The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse: Books 1-3 (The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse Box Sets)

by Nic Saint

  “So what do we do? Knock her about a bit?”

  “Look, it’s very simple,” explained Jerry for the umpteenth time. “This Bell woman is after Dawson same as we are. With me so far?”

  Johnny screwed up his face. Thinking had never been his strong suit. “Yup.”

  “It’s obvious she’s managed to locate the guy, or else she wouldn’t have been able to put him in jail.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So all we have to do is convince her to tell us what she knows…”

  “Can you repeat that?”

  “We need her to spill the beans on Dawson.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  Jerry sagged in his seat. He was feeling weaker by the minute and he was starting to doubt whether he could go through with this thing. From what he’d heard, the Bell woman was a really tough nut to crack, and with his strength fading with every passing minute, he was starting to have second thoughts.

  He hadn’t believed it possible but three days into his fast and he was feeling closer to the grave than ever. A couple more days like this and he wouldn’t even be able to open the car door, let alone squeeze some tough baby like Felicity Bell for information.

  “Are you sure you’re up for this, Jer?”

  “I gotta.” He coughed. “If we don’t get to this Dawson character the boss will have us for breakfast.” He shook his head as a shooting pain lanced his stomach. Amazing how an empty stomach could be so painful. “I’m telling you Johnny, I have half a mind to chuck this whole fast and start eating again.”

  “Don’t do it, Jer,” Johnny told him. “You have to see this thing through. You know how important it is to Marlene.”

  “I know, I know,” he muttered. It was important to Marlene. He didn’t know why exactly, but apparently she thought his bad eating habits from the past posed a serious threat to his life. Smoking, drinking and stuffing his face… If she was to be believed he was at death’s door, the only thing preventing him from keeling over, this crazy fast of hers. With a disgusted groan he opened the glove compartment and took out his gun. “We need to do this now, Johnny,” he croaked. “A couple hours more and I won’t have the strength to pull this off!”

  “Don’t worry, Jer. I got your back,” the big guy said. “We’re in this together, you and me.”

  He bared his teeth, which was his way of smiling. “Thanks, buddy.” Johnny’s words had touched him. To anyone claiming there was no honor amongst thieves and crooks, he always pointed to the fine working relationship he had with Johnny Carew. There was no better friend than the big lug who’d been his trusty companion for the past five years, ever since they’d found themselves employed by Chazz Falcone, the real estate tycoon. And even though they’d never met before, and didn’t have much in common, a fine friendship had sprung up during the long hours they’d spent putting the fear of God into Falcone’s enemies, of which there were many.

  With a supreme effort, he opened the car door and crawled out. After a brief dizzy spell—something which Marlene had told him was absolutely normal and nothing to worry about—he started for the door of Stanwyck Street Number 41.

  “Let’s do this,” he grumbled.

  “Sure thing, Jer. Let’s get this over with,” echoed Johnny.

  They stared up at the building, put their game faces on, and rang the bell.

  Chapter 17

  Rick sat in his car across the street from Felicity’s home, wrestling with his immortal soul. On the one hand he had to admit he really liked the hot-headed young woman who had, several times now, assaulted the physical integrity of his person. At the hospital, when they’d locked lips, he’d suddenly found himself entering a reality much more blissful than his own.

  Even though he might look like a young Paul Newman, his profession had always prevented him from getting into a relationship with any woman. Casual acquaintances? Sure. But since he was always on some assignment in some part of the world, his relationships had always lacked the staying power that is necessary for developing a meaningful bond. And then there was, of course, his aversion to the kind of hard-hearted females that populated his world.

  Felicity Bell, on the other hand, possessed, hidden beneath a layer of pure Kevlar, a tender heart. He’d suspected it from the first, and after the display of compassion she’d shown at the hospital he was now quite sure of it.

  But then had entered the nurse with the revelation Felicity had used his head for skillet practice and he hadn’t known what to think. Here was a girl who violently hit him over the head one minute and gazed lovingly into his eyes the next.

