Champagne Murder: A Frosted Love Cozy Mystery - Book 27 (A Frosted Love Cozy Mysteries)

by Summer Prescott

  “Indeed, I would. It helps seeing the pieces in an actual home rather than in the confines of a gallery space,” he explained.

  “I completely understand. Let’s get started.”

  Missy led the way, followed by the collector, with Kel trailing behind to answer any questions that might come up. He found it odd that Zambala moved through the house looking this way and that, almost as if he had lost something. Assuming that he was merely trying to get a feel for the overall décor, the artist let it go, despite an uncomfortable feeling that something was slightly amiss.

  When the tour of Missy’s art collection was complete, Zambala thanked her politely and took his leave, with Kel trailing behind him.

  “I hope we made a good impression,” Missy whispered, giving the artist a hug.

  “Me too,” he nodded, uncharacteristically serious.

  Chapter 11

  “So, how did your lunch date go?” Missy asked Echo before Kel arrived for coffee.

  “It was nice,” her friend shrugged noncommittally.

  “Nice? What does that even mean? My dog is nice, cupcakes are nice…what was he like?” she persisted.

  “I don’t know. I think I’m so paranoid about meeting so many of the wrong men that I don’t know what to do when one of them seems normal,” Echo replied, sounding mildly exasperated.

  “Hmm…let me think. In your world, “normal” tends to translate to…boring,” Missy raised an eyebrow.

  “You know me too well.”

  “Was he a good conversationalist?”

  “Sort of. He seemed very interested in learning all about me, but when I tried to get him to talk about himself, he was very vague, and then would again make everything about me. It was frustrating – I felt like I was center stage all night. I came home exhausted,” she sighed.

  “Did he kiss you?”

  “I think he wanted to, but I broke out into a yawn at the door, so that kinda killed that,” Echo chuckled, remembering.

  “Did you want him to?”

  “I don’t know. Not really, I guess. I mean, he’s nice enough, but…” her sentence was interrupted by the jangling of the bells at the front door, announcing Kel’s arrival.

  “We’ll table this subject for now,” Missy suggested, picking up the platter of cupcakes for the three of them. “Grab the coffee, please,” she called over her shoulder, heading to their usual table.

  “Got it,” Echo replied, carrying two mugs in one hand and one in the other.

  “So, did things go well with Mr. Zambala after you two left?” Missy asked the artist.

  “It was rather odd, actually,” Kel mused. “He said that he had some things to think about and that he’d get back with me.”

  “He made a trip all the way out here from Europe and he wants to get back with you? That is odd,” Echo frowned.

  “Oh dear, I hope it isn’t my fault. I don’t think that I said anything wrong,” Missy worried.

  “No, my lovely, I’m sure that you didn’t. This collector has been cagey from the beginning. I looked him up on the internet to verify that he was indeed legitimate, and it seems that he is, but I swear, when we were giving him the tour of your home and Carla’s it looked like he was casing the places.”

  “Hmm…like maybe he’s an art collector who builds his collection by stealing artwork?” Echo asked.

  “Doubtful,” Kel shook his head. “He’s much too high-profile for that type of behavior, but he was certainly acting strangely.”

  “Well, artsy people are sometimes a bit…” Missy trailed off, not wanting to offend the other two.

  “Eccentric?” Echo suggested, eyebrows raised.

  “More like loony,” Kel scoffed with a chuckle. “Oh trust me, there are some wacko art people out there. I’ve run into more than my share of them.”

  “Well, we’ll keep our fingers crossed that he’ll actually buy something,” Missy promised.

  “Some transactions aren’t worth the pain involved,” the artist sighed. “Have we learned anything new on the Cora Greitzer case?”

  “No, Chas still isn’t talking about it. What about you? Did you find out anything?”

  “Unfortunately, no. It seems that dear Michael was a bit of a lone wolf. He had acquaintances, but no friends, and many of his acquaintances evolved from his attempts to purchase various…substances.”

