Toffee Apple Killer: Book 11 in The INNcredibly Sweet Series

by Summer Prescott

  “Do you want to tell me about what happened?” Echo asked.

  “I appreciate you giving me the chance to tell you about it. Everybody else that I talked to saw that and said “thank you very much, we’ll call if we need any more information.”

  “I’m sorry that that’s been the case.”

  “I was a contractor. Had my own business doing remodeling, fixing up houses, you know, handyman stuff. I was licensed, and everybody that I did work for said that I did a top-notch job. I worked on that new condo development right outside of town, the one built by that guy from the east coast, Ed Lankman. I did all of the drywall work. It was a great job. I was gonna be able to pay off my house, get my kid the braces that he needed, and buy some new equipment for my business,” he shook his head, remembering.

  “What happened?” Echo asked, unaware that Spencer was hovering nearby, pretending to look for a book.

  “When it was time for him to pay me, Lankman refused. He said that he was waiting on some payments from his investors. I told him that I didn’t know or care about all that, I just wanted my money. It was tens of thousands of dollars, and I had turned down a significant amount of work to do his project. We argued, and he still refused. I went out to my truck and grabbed the biggest pipe wrench that I had,” he paused, a muscle in his cheek flexing with the flood of memories.

  Echo’s hands unconsciously went to her throat.

  “I slammed the wrench down on his fancy wooden desk and told him to open his safe. I knew he had one, because I’d seen him put documents in it before. He got scared and went to the safe and opened it. I told him to hand me the bag that he kept in there that was full of cash. I planned on taking out just what he owed me and putting the rest back, but by the time he handed it over, the cops showed up. I guess he must’ve had a panic button under his desk or something. They cuffed me on the spot, took me to jail, and the rest is history,” he shrugged dismally. “Honest ma’am, I didn’t want to steal nothin, I just wanted to get what was rightfully mine. My family needed that money,” Rodney stopped speaking, his jaw clamped shut as he dealt with his emotions.

  Echo’s eyes were filled with compassion. “What happened to them… your family?”

  Rod shook his head and took a deep breath, collecting himself so that he could speak. “They couldn’t handle being looked at strangely everywhere they went. People whispered about my wife when she went to the grocery store, none of the kids at school would sit with my son at lunch, and they teased him. Called him names… said that his old man was—” he couldn’t finish.

  “Oh, that’s awful. I’m so sorry, Rod,” Echo said softly. “Have you been back in contact with them?”

  He shook his head again. “No ma’am. They left town for good and didn’t leave a forwarding address. I haven’t seen ’em since. That’s the worst part. As soon as I can scrape up enough money, I’m gonna hire somebody to find ’em. My family means more to me than anything.”

  Echo nodded, but was silent, giving him a moment to recover. She glanced down at the application in her hand, looking for something else to talk about.

  “Oh, I see that your address is on Myrtle Street. That’s a cute neighborhood.”

  “Yes ma’am. That’s my uncle’s house. He passed while I was in jail and he left it to me. I’m thankful, because if he hadn’t, I would’ve been homeless on top of everything else. Got a little bit of money from him too, just enough to keep the lights and water on in the place, but if I don’t get a job soon, I don’t know how I’m gonna make it,” he admitted.

  “Let me do some thinking, and I’ll talk to my husband. Maybe I can come up with some work for you.”

  “Much obliged,” Rodney nodded, standing to go. “Thank you for the coffee. And for treating me like a human being. Most folks can’t look past the record.”

  “Then they’re missing out,” she stood and shook his hand. “I’ll be in touch, Rod. Take care.”

  “You too, ma’am.”

  Echo watched him go, a pensive look on her face.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  * * *

  Detective Chas Beckett sat at his desk, trying to make sense of the very limited information that he had regarding the tragic death of the young woman named Leslie Mikels. The motive for her murder was eluding him. She’d been gainfully employed, had plenty of friends, and apparently no enemies, enjoyed a good relationship with her parents, who’d been devastated at the news and had no idea of who might do such a thing, and had been, by all accounts, a perfectly lovely young woman with a bright future ahead of her.