  It was enough to confuse any man and it had certainly confused him. Even to the point that he’d had a few harsh words to say on the subject. The confession, coming so soon upon the first kiss they’d shared—one he’d hoped as they were sharing it would be the first of many—had been quite heart-wrenching.

  Watching her leave the room, her head held high but with that touch of sadness in her eyes, relief had quickly been replaced with remorse. He’d made a mistake, he felt. Had been too quick to point out her faults.

  Hadn’t she apologized while sitting next to him on the bed? Hadn’t she shown regret for the rash act? Of course she had. And how had he responded? By calling her a menace and throwing her out of the room.

  The moment he’d been discharged from the hospital therefore, he’d returned to Stanwyck Street, fully intent on setting the record straight by apologizing profusely and asking her out to dinner.

  And it was then that he saw two familiar figures sidling up to her door.

  Jerry Vale and Johnny Carew were two of Chazz Falcone’s thugs. He should know, for he’d dealt with them before. The moment Falcone had learned about the revealing series of articles he was planning on him, he’d sent Jerry and Johnny round to pressure him into thinking twice about the project.

  The fact that they were in Happy Bays came as no surprise to him, given that Falcone was not a man who gave up easily. But why were they making house calls at Felicity’s address?

  It struck him as sinister, to say the least. Suspicious, even. What was that lovely baker’s connection to a known scum-bucket like Chazz Falcone?

  He’d been working the man’s piece for weeks now, digging up all kinds of dirt on the tycoon, until the call had come from Suggs that his employment had been terminated. When he’d asked Suggs if this termination had anything to do with the Falcone thing, the irascible editor had curtly responded with his patented ‘no comment’, which had practically been an admission that it had.

  No matter. He would rework the series into a hard-hitting book, and after it had reached the number one position on the New York Times bestseller list, he’d have his pick of jobs, he was sure of it. Perhaps even the New York Times itself would come knocking on his door.

  He watched Jerry and Johnny enter Felicity’s cozy little place and frowned darkly. His reporter’s instincts told him something was seriously rotten in the town of Happy Bays and he would get to the bottom of it no matter what.

  He hardened his heart, therefore banishing all romantic notions of Felicity, and replaced them with the barracuda-like determination that had served him so well as a reporter.

  He got out of the car and made his way over to the small strip of land that divided the block of houses from the next. Quickly moving along the path, he found himself gazing down a small stretch of backyards. Calculating which one belonged to Felicity and Alice, he glanced up at the second floor. The curtains hadn’t been drawn and he could see the lithe figure of Alice passing by the window. Bingo.

  Without further ado, he stepped over the small hedge that lined the garden, and took a firm grip on the drainpipe. Heaving himself up without effort, he made his way to the balcony, swung his leg over and pressed his back against the wall. Inching closer to the window, he eagerly placed his ear against the pane, fully intent on finding out all there was to know about Felicity and her suspicious association with Falcone’s men.

  Cha
pter 18

  The moment the bell rang, Felicity couldn’t prevent her heart from jumping up into her throat and hope to surge that Rick, in spite of his misgivings, had found it in his heart to forgive and forget. With a quick flourish, she swung the door wide and found herself staring at two men she’d never seen before. Whatever their qualities, they missed the one ingredient that would have endeared them to her: they were most definitely not Rick.

  “Yes?” she barked, a little peeved. Strange men traveling in twos could, in her estimation, only mean one of two things: either they were traveling salesmen or they’d come to save her soul to Jesus. Either way, she wasn’t in the market.

  “Good evening, Miss Bell,” said the tallest of the two, a sallow-faced man who looked as if he was on the verge of a mental breakdown. “NYPD. I’m Detective Jerry Vale, and this is Detective Johnny Carew. We’re here about Rick Dawson, ma’am. May we come in?”

