Fourth Victim (Writers Retreat Southern Seashore Mystery Book 4)

by Kathi Daley

  “Anomalies?” Victoria Vance, a romance author who lives the life she writes about in her steamy novels and my best friend, asked.

  “The Silk Stocking Strangler had a signature of sorts. He always abducted his women at night, he used silk hosiery to strangle his victims, and he always chose women who were blond, blue-eyed, and between the ages of twenty and twenty-four. He always left the bodies of his victims in a graveyard and he always posed them lying on their back with their arms across their chest. He also always left a single red rose lying across the victim’s neck.”

  “And does that match what happened to Frannie?” Victoria asked.

  “It does. To the letter.”

  “So why does this Deputy Colton think she may not have been a victim of the Strangler?”

  “Little things, really. For one thing, the Strangler was strong. The women he strangled died quickly, and it appeared he came up on them from behind because none of them had any defensive wounds. Frannie, however, appeared to have fought back. She had a bump on her head and defensive wounds on her hands and arms. While the autopsy didn’t detail any discrepancies between Frannie and the other women, it was Ned’s opinion she died much more slowly than the others, which could indicate the person who strangled her wasn’t as strong or as skilled as the real Strangler.”

  “Did Deputy Colton consider the idea that Frannie was stronger than the other victims and therefore better able to fight back? That could have led the Strangler to be less effective in his attack.” Jackson Jones—Jack for short—a dark-haired, blue-eyed, never-married nationally acclaimed author of hard-core mysteries and thrillers and my current love interest, asked.

  “Yes, he did,” I answered. “That was what the FBI believed. The difference in the killings could even be explained by something as simple as the Strangler being under the weather and therefore off his game. Ned told me that based on the data provided in the report it seemed as if Frannie may even have been knocked out and then strangled.”

  “So she fought back, either fell and hit her head, or her killer hit her in the head, causing her to pass out before being strangled,” George Baxter, a writer of traditional whodunits, summarized. “That seems like a pretty big discrepancy to me.”

  “Ned and I agree. We both feel this case should have been given more attention than it was by the individuals investigating the Strangler.”

  “What else did the deputy have?” Jack asked.

  “Ned also told me the roses the Strangler left were a long-stemmed, thornless variety. The rose left with Frannie’s body was long stemmed and red like the others but not thornless.”

  “Maybe he couldn’t find a thornless rose when he killed Frannie,” Brit speculated.

  “No,” Clara Kline, a self-proclaimed psychic who writes fantasy and paranormal mysteries, countered. “We’ve since learned that serial killers are very methodical. They have a ritual that’s very important to them that must be adhered to exactly if they’re to obtain the emotional satisfaction or psychological relief normally brought to them from the kill. A serial killer wouldn’t simply make a substitution. I think that’s an important clue.”

  “I agree with Clara, but it seems the FBI should have come to the same conclusion,” Jack stated. “Why didn’t they suspect a copycat?”

  “Because of the tattoo,” I said. “The Strangler carved a pentagram on the back of the right shoulder of every woman. The FBI kept that piece of information out of the press, so no one other than law enforcement knew about it. Frannie had the mark on her shoulder, the same as every other

  woman. What I’m asking you to do is help me determine whether Frannie K was the fourth victim of the Silk Stocking Strangler or if she was killed by someone else who used the hype created by the serial killer to try to get away with murder. I know the anomalies are small, but according to Deputy Colton, the FBI determined Frannie was a victim of the Strangler and never considered any other suspects.”

  “Do we have other suspects?” George asked.

  “Not really,” I admitted. “At least not yet.”

  “Were you ever able to identify the man who wrote the letters?” George asked.

  “I’ve been unable to definitively identify him, but Deputy Savage managed to obtain the original FBI report. While the Paul in the letters never gave his last name, the FBI determined Frannie’s husband Tom had a brother named Paul. While we don’t know this for certain, we’re assuming the writer of the letters was Frannie’s brother-in-law. We haven’t been able to track down Paul Kettleman to verify it.”

