Ring Around the Rosy

by Roseanne Dowell

Could the rose have something to do with the case? Was she in danger?

  “Okay, I’ll keep it.” God only knew what he expected to get off of it. There wasn’t any identifiable card or even florist wrap to help figure out where it came from. Maybe they could get some fingerprints off the rose. She shrugged, tired of second-guessing him.

  She remembered Dave’s kiss and smiled, feeling a little more light-hearted. At least she’d see him again later. He had promised to stop by after his shift. That meant he wouldn’t be working.

  Not that cops were ever ‘not working’, but technically he’d be off duty. Did that make it a social visit?

  She looked at her watch. She’d have to hurry to be on time for lunch.

  Susan did a sweeping glance of the restaurant, ever observant with her writer’s eye for detail. She loved this little place. The quaint antiques mingled with new quilts. The smell of rich brewed coffee wafted up to fill her nostrils, blending with the rich aroma of raspberry and other flavors from the exotic teas.

  The owner had a brainstorm when she combined these three businesses into one. Quilters and antique hunters frequented the little tearoom that sat nestled in the back corner of the long room. Upstairs housed fabric and finished quilts, though some fabrics and quilts were scattered around the shop to entice visitors to explore further. A shop designed for women, the menu featured mostly light fare — soup, salads, and croissant sandwiches, but the food was good, and the pleasant atmosphere made it worthwhile.

  Susan hurried through the shop to the small restaurant. With quick kisses and hugs for her mother and sisters, Clare and Kate, she apologized for her tardiness.

  “So what else is new?” her mother teased while she hugged Susan.

  Susan laughed. Her mother had her there — punctuality wasn’t one of her strong points. Never had been.

  “Actually, you did pretty well today,” Clare said. “You’re only ten minutes late. That must be a new record for you.”

  Susan stuck her tongue out at Clare and sat down. The waitress approached. Still upset about the rose, she only ordered a salad, hoping her mother wouldn’t comment. She was normally a big eater, though she managed to keep a slender figure — a fact Clare never let her forget.

  There couldn’t be more difference in looks and personality between her and her sisters. Forty-year-old Clare, five years older, tan-skinned with strawberry-blonde hair and sea-green eyes, was a little slip of a thing barely five-foot tall. Petite best described her fun-loving sister. Susan stood five-foot-eight in her stocking feet, her height apparently inherited from their father.

  Kate, on the other hand, and only two-years-older, bore no resemblance to either parent. At five-foot-six with beautiful auburn hair, golden-brown eyes, and a body to kill for, Kate could have been a model. Serious-minded, she managed a quilt shop in Freemont, Ohio, two hours away.

  Feeling fortunate if they arranged to get together once a month or so, when schedules permitted, the sisters usually enjoyed their time together. Today probably wasn’t going to be one of those times. Susan couldn’t seem to get her mind off the murder or the rose. She turned her attention back to her sisters.

  Kate never had kids, and Susan suspected her sister still pined after John, who had practically dumped her at the altar. Sad, Kate would have made a great mother, but she threw herself into her work and spoiling her two schnauzers, Rebel and Pepper. Those were Kate’s babies.

  “You’re worried about something, Susan,” her mother said. “I can see it in your eyes.”

  Too deep in thought again, Susan jumped at the sound of her mother’s voice. The eyes again, always the eyes. According to her mother, Susan wore her feelings in her eyes. The woman must be clairvoyant, but maybe it was just a maternal thing. Her mother always seemed to know what her daughters were thinking.

  Susan moved the silverware around on the small table, wondering how much to let her mother know. No point in them both worrying. She would only insist Susan move back home, a frequent argument. Nope, she couldn’t tell her about the phone call. She had to deal with this her own way. Her mother couldn’t fix the hurts anymore, couldn’t make the big bad wolf go away.

  She shrugged. “It’s really nothing, Mom,” Susan finally answered. “Someone stuck a red rose on my windshield, and it has me bothered, th

  at’s all.”