  “Poor kid. He chose a rough road,” Echo remarked, shaking her head.

  “One which quite possibly may have led to the demise of his grandmother,” Kel sighed again. “Makes me wonder if he’s in her will…”

  “If he stands to inherit everything, that could be his motive for killing her,” Echo suggested.

  “Wait, we don’t know that he killed her. It could’ve been anybody,” Missy shrugged.

  “True, but you have to admit, he’s looking pretty likely, and now no one can find him…that doesn’t sound like coincidence to me,” her friend replied.

  “It does look pretty damning for the lad,” Kel agreed.

  “Well, we’ll see what Chas comes up with, I guess,” Missy replied glumly, hating to see a young man’s future ruined, even if it was the result of his poor life choices.

  Chapter 12

  Spencer Bengal called his employer, Detective Chas Beckett to let him know that he was taking the Inn’s company car out of state, because he was hot on the trail of one Michael Greitzer. He’d found the drug den where the youth had holed up immediately following the murder, and noted that the grungy young man slept with his backpack clutched tightly to his chest. Clearly there was something in that backpack that he was protecting, perhaps something that would be the key to solving the mystery of who had killed Cora.

  The more that the Marine observed Michael, the more convinced he became that the spineless young man didn’t have the guts to have killed anyone, much less his own grandmother. His character and lack of purpose was glaringly evident in the way that he carried himself, his inattention to even the most basic personal hygiene, and the slouching, shifty way that he moved through life. He rarely looked people in the eye, and when he did, his glance was that of a wounded puppy kicked one too many times.

  The detective had allowed Spencer to track Michael, because once the young man made it out of the state, jurisdictional and extradition issues could get pretty sticky, whereas, if a private citizen somehow managed to compel the young man to return, life would be a whole lot easier for local law enforcement. The Marine tailed the young loner to the bus station, parked across the street from the departure terminals until he saw him board a bus, then followed at a safe distance, stopping when the bus stopped, but staying out of sight.

  Spencer figured that Michael must’ve left town with quite a bit of cash, because he rode the bus, stopping in small, obscure towns to stay overnight on occasion, all the way to Tennesee, where he holed up in a tiny cabin with a woodstove and a hard bunk featuring an inch-thick, vinyl-covered, foam mattress, in a campground, in the middle of nowhere. The Marine watched the youth for a few days, heard his sobs in the middle of the night, saw his abject misery as he sat on the cabin’s tiny front porch during the day, munching on dried meat sticks and processed cheese products that he’d purchased from a convenience store a couple of miles down the road that was only open for a few hours every day.

  On the fourth day, Spencer decided to “check in” to the cabin next door. He knew that if he played it cool and basically ignored the angst-ridden young man, eventually the tortured youth’s loneliness would override his common sense, and he’d seek out Spencer’s company.

  The now scruffy-bearded, long-haired and tattooed Marine kept his head down and shouldered his backpack filled with supplies, trudging to his cabin.

  “Hey man,” Michael said casually as Spencer passed by his front porch.

  “Mornin,” was the grunted reply. He was good at playing hard to get and laying low, he’d been doing it for years now.

  When he got into the cabin, he stowed his food
supplies in the tiny “kitchen” cabinet, and inflated an air mattress that he’d brought, with a battery operated pump. A six-pack of beer weighed down the bottom of his insulated pack, and there was more than enough of a chill in the air to keep it cold if he kept it outside on the porch, where he knew an undeniably thirsty Michael would be able to see it.

  Putting his plan of luring the youth into a confession fully into action, Spencer started a fire on the grill out in front of his cabin, and took a package of hamburger meat, that he’d bought at the convenience store, out of his pack. He finished unpacking the rest of his gear while he waited for the roaring flames to dull down into glowing hot embers, then made four giant patties out of the meat and placed them on the grate over the coals.