  “And Tom?” George asked.

  “We’ve been able to confirm that in August 1964 Tom was sent back to the States after suffering a head injury. Five days after he arrived in South Carolina, Frannie was dead. Tom died eleven months after Frannie was murdered due to complications from the head injury he received in Vietnam.”

  “So if the Strangler didn’t kill Frannie, her husband must have done it,” Brit surmised.

  “Maybe. Based on the letters Paul sent, he was concerned for Frannie’s safety when Tom came home, although it may be hard to prove he killed her. We certainly won’t be able to get a confession from him. Still, we do have something to work with. Ned has expressed an interest in working with us should we decide to pursue the case. He has the file he created at the time of the murder, which he feels should be reexamined. Additionally, I’ve gathered the names of several people who still live on the island who knew Frannie when she lived here. I thought we’d speak to them. If we can get a better idea of exactly what was going on in Frannie’s life at the time she was killed, other suspects may begin to emerge. Jack and I have already decided to take a stab at figuring this out. Is anyone else in?”

  The room fell quiet. I decided to give everyone a minute to process what I’d shared with them. It was a lot to take in and a lot of years had passed. This wasn’t going to be an easy case to tackle.

  “Mystery solved, mystery solved,” Blackbeard, my brother Garrett’s parrot, broke the silence.

  I laughed. “It looks like Blackbeard’s in.” I looked at the large bird. “I guess I should have asked you if you had anything to add.” Blackbeard had been instrumental in solving mysteries in the past, although he most definitely hadn’t been living at the resort when Frannie had. I doubted he was even alive, though parrots could live eighty or more years and I had no idea how old he was, so I supposed it was possible. Garrett had told me that he’d found Blackbeard, or more accurately, Blackbeard had found him. Garrett had been near the beach when Blackbeard flew up and landed on his shoulder. They’d been friends ever since.

  “The solution to this mystery isn’t going to be that easy,” Brit joined in. “You all know I’m involved in the local production of A Christmas Carol, which runs from December 20 to December 22. We have an aggressive rehearsal schedule until then, so I’m not sure to what extent I can help, but I’m happy to if I can. My specialty is really social media and I don’t think that will come into play in a fifty-year-old case, but if you need me to research anything, just holler.”

  “Thanks,” I responded. “I appreciate that.”

  Alex spoke next. “As you know, I’m pretty busy trying to finish my book on Trey Alderman, but if you need something specific, just ask.”

  “I have some time,” George said. “I’m digging into my books, but I can do some research on the Strangler. It does seem like an interesting case.”

  “Great; thanks.” I smiled.

  “You know I’m in,” Vikki said, jumping onto the bandwagon. “I’ve been captivated by Frannie’s story since you first showed me the letters. I think we can depend on help from Rick as well.” Vikki was referring to Deputy Rick Savage, the acting deputy in charge on the island and Vikki’s current love interest. “We’ve discussed the matter a few times and I can tell he’s intrigued.”

  “And I as well,” Clara voiced. “You can’t help but wonder what really happened to that poor woman. I’ve been meditating on the neck
lace you found with the letters and I think I’m close to establishing an emotional link with her spirit.”

  “Okay. Let’s decide on a date so whoever’s available can get back together. Jack and I have interviews set up for the next two days and then we’re working at the tree lot on Wednesday afternoon. How about Thursday or Friday?”

  “Friday evening works best for me because we don’t have rehearsal then,” Brit said.

  “I can do Friday,” Vikki seconded.

  Everyone else agreed, so we set Friday evening at six for our next meeting. I volunteered to make dinner. George requested lasagna and Clara wanted garlic bread, so it seemed we had our menu.

  “I think that went well,” Jack said as Clara headed upstairs and everyone else left for their cabins.