  Instantly, her mind leaped to the inevitable conclusion: Rick had filed charges against her and now the case was in the hands of the police. Furthermore, the fact that she didn’t know these cops told her he’d filed the charge in New York, and these men had traveled all the way from the big city to conduct the initial interview.

  Her heart sank as she realized that love wasn’t simply dead but was about to bite her in the ass. “Come in,” she muttered brokenly.

  “Could I perhaps use the men’s room?” Detective Vale asked. He was looking sickly and she quickly showed him the way before he barfed all over the floor. His burly companion hovered near the door, taking in the scenery.

  She hurried over to Alice and whispered, “Rick has sent two cops to question me!”

  Alice’s face fell. “Oh, no. How could he do that?”

  Felicity shrugged. “How could he not? You said it yourself. I assaulted him so many times it was the only thing he could do to protect himself from me.”

  “Oh, honey,” exclaimed Alice, clearly upset that the plans she’d been concocting to personally interfere in the budding love affair were now null and void. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Promise me one thing,” Felicity said in a low voice.

  “Anything.”

  “Will you visit me in prison?”

  Alice tsk-tsked at this. “It won’t come to that. I for one will be a character witness and I’m sure others will do the same.” She took her friend’s hand and pressed it firmly. “We won’t let that nasty little fiend Dawson beat you.”

  Felicity’s eyebrow rose. “I thought you wanted me to hook up with him?”

  “That was before he sicced the NYPD on you,” she said decidedly.

  A cough sounded behind her and she saw they’d been joined by the two policemen.

  “Sorry to trouble you,” said Detective Vale.

  “It’s fine. What brings you here, detectives?” she asked, bidding the men to take a seat on the couch.

  “Well, the thing is,” began the sad-looking one, “we’re here because of a complaint we received about a Mr. Richard Dawson. According to my information you’ve had dealings with this gentleman?”

  She frowned. “A complaint about Mr. Dawson?”

  “That’s right.”

  She held up a hand and blinked. “Wait, let me get this straight. You’re not here because of a complaint by Mr. Dawson?”

  “No, we are not,” replied the more robust detective. With his rosy cheeks and ready smile he was the picture of health. Instantly, Felicity’s spirits soared. Rick hadn’t filed charges against her after all. She sent Alice to the kitchen to fetch some refreshments. Within seconds, eager not to miss a thing, Alice returned with a tray of biscuits, what was left over of the strawberry shortcake they prepared that afternoon and cups and saucers for the tea she’d put to boil.

  “Please help yourself,” Felicity said, gesturing to the cake and biscuits. “I prepared them myself. I’m a baker.”

  Detective Vale stared at the cake and biscuits with an expression of dismay, before clearing his throat and giving her the wan look of a man resigned to spend the rest of his days on death row. “I’m on a fast,” he said apologetically. “My wife tells me it’s very important for my health that I don’t take nourishment for twenty-one days.”

  “Oh, you poor man,” she cried. She couldn’t imagine the ordeal he was going through. No wonder he looked like death warmed over.

  “I know,” he sighed, gazing wistfully at the cake and cookies. “It’s mainly the liver. She says I’ve got a fatty liver, and if I don’t do something about it I will be worm food within months.” He shook his head. “It’s only the third day and already I’m feeling faint.”

  Felicity shook her head at the sad tale. It had touched her heart. The mere thought of having to refuse food appalled her. Always having had a healthy appetite herself, the treatment seemed like something only Cruella de Vil could come up with.

  “Oh, do try a piece, Jer!” suddenly cried Detective Carew, visibly moved.

  “But I can’t,” insisted his partner. “Marlene—”

  “Marlene doesn’t have to know!” He dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “My lips are sealed and I’m sure Miss Bell and her friend won’t breathe a word.”