  Fat popped and sizzled, releasing the tantalizing smell of cooking meat, and he cracked open one of the cans of beer, taking a swallow and smacking his lips appreciatively, drawing the youth out of his cabin. Spencer pulled a stump of a log next to the grill, and sat on it, sipping at his beer and making it sound delicious, watching Michael’s cabin out of the corner of his eye.

  “Smells good,” the young man called out tentatively, from his porch.

  “Yup,” the Marine replied, not looking at him.

  Michael ventured off the porch and slowly walked toward the grill, his stomach growling audibly.

  “You from around here?” he asked, his eyes never leaving the grilling burgers.

  “Nope.”

  “Me neither.” He stood, arms crossed, staring at the food, looking so spellbound that Spencer almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  The Marine took a beer from the six pack sitting beside him, and held it out toward Michael, still not looking at him. “Want a cold one?” he asked, keeping his gaze on the burgers.

  “More than you know,” the youth sighed, moving forward and taking the offered beverage. He snapped open the top and gulped half the can in a couple of swallows, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and letting out a huge belch afterwards.

  “Thanks, man,” he said, raising the can.

  “Yup,” Spencer replied.

  “Where you from?” Michael asked, squatting down on his haunches beside him, roughly three or four feet away.

  “Everywhere, nowhere…depends on the day,” the Marine drawled, shrugging.

  The youth stared at him. “Those burgers look good,” he commented, not knowing what to make of the muscular, somewhat dangerous-looking man’s response.

  “You can have one, if you’re hungry,” Spencer offered. “I’ve got buns in the cabin.”

  “Oh man, really? That’ll be like, the best food I’ve had in a while. I’ve been living off of snacks from the little store down the road.”

  “Why? I got the hamburger there,” the Marine finally turned to look at him, his face neutral.

  “I just…I don’t know how to cook, or anything,” he admitted, embarrassed. He took another big swig of beer and crushed the empty can in his fist.

  “That went down easy,” Spencer remarked, chuckling.

  “You have no idea how much I needed that.”

  “S’alright man, I’ve been there before,” he nodded. It was true, he had been there. There was a time after he came back from Afghanistan, when Spencer had chosen to self-medicate with alcohol, but the bitter brew didn’t chase away his demons long enough, and dulled his senses, which he couldn’t afford, so now he only drank occasionally because he wanted to, not because he needed to.

  “Gets really quiet out here after a while. You forget what human voices sound like,” Michael sighed.

  “That a bad thing?”

  “Maybe. I’m still trying to figure that out. For now, it’s best that I’m alone, I suppose.”

  “Yeah, why’s that?”

  “Got into some trouble back home, so I’m laying low for a while.”

  “It happens.”

  “Yeah. What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Same thing I do wherever I am,” Spencer answered cryptically, deliberately trying to sound evasive.

  “And what’s that?” Michael persisted.

  “Whatever needs to be done,” was the honest, but sinister-sounding reply. The Marine figured if he painted himself out to be some sort of mysterious outlaw, the naïve young man might be more likely to open up to him. Birds of a feather, that sort of thing.

  “I hear ya,” Michael nodded, not understanding at all.

  Chapter 13

  Carla Mayhew, Missy’s friend and interior decorator, was furious. Despite having a very high-tech home monitoring system, someone had managed to break into her home undetected, and had stolen her client list from the file drawer beside her computer. While she kept the confidential information in her computer, she also liked to have a paper copy handy to refer to at times, and it was now missing. Tapping her foot impatiently, she called 911 to report the break-in, almost hoping that the intruder was still in the house so that she could give him a piece of her mind.

  **

  The phone at the art gallery was ringing off the hook with calls from current and former clients. Echo was busy trying to get to the bottom of a catastrophic mess that had risen up among the collectors in town. Apparently, there had been a rash of vandalism cases, where an intruder had broken in, torn apart pieces of art, and left again, taking nothing with them. Kel was baffled and had called Chas immediately, updating him as more calls continued to come in.