  “I feel really drawn to this case. It’s just so tragic. Whether Frannie was murdered by a serial killer or someone she knew and possibly loved, she was still just twenty years old. Twenty is much, much too young to have your life stolen from you.”

  Jack put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. “We’ve got a solid starting place and, I feel, a very good chance of finding out what really happened to Frannie.”

  “You sound optimistic.”

  “You know me: Jack Optimistic Jackson.”

  I smiled. “I do rather love that about you. So, where should we start?”

  Jack removed his arm from around me and took a sheet of paper from his pocket. “Here are the interviews for the next two days. I’m between novels, but I do have a paper to run, so I thought I’d work in the mornings and we could sleuth in the afternoons. We won’t have a lot of time on Wednesday; we’re supposed to be at the tree farm at four.”

  “What do we have tomorrow?”

  “I know you spoke to Ned Colton on the phone, but I thought we should get a look at his file and maybe pick his brain a bit. I made an appointment to meet him at his home at one o’clock. I can pick you up at noon and we could grab a quick lunch first.”

  “That sounds good. Anyone else tomorrow?”

  “Edna Turner. As you know, she was the town librarian at the time Frannie was murdered. When we spoke on the phone she told me that Frannie was an avid reader who came in to the library often. Edna expressed what seemed to be genuine grief over Frannie’s death and indicated she was willing to help however she could. She seems to know a lot of people and I’m hoping she’ll give us some additional leads. We’re meeting with her at three o’clock. I thought we could go back to my place after that. I seem to remember you mentioning a willingness to help me decorate the place for the holiday.”

  “Sounds like fun. I think I may start decorating the resort tomorrow morning as well. As for tomorrow night, let’s do pizza. I’ve been craving a good pizza for days.”

  “It’s a date.” Jack leaned over and gave me a quick kiss on the lips.

  “And what does Wednesday look like?”

  “I’ve made two appointments for the early afternoon. We’re seeing Sherry Pierce, who was a friend of Frannie when she lived on the island, at noon, and Roland Carver, who was the mayor at the time of the murder, at two o’clock. After that we’ll need to head to the tree lot for our shift.”

  “I can’t wait to get started.”

  After Jack left I grabbed a sweater and went out onto the patio. It was a clear night and the stars in the sky looked like diamonds on a bed of black velvet. The nights had grown cooler as the days had grown shorter, but I still enjoyed spending a few minutes looking out over the vastness of the ocean before I went to bed.

  I loved the fact that I could hear the sea from my bedroom in the attic. It was calming to let the natural rhythm of the waves lull me to sleep. When I’d first moved to Gull Island from New York, I’d missed the sound of traffic, but now that I’d been on the island for six months the hustle and bustle of the city didn’t possess the same appeal it once had.

  “I see you had the same idea I did,” Vikki said as I walked slowly along the white sand beach.

  “It’s a lovely evening,” I agreed. “I’ll admit the warmer climate doesn’t quite mesh with the idea of Christmas, however.”

  “We should decorate the resort. We can string white lights on the patio and around the eaves of the cabins. The main house will be a bit more challenging, but I’m sure we can get the guys to help.”

  “I’ve been thinking about decorating. I’d love to do a tree in the living room of the main house. There are some boxes of decorations in the spare room. I’ll take a look tomorrow to see what we have. Will you be here for Christmas?”

  “I’m planning to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with Rick. We’re invited to his brother’s for Christmas dinner.”

  “We should have a big dinner here at the resort earlier in the week. Maybe the twenty-third?”

  “Alex is going to the Bahamas on the twenty-third. How about the twenty-second? Brit’s play is wrapping up that night, but it’s an early performance, so she should be done by seven. We can have a late dinner afterward.”

  “I love the idea. I’ll check with the others.” I looked out toward the calm sea. “I think I’ll head in. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “I’m heading out early to meet with my agent. I’ll stop and stock up on twinkle lights while I’m in Charleston. Maybe we can start decorating tomorrow evening. I can’t wait to turn this place into a Christmas fairyland.”

