they invite us? What did this exclusive island retreat in Oregon have to do with the photo of a dead man?

  I wondered if I was going to regret my decision to come.

  MERCILESS GAMES - CHAPTER TWO

  “Look!” said Katy, pulling on my arm.

  I spun around.

  “It’s the island,” she whispered.

  The fog was lifting in the distance, and a small black speck appeared on the horizon.

  We stood in awe, watching the ghostly landscape unfold in front of us.

  “Coffin Island,” I whispered to myself as the eerie isle shimmered in the distance.

  “Creepy,” whispered Katy.

  There had been very little information about the island or the retreat online. From what we’d dug up, the only structure on that rocky islet was a hundred-year-old lighthouse that was no longer in operation.

  My mind buzzed as I speculated on where we’d sleep that night. In a tent? On the ferry boat?

  But I kept those thoughts to myself.

  My best friend, Katy, was a big city girl who loved her heels and designer bags. She had been expecting to stay at a five-star luxury resort with white-gloved service.

  I had warned her.

  Our destination was a remote part of untamed Oregon. Not the celebrity-studded, sunny southern beaches of California. While she was having second thoughts now, the lure of a mysterious luxury retreat had been too tempting for her to stay away.

  But it was too late to turn back now.


  Still, she was no stranger to adventure and had that photograph of the bloated dead man tucked in her jacket pocket. It was our only clue to whatever we were going to encounter on that island.

  Katy and I had taken a nonstop red eye from JFK and landed in Portland the day before.

  We’d driven over in a rental car to the lone village along the coast with the only working ferry to the island, our final destination.

  Ferry was a big word for an unimpressive boat.

  It was an antique fishing skiff that smelled of dead fish and looked like it would capsize any moment. It was docked at the end of the jetty now, lurching back and forth so alarmingly, I was surprised it hadn’t hit the piles and shattered into pieces already.

  Mike, the ferry operator, was the strong and silent type.

  Within seconds, he made it clear he didn’t like city folk. He didn’t have to say anything. The ugly scowl he shot our way when we approached him told us everything.

  Mike wore a frayed captain’s hat, dirty brown dungarees, and black rubber boots that sloshed when he walked. He communicated through impatient hand gestures and intermittent grunts, which meant we had to do most of the talking while he nodded or shook his head.

  All we knew was we were waiting for two more people before the ferry would take off.

  I stood at the edge of the pier and stared at the Pacific Ocean frothing in front of me, wondering what Madame Bouchard had planned for us now.

  Most people knew me as the celebrity New York baker. Very few knew I moonlighted as a private investigator.

  Because my former client, the now deceased Madame Bouchard’s, reach had been far and wide, I never knew from where I’d receive these calls for help. Some days, I wondered if she was scheming from beyond the grave.

  The information I got was always sparse. Part of my sleuthing included uncovering as much about the person who summoned me as the problem that needed tackling.

  These calls usually came from one of her upper crust friends at the most unexpected of times. It was either a request to solve a cold case, an appeal to uncover a concealed truth, or a plea to find a missing family member.