Fourth Victim (Writers Retreat Southern Seashore Mystery Book 4)

by Kathi Daley

  “That’s correct. As I said, I found some anomalies that didn’t add up. Unfortunately, the case wasn’t mine to investigate, and the FBI concluded Mrs. Kettleman was, in fact, killed by the same monster who murdered the other girls.”

  “We’re still trying to get a handle on exactly what happened, so maybe it would be best if you could give us an overview of what you remember about Frannie, her death, the Strangler; really anything at all,” I suggested.

  “I didn’t know her prior to her death. From my research, I know she was staying out at the resort while her husband was overseas. By the time Mrs. Kettleman’s body was found in the cemetery, the FBI was already knee deep in an investigation into whoever had killed and displayed the bodies of three other victims. While I wasn’t officially involved, I spent some time looking in to things to assuage my own curiosity. My findings were less than conclusive but, I think, interesting.”

  “You mentioned when last we spoke that the rose left with Frannie’s body had thorns, whereas the ones left with the other victims were thornless,” I prompted to get him on to information we hadn’t already discussed. “What other anomalies did you find?”

  “There were four things other than the roses. All the women identified as victims of the Strangler were unmarried except for Mrs. Kettleman. Additionally, all the other women frequented bars and clubs and were known to leave with a different man every night. According to Mrs. Hanford, who I spoke with after Mrs. Kettleman’s body was discovered, the woman who rented her cabin was a quiet woman who usually stayed in after dark. And, finally, it appeared to me that Mrs. Kettleman was hit on the head with a solid object before she was strangled. In my opinion, she was attacked and fought back. I can’t know for certain, but it seemed to me the blow to the head caused her to pass out. I believe she was strangled while unconscious.”

  I glanced at Jack. Clara had made a point about a serial killer not being willing to deviate from his or her routine even to the smallest degree. Knocking your victim out before you killed her was a huge deviation in my book. “You said there were four things other than the rose…?”

  “The mark on the women who fell victim to the Strangler. Like the other twelve women, Mrs. Kettleman bore a pentagram. Unlike the other twelve women, however, Mrs. Kettleman’s was carved into her shoulder with a thin-bladed knife. The mark in the skin of the other victims had been carved by a much thicker knife.”

  I frowned. “That sounds significant.”

  “It seemed so to me as well, but when I pointed it out to the FBI agent who was conducting the investigation, he pointed out that no one other than the Strangler and law enforcement even knew about the mark. Keep in mind, Mrs. Kettleman was just the fourth victim and, at that time, the most recent. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that something happened to the Strangler’s knife of choice between victim three and four. It wasn’t until later, after the data was available on all the victims, that the difference in blade became apparent.”

  “If Frannie was killed by a copycat, how could they have found out about the mark in the first place?” Jack asked.

  “The mark was a well-guarded detail, but it’s possible one of the FBI agents let it slip, maybe while having a beer with a buddy. It’s also possible someone involved with the case killed Mrs. Kettleman. Stranger things have happened. Additionally, everything was recorded on paper and kept in files back then. It’s even possible one of the investigators left the file on his desk and someone—a janitor or a secretary—took a peek. Stuff gets leaked all the time. I was surprised the FBI put so much weight on that single fact.”

  I thought it strange as well, and I could tell by the look on Jack’s face that he was beginning to have serious doubts about the validity of the initial investigation. Not only did we have the thorny rose, but Frannie had fought back and was married, even if she hadn’t been faithful.

  “Is there anything else that stood out to you as significant?” I asked.

  “Not really. I’ve given considerable thought to the case, and while some of the deviations are slight, taken as a whole, I feel they’re significant.”

  “I agree.” I paused before changing the subject. “As long as we’re here, is it all right if I ask you about something else?”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  “It has to do with Secret Santa.”

  Ned looked surprised. “What about him?”

  “I’m working on an article about his good deeds. If you look at some of the gifts, they’re really amazing. My editor would like a side interview with Santa himself, but I’m having a hard time pinning down exactly who’s been providing the annual Christmas miracle.”

  “If you’re wondering if I know, I don’t. The whole thing started twelve years ago, when a family lost their home in a fire. In the years since, there’ve been other recipients, all local people in need.”

  “I know the gifts vary widely from a building to house an animal shelter to a new motorized wheelchair for a man who suffered a spinal injury in an accident. Do you have any idea how Santa chooses the recipient of his annual gift?”

  Ned shrugged. “No. You’d have to ask him.”

  “I’d like to, but I don’t know who to ask. I know you said you didn’t know who was providing these special gifts each year, but if you had to guess, who would you choose?”

  Ned stopped to think about it. “I guess I’d have to say Evan Paddington.”

  “And who’s he?” I asked.

  “He used to be the fire chief at the local station. His father passed away fifteen or so years ago, leaving him a wealthy man. The first Secret Santa gift was made a few years later. I imagine Evan felt bad he couldn’t help save the house that burned down and decided to help the family out.”

  “That makes sense. But why would he continue to provide Christmas miracles?”

  “Maybe he realized how good giving felt.”