  “A secret admirer, how sweet,” Clare teased in a sing-song voice. “You must have some idea who it is.”

  Susan looked at her sister. It wasn’t like Clare to be so tense. Did her sister know what was going on? Susan didn’t think so, but something was wrong. The sing-songy voice was an act to cover up something. Clare never joked that way, and she usually babbled more. Today she was exceptionally quiet.

  Why hadn’t her mother mentioned Clare’s tenseness? Of course, she might have before Susan arrived. Clare was one of those meticulous people who always took care of herself, make-up just so, hair always in place, but today, she had bags and dark circles under her eyes and deep groove between her brows, a trait they had all inherited from their mother. More than likely, they had already discussed it, and Susan wasn’t privy to the problem for the time being.

  Her mother looked worried, too, and Susan shrugged off her own problem as probably nothing. “Someone probably put it on the wrong car.”

  “Why can’t you be content to write feature stories?” her mother asked for the thousandth time. Plus, she kept hinting about Susan settling down. Susan tried to pacify her, but she still saw the worry lines around her mother’s eyes. She smiled to herself, talk about wearing your feelings in your eyes.

  Kate, as usual, was the quiet one at lunch.

  * * *

  After lunch, Susan kissed them all goodbye and walked around the mall, window-shopping, half-afraid to go home. Taking in the surrounding stores, not really paying attention to the merchandise in the windows, her mind raced as she tried to figure out who could have put the rose on her car. She went through a mental checklist of everyone she knew, but couldn’t come up with a single name.

  Ever watchful of the people around her, to see if she recognized anyone hanging around, stalking her, she didn’t see anyone who looked familiar. After delaying as long as possible, and tired of walking, she did the inevitable and decided to go home. There was going to be another call. She felt it in her bones, and Dave had said, “when he calls again,” not if.

  What kind of man committed these crimes, and why had he chosen to call her? Memory popped into her mind of the bodies, propped up like dolls, their eyes staring blankly into space and the looks of terror on their faces.

  What was it like, she wondered, to stare into a killer’s eyes? Knowing you were going to die and helpless to prevent it. What were their last thoughts? None of the victims showed much signs of struggle, so they must have been familiar with their assailant.

  How did one win a person’s confidence to move in close enough to strangle? Obviously, there must have been an element of surprise. A man must have committed these crimes. A woman wouldn’t have had the strength to overpower the two muscular men.

  And the voice… No woman, no matter how disguised, sounded that harsh or scratchy.

  The police were watching the phone booths around her apartment. Apparently, the caller knew it, because Dave said the last call came from a pay phone several blocks away.

  She went into her apartment, half afraid to look at the answering machine, knowing the message light would be blinking. Bella rubbed against her legs, welcoming her home. She picked up the cat and cuddled her, enjoying the comfort of her soft fur and purring sounds. Holding her close, she hit the play button on the machine. Her aunt’s voice, soft and gentle, invited her to dinner on Sunday.

  Clare’s voice came on next. “Susan, I need to talk to you, please call me back.” Susan laughed. The ever-mysterious Clare.

  Susan breathed a sigh of relief, grabbed the phone to call Clare, sank down into her favorite chair, and turned on the television. She usually lik
ed the quiet, but not today. Today, she needed noise, needed to hear sounds other than her creaky apartment noises. While Clare’s phone rang, Susan caught her name on the TV. She hung up without leaving a message, grabbed the remote, and turned up the sound.

  “Newspaper journalist, Susan Weston, who first broke the story of the nursery rhyme murders, has received several phone calls from the killer.” The newscaster, Jennifer Dunsmore, said, “Is Miss Weston withholding information from her public?”

  Sitting forward in her chair, Susan listened to the report. How...? Where had Jennifer gotten that information? Had Dave or someone at the police department leaked it? Of course, Jennifer didn’t reveal her source for the story. Susan picked up the phone and called Dave. He wouldn’t have leaked that information.

  Would he?

  The only other person that knew about it was Jim Dahl.