  “She’ll know,” sighed the stricken faster. “I told you already. She can read my tongue.” He looked up, that wan look still prevalent. The man was clearly in the depths. “I ate a nut last night.” He held up a finger. “One single nut, and when I came home she checked my tongue and told me she could tell I’d eaten. There was a white spot on my tongue. It was the nut. Can you imagine what will happen if I eat cake?” He shook his head. “She’ll never let me live it down.”

  Alice, who’d gone to prepare tea, returned with the pot and plunked it down on the table, then proceeded to scoop a big chunk of cake on a plate and hand it to Jerry. She hadn’t heard the conversation and could be readily excused for her insensitivity. Nevertheless, she was surprised when the detective burst into tears.

  The poor man, Felicity thought. The poor, poor man. It was then that she made the decision. Setting her face, she took the plate from Alice and shoved it into Detective Vale’s hands. He stared at it, then at Felicity, confusion etched on his gaunt features.

  “Eat!” she demanded and handed him a fork. “Now!”

  It was a testament to the power of her personality that the man plunged the fork into the cake, tore off a chunk and decanted it into his mouth. Closing his eyes, he chomped down on the freshly baked pastry with relish and before long his face took on an expression of pure bliss.

  He opened his eyes and Felicity was surprised to see tears blinking in them.

  “Thank you, Miss Bell,” he breathed passionately. “You saved my life.”

  Chapter 19

  A bird swooped low over the balcony before settling down on the low wall dividing it from the next-door neighbor’s property. It was a sizable bird, and as Rick stared into its obsidian eyes, he became aware of a sense of foreboding. He swallowed away a lump of uneasiness. Unfortunately, even as he pressed his ear to the glass, no discernible sounds were in evidence, due to this modern obsession with double glazing. Though he could hear the soft murmur of voices, he had no way of knowing what was being said.

  The intrepid reporter, however—and most certainly one employed by the New York Chronicle—always finds a way. It didn’t take long for Rick to discover that the sliding door was unlocked, and after darting a peek through the window and detecting that the coast was clear, he pushed it open, and listened intently.

  For a few brief moments, no words were spoken, and he was starting to wonder if perhaps some connecting door inside the house was closed, when suddenly the world came alive with the sound of voices.

  “Mhhhhhh,” a voice rang out. “This is good. This is great. This is divine!”

  Rick stiffened. He had no trouble recognizing the voice as Jerry Vale’s.

  “I’m glad you like it,” cooed Felicity.

  “Like it? I love it!”

 
; “There’s more where that came from,” Felicity came back, her voice dripping with the desire to please.

  Rick balled his fists, his face working. This was simply too much. It was obvious to him now that Felicity was providing the Falcone goon with favors which could only be described as being sexual in nature.

  “Mh, that’s so good,” Jerry was saying. “You really have a gift, Miss Bell.”

  “Thanks. A lot of people have told me so.”

  “You’re a life saver. A real life saver.”

  “Can I also have some of that?” a second male voice piped up. Johnny Carew.

  “Of course. There’s enough for the both of you,” Felicity breathed erotically.

  A soft whimper escaped Rick’s throat. A man can only stand so much. Here was the woman he loved—yes, loved, dammit, he wasn’t afraid to admit it now—and she was offering sexual favors to the scum of the earth. And here he’d always thought she was a baker.

  He gritted his teeth. Why did he always have to fall for the wrong ones? He’d thought Felicity Bell was different, while she was the worst of the lot.

  “Let me help you with that. You missed a piece.” Felicity’s voice traveled to him on a whisper. The rest of the conversation eluded him, as a thunderclap rent the air, and the downpour to end all downpours proceeded to hit him in the neck. Within seconds, he was soaked to the skin, and with a feeling of dejection, he proceeded to the drainpipe and made his way down. A man can only stand so much and tonight he’d suffered more than any man could be expected to bear.

  As he staggered back to his car, looking like a drowning victim, a few choice words to describe Felicity came to mind. He stepped inside, took out his dictation apparatus and launched into a steady stream of prose on his new favorite topic.