  That made perfect sense.

  We thanked Ned for his time and promised to keep him up to date on our progress. Then we made a mad dash through the pouring rain to Jack’s car. Our next interview was with the librarian at the time Frannie died. We’d been told Frannie was a voracious reader, so we hoped this woman would be able to tell us about her personality and personal life.

  ******

  The library on Gull Island was small, with only a limited number of books, but it seemed to be a popular place to hang out on a rainy day and therefore was crowded when we arrived. Even though Edna Turner had long since retired, it was the library where she’d suggested we meet. After getting a look at the number of cars in the parking lot, I found myself hoping we’d be able to find a quiet place to chat.

  “We’re here to see Edna Turner,” I said to the woman behind the counter as soon as we entered the cozy building.

  “You really are Jackson Jones,” the woman gasped when she looked up from the book she was checking in. “When Edna said she was meeting Jackson Jones, I thought she must be off her meds.”

  “I just go by Jack on the island.”

  “Well, just Jack, it’s a real pleasure to meet you. Would you mind signing my book?”

  “You have a book with you?” Jack asked.

  “Actually, I do. Hang on and I’ll get it.”

  She ran into the room behind her and returned a few minutes later with Jack’s newest book. He signed it with a heart next to his name, which seemed to thrill her.

  “Edna’s in the back.” She pointed to the doorway through which she’d returned when Jack handed her back the book. “Just follow that hallway to the end.”

  We thanked her and followed her directions. Edna was sitting at a long table that looked as if it were used for staff meetings and lunch breaks. Jack had spoken to her on the phone but hadn’t met her in person yet, so we took a minute to introduce ourselves before jumping in with questions.

  “I didn’t know Frannie outside our relationship as librarian and reader, but she struck me as being quiet and introverted,” Edna began. �
��I knew she was living at the resort and she often spoke of how cute her landlord’s son was and how much she enjoyed spending time with him. I’m not sure what interests she might have had outside books, but she was a voracious reader and came in here several times a week to exchange one armload of books for another.”

  “Did she seem to have a reading preference?” I asked.

  “Mostly romance. We had that in common. She liked a good mystery as well, and toward the end she seemed to be interested in books on childrearing. I remember thinking at the time that spending time with the Hanford boy had gotten her thinking of having a child of her own.”

  “Did Frannie ever talk to you about the people she spent time with?” I asked.

  “Not specifically. I saw her around town with Sherry Pierce from time to time. They were about the same age and I believe they were friends. And I know she met Clint Brown for dinner at least once.”

  “Clint Brown. That name sounds familiar,” Jack said.

  “Clint still lives on the island. He used to be a real estate agent, but he’s retired now, of course.”

  “Do you know why Frannie had dinner with him?” I asked.

  “I imagine to discuss real estate. Frannie mentioned on occasion that she hoped to get her husband to agree to settle down on the island when he returned from overseas.”

  “Did Frannie ever mention someone named Paul?” I asked.

  “No, I don’t believe so. It’s been a long time, but the name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  Jack asked her about the bars, clubs, and other venues frequented by the island’s young adults at the time of Frannie’s death, while I tried to decide whether to ask her about Max. I definitely didn’t want to make it sound as if I suspected he was cheating on his wife with Frannie, but it would be useful to know if he was still living on the island then. Finally, I asked the question.

  “I can’t be sure, but it seems to me that Max left right around the time Frannie was living here. I think he was gone by the time she was murdered, though I seem to remember seeing them together at the resort a time or two.”

  “Did you visit the resort often?” I asked.

  “Not really, but I had a friend who stayed there for a long weekend every few months, and I stopped by to see her a few times while she was there.”

  “Is your friend still alive?” I wondered.

  “No. Betsy went to be with the Lord more than twenty years ago.”

  I decided against showing Edna the photo of Frannie and the man embracing. She didn’t seem to have known Frannie on a personal level and I hated to start a rumor even if the subject of it was long dead. If Frannie had been involved in an intimate relationship with someone on the island, chances were her good friend Sherry would have the knowledge we sought.

  “Before we go, do you mind if I ask you a few questions about Secret Santa?”

  Edna’s entire persona softened. “There isn’t a more caring person on earth. Talk about a warm heart and a genuine soul.”

  “So, you know who Secret Santa is?” I asked.

  “Well, no, not the identity of the person who has helped out so many people in need. But I don’t have to know. I can tell by the acts of kindness that a truly special soul is in our midst. Do you know, we almost lost the library six years ago? The funding had dried up, and although the staff all agreed to cut back on their paid hours and volunteer to make up the shortfall, there was a mortgage on the building we couldn’t pay. Secret Santa’s gift that year was to pay off our loan in full. Not only were we able to keep the library open but the staff was able to continue collecting paychecks.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s really something.”

  “It really is.”

  “So Secret Santa must be rich.”

  “Yes, I imagine he must be.”

  “Can you guess who it might be?”