  “Dave, how did Jennifer Dunsmore get the information that I’m getting phone calls from the killer? Would Jim Dahl tell anyone?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Just now on the news, Jennifer Dunsmore announced to the world I’m getting phone calls from the killer.”

  “Shit!”

  “So, obviously it wasn’t you. How about Jim?”

  “Jim? No, he knows better than that. Besides, he’s on the inside. Reporters don’t even have access to him.”

  “Reporters have access to everyone.” Susan knew she sounded annoyed, but she didn’t care. Someone had leaked that story. Who was Jennifer’s source? Shoot. Well, it was out, now. Ernie was going to have a fit that she hadn’t told him.

  “Darn! Who else knew about the phone calls?” Susan paced her apartment, walked to the window, and looked out. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The shades. She forgot to pull them again. She yanked the shades with such force, it surprised her they didn’t come off the rollers.

  “Calm down, Susan. I’ll check into it and see you later.”

  “You darn well better check into it. And you darn well better find out who it was.” Susan hung up without saying goodbye.

  Ernie would expect more information now. She had to go public. Her mother was going to hear this story. She picked up the phone and dialed her mother’s number. Better to get it out of the way. Explain it, and hope her mom hadn’t heard it already.

  Of course, she had.

  Surprisingly, her mother took the news far better than Susan imagined.

  “Susan, I just heard the news. Why didn’t you tell me the killer was calling you?”

  “I didn’t want you to worry, Mom. Besides, we weren’t sure if it was him. It could have been a crank caller.”

  “I think you should come home for a while.”

  “You know I can’t do that. Besides, it’s a forty-five-minute ride every day. I hate that drive.”

  It only took her thirty minutes worth of argument, instead of the usual hour-and-a-half, to convince her mother she was safe.

  “Besides, there’s no reason for the killer to come after me”

  “Just be careful, Susan,” her mother said before they hung up.

  Susan felt guilty for being annoyed with her mother, but she was a big girl, now, and had to deal with this on her own. It went with the territory.

  She picked up her laptop and began writing.

  Will The Nursery Rhyme Killer Strike Again?

  Is there a method to his choice of victims? Is there a sequence as to which nursery rhyme he’ll use next?

  The nursery rhyme murderer contacted journalist, Susan Weston after the first murder and warned of a second. Ms Weston doesn’t know why he singled her out. At first, the police thought the calls were cranks, but after two murders, and the nursery rhymes left with each victim, the police have established the calls were, in fact, from the killer. Ms Weston also reported that she couldn’t tell if the voice was a male or female. ‘

  Susan stopped typing, sat back and rubbed her neck. It wasn’t easy to write about yourself in a news story. After a short break, she continued.

  As reported earlier, the only connection between the victims is their ages and their Thayer’s Crossing neighborhood.

  Anyone with information about this case is asked to contact the Second District Detective Bureau 216-500-4444

  She hit the fax button and sent the story to the editor. It wasn’t her best writing, but it was difficult to concentrate. Ernie couldn’t take her off the story now.

  She yawned. Tomorrow she needed to meet with Gloria to do a story on the new Science Center. She curled up on the couch to wait for Dave when the phone rang.

  Chapter Five

  Susan froze, remembering Dave’s advice to screen her calls. The machine finally picked up, and the grating voice came on the line. “Tomorrow, Willie,” something that sounded like a gurgle, and then click, he hung up.

  Her hands trembled so badly, she could hardly dial Dave’s number. Her heart pounded against her chest. She curled up on the chair, shivering while sweat rolled off her forehead. Bella lay on her lap, giving her little comfort, while she waited for Dave.

  Then he was there, and somehow, she was in his arms, sobbing and clinging to him. Nothing had ever shaken her so badly. What had happened to her calm reserve?

  For a moment she even considered moving home with her mother. But only for a moment. Her stubbornness still overcame her fear. Finally calmed down and overwhelmed with a wave of embarrassment, she pulled away from Dave and composed herself.