  Roger Sessman, an experienced patrol cop, poked his head in the door.

  “Hey, Beckett, ya got a minute? I wanna let you know what we’ve got cooking with the Mikels case.

  “I’d welcome any insight you can provide, Rog, come on in,” the detective waved his hand at the chairs on the other side of his desk.

  “We don’t have much, but I got a hit on a fingerprint that we found on the door frame,” Sessman shuffled some papers, reading from his crime scene report.

  “Somebody who’s already in the system?” Chas leaned forward, hoping that they’d uncovered a plausible suspect.

  “Yep, but not in the way that you’d think,” the officer sighed. “The reason that we have his prints is because he had to register them. He teaches at the junior high.”

  “Have we talked to him yet?” the detective demanded.

  “Nope, just got the print identified. I thought you’d want to talk to him yourself, so I came in here right after I got the news.”

  “Good call. Anything else?” Chas asked, reaching for his sport coat.

  “Maybe. I don’t know if it’ll pan out, but I think it’s worth following up on. Seems that a convicted felon just got sprung, and moved in a couple of blocks from the victim. He wasn’t home when we canvassed the neighborhood, so you might want to pay him a visit as well,” Roger suggested.

  “I’ll stop by his house after I go to the junior high. What did we get him on?”

  “Grand theft. It’s in the report.”

  “Names? Addresses?” Chas asked, reaching for the report.

  “All in there.”

  “Good work, thanks.”

  “We’ll keep digging,” Sessman promised.

  “I appreciate it,” the detective replied, heading for the door.

  ***

  “Well, good afternoon, Detective Beckett,” Marie Sanders, the junior high secretary trilled. “We haven’t seen you since career day. What brings you here?”

  “I need to speak with Stanley Bartles, please Marie.”

  “Oh, did he ask you to speak during his lesson on the judicial branch?”

  “Uh, no. Does he teach history?”

  “Civics. I bet he’d love to have you come in and talk to the kids sometime,” she remarked, tapping on her computer.

  “I’ll ask him about it.”

  “Okay, here we are,” she said, squinting at her screen. “Mr. Bartles is on lunchroom duty at the moment, so he’ll be in the cafeteria, most likely standing near the vending machines. He can see most of the room from there.”

  Chas nodded. “Thanks. Good to see you, Marie.”

  “You too, Detective,” the aging secretary practically batted her eyes.

  Beckett had pulled up Stanley’s photo before he came to the school, and it wasn’t difficult to spot the gangly thirty-something with a receding hairline and a hawkish nose.

  “Stanley Bartles?” he asked, approaching the teacher, who stood keeping watch over the lunchroom with an older woman who wore a denim jumper and had a referee’s whistle around her neck.

  “That’s me,” he smiled. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m Detective Chas Beckett, with Calgon PD, and I’d like to speak with you for a few minutes,” Chas didn’t flash his badge, knowing the effect that it would have on a roomful of curious teenagers.

  “Well, I don’t know that I can leave Mirella here by herself…” Stanley
began, glancing over at the woman standing next to him.

  “Oh stuff and nonsense,” the jolly woman protested. “I’ve got my trusty riot whistle, I’ll be fine. You just go talk with the charming detective and I’ll hold down the fort,” she insisted.

  “Okay, but I’ll just be out in the hall if you need me,” Bartles promised, following Chas out the door.

  “So, what can I help you with, Detective?” Stanley asked once they left the room, sounding a bit annoyed.

  “Are you acquainted with a young woman named Leslie Mikels?” Chas got straight to the point.

  “Leslie Mikels?” Stanley seemed to pale a bit. “Uh… yeah, I just met her. We’re… uh, neighbors actually. Why?”

  “You just met? Tell me about that,” the detective replied, deflecting his question.