  **

  Echo was puzzled. She hadn’t heard from Brad in days, and she’d been expecting more boxes from her wax chip provider. She called the company whose uniform he’d been wearing when he delivered her boxes and asked to speak with him. The woman on the other end of the phone was confused and stated that they didn’t have anyone by that name working for them.

  “But…he delivered several packages for me last week…and he was wearing a uniform from your company,” Echo protested, rubbing her forehead in consternation.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I wish I could help, but there’s no Brad working here,” the woman said compassionately.

  “Okay…thank you for your time,” Echo mumbled, hanging up the phone.

  **

  Leonid Zambala clutched at his chest when he saw the tattered interior of his exclusive hotel room. Someone had torn the Presidential Suite to shreds, quite literally. His suitcases had been dumped and slashed, with clothing scattered all over the floor. Every sofa and chair cushion had been shredded, along with every painting in the room. He couldn’t imagine who would’ve done such a thing, but he knew one thing for certain, he wasn’t going to stay another day in Calgon, Florida.

  **

  Missy and Chas were having lunch, seated by the pool, when the detective’s cell rang.

  “Beckett,” he answered, swallowing a bite of lobster salad and washing it down with minted iced tea while he listened to the caller.

  “What’s the address?” he took a small notebook out of his shirt pocket and wrote it down. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Bad news?” Missy asked, wishing that her husband would actually get to finish one of his meals at some point.

  “Another homicide,” he said grimly. “Don’t wait up.”

  “Okay, darlin, be careful,” she trailed her hand down his arm as he kissed her and turned to go.

  **

  “Detective Beckett?” a large man with a lantern jaw and steely grey eyes asked, when Chas got out of his car at the scene of Calgon’s latest homicide.

  “Who wants to know?” the detective’s eyes narrowed at the man’s brusque manner.

  “Special Agent Jim Forsher, CIA,” the man flashed a badge in front of Chas, surprising him.

  “Yeah, I’m Beckett. I just got called to the scene, didn’t know this one was federal.”

  “The victim,” Forsher inclined his head toward the mini-mansion behind them, “was a small-time smuggler who got caught up in something and had no idea just how far in over his head he was, until it was too
late.”

  “So, this is a professional hit?” Beckett frowned, upset that there had been smuggling going on in his community and he hadn’t known about it.

  “Not exactly, but I can’t give you any more than that,” the agent was stone-faced.

  “So your guys are taking over the scene and the investigation?”

  “Yep, we’ve got this one.”

  “What kind of support do you need from my department?” Chas asked, wanting to lend a hand, if possible, in what looked like an important case.

  “We’re looking for a handful of players in this one,” Forsher replied. “I’ll send files and photos to your office so you can have your guys keeping their eyes open. I would imagine that anyone involved is already long gone, but on the off-chance that any of them are still hanging around, tying up loose ends, your team should know who we’re looking for.”

  “Sounds good. You need anything more from me right now?”

  “Nope, we’ve got it covered. Thanks Detective.”

  Homes all over Calgon had been broken into and violated, and now the CIA was on the scene of a homicide. Clearly someone was looking for something, and that “something” had to be important. All Chas had to do was figure out what it might be. He headed back to the office and buried himself in research, correlating names, addresses and incidents, while waiting on the files from Forsher.

  Chapter 14

  Spencer Bengal had a productive morning, walking out of the woods to his cabin with two rabbits slung over his shoulder on a tether. He had eviscerated them on the spot, when he found them in his trap, and would finish dressing them out after he started a fire on the grill. Rabbit for breakfast sounded like a fine idea, and he knew that the smell of cooking meat would likely draw Michael out again. He also wanted to gauge the young man’s reaction to seeing him skin and dismember an animal. If his prediction was correct the spoiled rich kid would cringe in horror, and that being the case, it would be highly unlikely that he had killed his grandmother, but he might know who had.