  Dave grinned at her, making her all the more embarrassed about her impulsive behavior.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I don’t usually react this way. These phone calls really have me spooked.”

  “I kind of enjoyed it.” Dave put his arm around her and smiled. “I’m not used to women throwing themselves at me.”

  “You arrogant bastard! I wasn’t throwing myself at you.” Her hand came up and made contact with his face. Horrified, she jerked it back. Darn, that was the second time she slapped him. What was it with this man? Minutes ago, she felt safe and secure in his arms, and now he infuriated her.

  She backed away from him. “I’m just upset by these phone calls.” She walked across the room, putting some distance between them, pulled the shade aside, and looked out the window. Was that the same car she saw the other day? Someone was in it. A shadow moved inside. She dropped the shade and turned back to Dave.

  He touched his reddened cheek and laughed, while he played the message again before pocketing it.

  Unaffected by her slap, he seemed to enjoy her discomfort. That annoyed Susan even more.

  “I’m sorry. Would you like a cup of coffee?” Sorry the instant she offered it, she bit her tongue. To her surprise, he accepted. He stood there grinning like a Cheshire cat. Damn these tumultuous feelings he stirred in her. She hated this attraction and worse, hated making it so obvious. There wasn’t room in her life for a man. Her career held top priority. But she couldn’t help herself. As much as his attitude annoyed her, she liked having him around, especially under the circumstances. She busied herself with the coffee, not trusting herself to look at him.

  Suddenly, his arms came around her, and he nuzzled her neck. She caught her breath. Her body betrayed her. She leaned into him, drawing strength and comfort from him while he held her. Too soon, he let her go.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t usually get involved with witnesses, but there’s something about you that I can’t seem to resist.” He looked away. “I guess I better go.”

  Heat crept up her neck and into her face. He sure had a way of making her feel insignificant. But she liked being in his arms. He was attracted to her, he just admitted it. Too bad he pulled away. She liked the intimacy of being in his arms.

  “Please stay. The thought of being alone right now has me skittish. And the coffee’s almost ready. Besides, I want to talk to you.”

  He tilted his head to the side and half closed his eyes. “Just one,” he agreed.

  They took their
coffee into her small living room, and Susan sat on the overstuffed chair across the room from him. She didn’t want to make contact with him, but she liked having him in her living room. His tall, muscular frame almost overflowed the small, floral-print love seat. She should have let him sit in the overstuffed chair.

  She turned the television on low for background noise. The soft light provided a warm harmony to the subtle blends of the muted shades of the red walls.

  “How do you think the reporter got the story about the phone calls?”

  “I talked to Jennifer about that,” Dave said. “She said it was an anonymous tip. She ran with it after checking your phone records and seeing the calls placed from phone booths.”

  “She checked my phone records? How could she do that? Who gave her the authority?” Susan’s temper flared. “How dare she?” She stood up and paced. “Is nothing private in this world anymore?”

  Dave shrugged. His amused grin annoyed her.

  “And quit looking at me like that. This isn’t funny,” she yelled. Of course, she knew all reporters had connections. It wouldn’t take much to get the information. She, herself, would have run with it. Why blame Jennifer?

  “You’re right. It isn’t funny.” His look told her he was trying to be serious, but his mouth still formed that silly grin.

  Concern showed in his eyes, Apparently, he couldn’t help the grin, it was just his natural look.

  The rest of the evening passed uneventful and quiet. Their conversation consisted mostly of small talk about their childhoods, and sometimes they didn’t speak at all. For the first time all day, Susan relaxed.

  Around two in the morning, Dave stood up to leave. “Try to get some sleep. I’ll call you later.” He brushed his lips across her forehead, a brotherly type kiss, but the softness of his lips left a warm tingly spot.

  Susan would have preferred a deep, passionate kiss.

  * * *

  Dave waited until he heard the chain lock snap into place and then hurried down the steps, ignoring the elevator. He needed to release some tension. Somehow, he had to stop seeing Susan, assign someone else to look after her. He already had a car parked outside, watching her apartment.