  “I don’t get out much. It seems like whenever I’m not here, I’m grading papers or preparing lessons, but a couple of weeks ago, I was driving to get a bagel and coffee for breakfast, and I saw a garage sale going on. It was at Leslie’s house, and I ended up buying a couch from her.”

  “Did you have a conversation with her?”

  “Well, it would’ve been pretty awkward buying her couch if I hadn’t talked with her about it,” Stanley chuckled nervously.

  “Aside from the conversation about the couch, did you talk about anything else?” Chas continued to probe.

  Stanley Bartles suddenly blushed to the tips of his ears.

  “Well, uh yeah,” he cleared his throat. “I… uh, I asked her out.”

  “How did that go?”

  “Crashed and burned actually,” Bartles cleared his throat again. “I’m not exactly skilled with the ladies,” he muttered.

  “I’m going to need you to come with me,” Chas sighed. “I’d like to question you further down at the station.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Not knowing how to flirt isn’t a criminal offense, last time I heard,” Stanley’s attempt at a joke fell flat as the detective simply stared at him.

  ***

  Stanley Bartles had an alibi, but a sketchy one. He claimed to have been at home, alone, watching movies during the time frame when Leslie’s murder had occurred. There were a few things that could be checked to try to substantiate or disprove his claim, and while Sessman worked on those, Chas headed to Rodney Benton’s house.

  When he flashed his badge, the large, well-groomed man sighed.

  “What is it now?” he asked. “All I want is to live my life and not be hassled all the time,” he shook his head, frustrated.

  “You answer some questions from me and I’ll be on my way,” Chas replied mildly. “Are you acquainted with a young woman named Leslie Mikels?”

  “Nope, never heard of her,” Rod shrugged.

  “Can you account for your whereabouts on Tuesday night?”

  “Detective, I can account for my whereabouts every night. It’s the same story, every day. I look for a job all day, then sit alone in my uncle’s house every night, wishing I hadn’t been born. I was at home on Tuesday night, by myself. And Wednesday, and Thursday, and every other day before and after that. No, no one can corroborate my story, no one can vouch for me, no one even wants me to be in this town and I’m fully aware of how that looks, but I haven’t done anything wrong, I can assure you of that.”

  “Mind if I come in and take a look around?” Chas asked on a hunch.

  “Not at all. Make yourself at home. You’re probably the only company I’ll have this year,” he stepped back and invited the detective inside with a sweeping gesture, his resignation evident.

  The little house was worn, but clean. The carpet was vacuumed, there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere, and nothing was out of place. There was even a vase of roses, which looked homegrown, gracing the laminated dining room table.

  “You’re quite the housekeeper,” Chas observed, thinking that the place was clean. Maybe too clean.

  “It’s amazing how much you appreciate a real home when you’ve been caged with another human being in a cement and iron cell,” Rod commented.

  “What’s down this way?” Chas inclined his head toward the hall.

  “Bedrooms, bathroom. Kitchen’s to your right. Feel free.”

  “Thanks,” the detective nodded.

  The kitchen was as spotless as the living room and dining room had been, as was Rod’s bedroom. He had nearly no possessions, so there wasn’t even much potential for making a mess. In the extra bedroom was a weight bench with a full complement of weights, a medicine ball, and a jump rope.

  “You in training?” Chas asked, taking it all in.

  “Gotta have something to do with my time. I can’t afford cable, so even watching TV isn’t an option,” Rod shrugged.

  “Makes sense,” the detective nodded, lips pursed.

  He glanced at the convicted felon’s hand as it rested on the doorknob of the spare room. It was thick and calloused. His arms were muscular, with veins cording them. Something prompted the detective to go back to the bedroom for one last look around before he left, and he spotted something that he hadn’t noticed before. There was something on the worn, but clean, beige carpet that was wedged between the wall and the back of the headboard.

  “May I?” Chas asked, pointing to the object.