  Edna shook her head. “No, I don’t, and even if I did, I wouldn’t say. Secret Santa is secret for a reason, and I, for one, intend to honor the wish of this truly special person to remain anonymous. I know you newspaper types like to go digging around in every little secret, but there are some that are best left untold.”

  Chapter 4

  “What now?” I asked Jack as we left the library and returned to his car.

  “I was thinking of stopping by the seasonal store to pick up some decorations. I did a quick inventory last night and it seems I have a lot less to work with than I thought. It’ll be a wet errand with the rain, however.”

  “That’s okay. I’m already pretty wet. We can stop by the resort so I can get some dry clothes before we head to your place.”

  “Or,” Jack countered, “we could just toss your things in the dryer once we get to my place.”

  “And what would I wear while I’m waiting for them to dry?” I lifted one brow.

  “Preferably nothing, but I have a robe you can borrow if you prefer.”

  I couldn’t quite prevent the heat that rose to my face. Being intimate with Jack was something I was still getting used to.

  “As long as we’re out and about, do you mind if I call Evan Paddington to ask if he’s willing to speak to us?”

  “If you must.”

  “I think at this point I must. I know you aren’t convinced I should even be trying to unmask Secret Santa, but it’s a good story I think should be told.”

  “I suppose that’s a matter of opinion, but I respect your role as an investigative reporter, so if you want to continue the search I’m here for you.”

  I grinned. “Thanks. Identifying Secret Santa will make the difference in my ability to sell my story. After we meet with him we can buy the decorations, head to your house, and then decide what to do next.”

  Jack winked. “Sounds like a plan.”

  As it turned out, Evan didn’t pick up when I called, so I left a message letting him know I was interested in speaking to him, and then we headed to the holiday store. The brightly lit shop was packed with people stocking up on lights, garlands, and Christmas accents, just as we were. While everything I did with Jack felt special in its own way, there was something magical about pushing baskets side by side as we walked up and down each aisle, selecting the perfect decorations for both his house and the one at the resort. I hadn’t had a lot of relationships that lent themselves to everyday tasks like shopping and decorating, and for the first time it struck me just how much fun I’d been missing out on.

  “White or colored?” Jack held up two packs of Christmas lights.

  “For?” I asked.

  “The tree.”

  “While either would look nice, personally, I think white lights with colorful ornaments would look beautiful.”

  “White it is.” Jack tossed several boxes of lights into his basket. “I figured I’d bring my truck to the tree lot when we do our shift tomorrow. We can get trees for my house and yours. If you want, I can stay to help you get the lights on your tree. Then you can add the ornaments at your leisure.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.” I tossed several boxes of white lights into my basket, just in case. I’d never gotten around to figuring out what Garrett had packed away, but I figured I could use the lights to decorate my room if he had the tree covered. “Putting the lights on will be the hardest part. I thought I’d see if Clara and Victoria wanted to help with the actual decorating. I know Brit’s busy and I doubt the guys will want to do it.”

  “I wouldn’t count George out until you ask him,” Jack counseled. “He seems exactly the sort to enjoy a good old-fashioned decorating party.”

  Jack had a point. George probably would enjoy sipping eggnog while we listened to carols and put ornaments on the tree.

  We got everything we needed for the trees, then headed to the aisle of tabletop décor. I wanted to get some items for my room as well as a centerpiece for the dining table and something for the mantel. By the time we’d found everything we needed I was starving. We’d both dried off while we shopped, so we decided to head to the piz
za place to pick up a pie to take back to Jack’s house. We planned to get started on the Christmasization of his home after we ate.

  The pizza place was festively decorated, much like the rest of the island. As soon as we walked in, I noticed George sitting at a table with Meg Collins, who volunteered at the museum. The two of them had been dating casually for a couple of weeks. George waved us over, so I tapped Jack on the shoulder and nodded in their direction.

  “Would you like to join us?” George asked.

  “We’re just here to pick up some takeout.” I glanced at the clock. “We called it in, so it should be ready in about five minutes, although it’s so crowded today, it might take a while longer.”

  “I think a fair number of holiday shoppers decided to pop in for pizza once the rain started back up,” George commented. “Meg and I were lucky to get a table.”

  “It’s so warm and cozy in here, I don’t blame people for congregating during the storm.” I glanced at Jack. “We don’t want to interrupt you.”

  “Nonsense; have a seat until your order is ready,” Meg invited. “George was just telling me about the interesting case your group has become involved in.”

  “It does seem to be an interesting if not somewhat complicated case,” I responded.

  “I uncovered something that may be relevant,” George said.

  I looked at Jack, who nodded. We both slid into the booth.

  “What did you find out?” I asked, intrigued by George’s comment.

  “I came across an article written by a man named Sam Ringer in 1969. It was published in a small-press magazine that dealt with conspiracy theories and unsolved mysteries and discussed some short stories by a writer using the name Henry Post. It seemed he published one story a month for twelve months in 1965 and 1966. The interesting thing about the series was that the plot of each story mirrored one of the killings credited to the Silk Stocking Strangler.”

  I raised a brow. “So, the stories were published after the Strangler stopped killing. Maybe the author was familiar with the murders.”