  I went back into the house, locked up, and headed up to my room. I grabbed some pajamas from my dresser and went into my attached bathroom. I changed and washed up, then went back into the bedroom. I was tired and it was late, but for some reason I was oddly antsy. Deciding to watch TV for a few minutes, I dug around in my nightstand for the remote. A piece of paper fell to the floor as I pulled out the remote from the drawer. Leaning over, I picked it up and was about to toss it back in the drawer when I noticed the message, penned with pink ink. It was a reminder I’d made to myself to follow up on a lead I’d been provided regarding a freelance article I planned to write detailing the secret behind a real-life local Santa. Restaurant owner Gertie Newsome had told me about the legend a week earlier and it had immediately piqued my interest.

  It seemed that twelve years ago a fire on the north end of the island had destroyed four homes. Three of them were vacation homes, but the fourth was a primary residence, and the family who lived there had lost everything. The fire had occurred just a week before Christmas, making the pain of loss all that much more acute. The family didn’t have insurance that paid for a temporary rental and it looked as if they might be homeless until an anonymous donor paid for a furnished rental nearby. When the family arrived at their temporary home, not only was the home fully stocked with food, clothing, and other items they’d need, but there was a large decorated tree in the living room with dozens of colorfully wrapped gifts placed beneath.

  The person who’d saved Christmas for this family was never identified and it was assumed the benefactor’s generosity was a onetime thing. The story was mainly forgotten until the next year, when the local animal shelter was about to be shut down due to the loss of their facility, until Secret Santa, as everyone began calling him, anonymously donated an alternate building that was still being used to this day.

  Every year since, a person, family, business, or animal in need had been gifted with their own Christmas miracle. Jack had written a nice article for the local paper, but if I wanted to interest a national publication in the story, I’d need to dig deeper to identify the person behind the legend. My mind played with exactly how I would accomplish this as I drifted off to sleep with a smile on my face.

  Chapter 2

  Tuesday, December 12

  Clara was sipping a cup of tea when I went downstairs the following morning. Her cat, Agatha, was curled up by the fire and looked about as content as a cat could be. “It looks like we’re in for some rain,” I said as I glanced out the window while I waited for my coffee to brew.

  “I heard we’re i
n for at least an inch,” Clara confirmed. “It’s a fast-moving system with a lot of wind, so I expect we’ll be back to sunshine by tomorrow.”

  Given the fact that I had agreed to spend four hours in an outdoor tree lot on Wednesday, back to sunshine was exactly what I was hoping for.

  “I was going to take Blackbeard to visit Garrett this morning, but animals aren’t allowed inside the facility, so I guess I’ll have to postpone.”

  “It’ll be better when he’s home for good,” Clara commented.

  “The last time I spoke to Garrett, he indicated his physical therapy was going well and he planned to spend a week or more with us over Christmas. If that goes well, he plans to speak to his doctor about making a permanent move back to the resort.”

  Clara gazed into the distance as if in a trance. “It’s his home. It’s where he should be.” She blinked and then glanced back at me. I wondered where she went off to when she faded away like that.

  I took a sip of my coffee. “Jack has been working hard to make sure the house is completely accessible to Garrett when he comes for the holiday. We want him to be as independent as possible.” I took a look around the cozy building I now thought of as home. “Vikki and I talked about decorating the resort. She’s in Charleston today and is going to stop to get lights for the patio and cabins. We may have to wait to put them up until the rain passes, but I think it will look lovely when we’re done.”

  Clara’s face lit up. “Oh, I agree. It’ll feel magical.”

  “In the meantime, I thought I’d start with the interior of the main house. Do you want to help?”

  “I’d love to.” Clara smiled. “When I was a girl my mother had a little village she set up every year. The houses had lights that illuminated the interior so you could see the detail inside. I remember sitting for hours looking at that village. I’d make up stories about what the residents of those little houses were up to. Such wonderful memories.”