  “Help yourself,” was the nonchalant reply.

  Taking care not to touch anything nearby, Chas reached down and pulled out a clean, white sock that was too large to be a child’s and too small for a man’s.

  “Whose is this?” he asked, holding it up.

  “No idea.”

  “I’m going to hang on to it,” the detective asserted, pulling an evidence bag out of an inner pocket.

  “Wait a minute,” Rod’s eyes narrowed. “That’s an evidence bag. What’s going on here? Why would a random sock be put in an evidence bag?”

  “Just being thorough,” Chas replied easily, glad that he’d brought his sidearm.

  “Thorough with what?” Benton took a step toward him.

  “I’m going to need you to come with me,” the detective demanded.

  ***

  “So we’ve got two potential suspects, a woman’s sock, a fingerprint, and a whole lotta nothin’ else right now,” Sessman grumbled, shuffling through the report.

  “We’ve placed one of them at the scene, by his own admission, and with the fingerprint. The other has a history, but not of assault. Keep at it,” Chas directed. “And let me know when the preliminary report from the coroner comes in.”

  “Will do.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  * * *

  “Your breathing is distracting,” Timothy Eckels muttered, as Fiona leaned over his shoulder to help with the autopsy.

  They’d lowered the exam table as much as they could, to accommodate Tim’s limited mobility. He was healing, but not fast enough to suit him, and he still needed help with things that he would normally handle with ease.

  “Well, excuse me for breathing,” Fiona rolled her eyes. “I guess I’ll just hold my breath during this whole thing.”

  “That would be preferable. You can’t speak while holding your breath,” her boss mused.

  “If I pass out from lack of air and fall on the body, it could potentially contaminate evidence.”

  “Hmm… seems as though you actually do pay attention when you’re not constantly chattering.”

  “You want help with this or not?” she put her gloved hands on her hips and tapped her foot.

  “No. Unfortunately, I don’t have a choice in the matter. The coroner from Kallas county is a hack. I will not have him coming in and putting his clumsy paws on the deceased,” Tim replied with disdain.

  “Then suck it up and get used to my breathing,” Fiona shot back cheekily.

  “You’re fired when I get back on my feet,” Tim commented, peering with a magnifying glass at a mark inside Leslie Mikels’s broken elbow.

  “Promises, promises,” Fiona murmured, bending closer to look thro
ugh the glass. “What are we looking at?”

  “Something that my ultimately identify the killer if we can get a close enough look.”

  “What would make that kind of mark?”

  “Look at the proximity of it to the break. There are bruises from one hand, which held the elbow, and bruises…” he led her.

  “From the other hand? Like maybe that came from a ring?”

  “So it would seem,” he nodded, squinting to look for more detail. “Take a close-up photograph. We might be able to enlarge it to see the detail better. It looks like there might be some lettering. If we can read even some of the lettering, it might give the detective a clue as to who committed this atrocity.”

  “This one is pretty brutal,” Fiona agreed, taking the photo from several different angles. “I just can’t imagine what inspired this kind of violence.”

  “My guess would be unrequited love,” Tim commented, causing his assistant to stare at him for several seconds.

  “Do you have some experience in that arena?” she teased.

  “Don’t be ridiculous; my work is my life. I have no need for love.”

  “Everyone needs love, Timmy,” she said, gazing down at the top of her boss’s bald head as he examined the young woman’s corpse.

  “Don’t call me that,” was the absent reply.

  ***

  Thomas Blevins hadn’t called or texted Izzy since she challenged him on her way home from buying a smoothie, and there had been no more tapping on her window, so the young woman was feeling pretty confident about giving the dating scene another try, despite the fact that all she actually wanted to do was snuggle up in Spencer’s arms.

  “Well, good morning, stranger,” Missy exclaimed, giving the author a hug. “Are you in desperate need of cupcakes today?” she teased.

  “I could eat,” Izzy nodded. “But coffee is of utmost importance.”