Death of a Bacon Heiress (18 page)

“I don't know why you roped me into coming with you,” Randy said as Hayley drove them in her car to Town Hill.

“Protection. You're my bodyguard. I don't feel safe going on my own,” Hayley said, speeding up on the country road that led to the Blooming Rose bistro.

“What do you hope to possibly gain by poking a stick at Felicity? It's not as if she's going to tell you anything like, ‘Oh, Hayley, I'm so happy you stopped by. I want to confess to shooting Dr. Foley and strangling Olivia Redmond. Shall I call the police or would you rather do it?'”

“She didn't strangle Olivia. I think she may have enlisted the aid of her husband.”

“Alan? But he's so quiet and passive. He doesn't strike me as the type to commit murder.”

“That's because we've rarely heard him speak. We don't really know what he's like, which is why I'm hoping he's there when we swing by the restaurant just to say hello and make a dinner reservation.”

“She's going to be suspicious. They have these wild inventions now called computers and you can actually make reservations online.”

“I'll just tell her we were passing by on our way home from Ellsworth and decided to pull in and make a reservation in person.”

“I have this foreboding sense of danger, Hayley. My stomach is doing flip-flops. And since when do you consider me a bodyguard? My husband is the law enforcement official. I'm just a low-key nonviolent bar owner with incredible hair,” Randy said, checking himself out in the side mirror.

“You know what they say. There is safety in numbers.”

“Yeah, but if what you suspect is true, do we really stand a chance against a homicidal husband and wife hit team?”

Hayley didn't have an answer for that one. It was almost too preposterous to contemplate.

Felicity and Alan Chan cold-blooded killers?

Over a couple of lousy reviews on TasteTest?

Hayley pulled into the gravel parking lot. There was one car parked near the restaurant entrance—a black Volvo.

It was quiet. Just a light breeze and slight chill in the air. Rain was undoubtedly on the way. Typical late April Maine weather.

Hayley and Randy got out of the car and walked inside the restaurant.

It was very cold.

No heat.

And empty.

The upholstered chairs were upended on top of all the tables in the dining room, and the floor appeared freshly mopped. There was a scent of Pine-Sol or some other cleaning agent.

“Hello? Felicity? Alan? Hello?”

No response.

Hayley turned to Randy. “Let's take a look around.”

“Have you forgotten about the car parked out front? Somebody is obviously here,” Randy said, his voice cracking.

“There's no harm in making sure,” Hayley said, heading off to the side office just past the hostess station.

“You know, just because you get off playing Miss Marple doesn't mean we're all good at breaking and entering and throwing ourselves headfirst into perilous situations,” Randy said. “But I am hungry, so I'll go check out the kitchen.”

Hayley poked her head into the office and glanced around.

It was immaculately kept.

Not a stray piece of paper out of place.

On the wall were various framed awards and endorsements from a number of media outlets. The restaurant was ranked third in a
New York Times
article entitled “The Best Seasonal Restaurants in Maine.” Best crab cakes in a
Bon Appétit
list, “Seafood Favorites.” A profile of Alan in the
Maine Food & Lifestyle
magazine.

Hayley browsed through the story, which detailed Alan's fairy-tale marriage to Felicity, his extensive culinary training in Europe, his upbringing in Seoul, South Korea. She stopped at one paragraph and read it over more carefully. The reporter had asked Alan about when he was a young man in his early twenties and in the military. Alan had proudly recounted his days as an officer in the ROK Special Forces and how he'd been trained in hand to hand combat and weapons for secret missions in North Korea. It had been an intense time in his life, and in the name of his country he did some things that were tough to forget.

The reporter then shifted the focus of the article back to Alan's love of food and his dream of one day owning his own restaurant, which had certainly come to pass.

ROK Special Forces.

South Korea's own version of the US Army Green Berets.

Brave operatives sent on covert missions to take out terrorists, rescue hostages, retrieve vital information.

Someone in ROK Special Forces would be totally capable of snapping a woman's neck.

Trained to do it, in fact.

Hayley removed the framed article from the wall and walked back through the dining room toward the kitchen where Randy was foraging for food.

“Randy, take a look at this. It's not exactly proof, but it certainly raises a lot of questions about Alan Chan. . . .”

She burst through the carved wooden swinging doors and stopped short.

Standing near the stove was Randy, his eyes wide with fear.

Alan Chan stood directly behind him, one hand clamped firmly over Randy's mouth while the other held a steak knife to his throat.

“Alan, what are you doing? Let my brother go,” Hayley pleaded, keeping her voice soft and trying to remain calm.

“Why did you come here? What do you know?” Alan spit out.

“We just stopped by to make a reservation, okay?” Hayley said, gently putting down the framed article on the kitchen counter and holding out her hands to show that she came in peace.

“You're lying. I heard you just now. You have something on me. . . .”

His eyes wandered to the framed article resting on the counter. “Why are you looking at that? What's in there that has you so curious?”

“Nothing. I'm just impressed with your history. You've accomplished a lot.”

Alan's eyes darted back and forth.

He was panicky.

Nervous.

Randy struggled.

Alan gripped Randy's mouth tighter with his hand and pressed the knife deeper into his neck until a small trickle of blood dripped down his Adam's apple.

Hayley didn't want Alan losing it and slashing Randy's throat.

She had to keep him calm.

“Please, Alan, let Randy go. We're not here to cause you any trouble,” she said, fighting to steady her voice.

There was a long, agonizing moment of silence as Alan's mind raced.

He flinched.

Unsure what to do.

His wife, Felicity, was not here to direct him, which was usually the case.

He slowly began to lower the steak knife.

When it was a safe distance from his jugular, Randy made a grab for it. He latched onto Alan's fist holding the knife and the two men fought for possession of it. They crashed against the stove top, and Hayley screamed, making a mad dash over to them to help her brother, who was losing. She whacked Alan on the wrist with her fist and his grip loosened and the knife fell to the floor.

Hayley scooped it up and held it out toward him. “Stop it, Alan! Stop it right now!”

Alan managed to shove Randy off him and grab him again from behind.

This time he had one arm wrapped around Randy's neck and a hand pressed against the side of his head. “Drop the knife or with just the right amount of pressure I will break his neck in less than a second!”

Hayley immediately dropped the steak knife.

It clattered to the floor.

Randy was gasping, having trouble breathing.

“Is that how you broke Olivia Redmond's neck?”

Alan's lip was quivering.

His ROK Special Forces training had kicked in, but emotionally, he was conflicted about what he was doing, and it showed on his face.

“Were you defending your wife, Felicity's, honor by killing both Dr. Foley and Olivia Redmond? Is that what happened, Alan? Were they trying to assassinate Felicity's reputation, knock a few stars off her stellar five-star rating, and so you took matters into your own hands?”

“You've got it half right,” a voice said from behind her.

Hayley twisted around to find Felicity Flynn-Chan in a flowery print blouse and pink slacks and a yellow Crusher sun hat to keep her eyes shaded while she worked in the garden.

She clutched a gun that was pointed directly at Hayley.

“Alan only killed Olivia. I was the one who shot that sniveling science geek who dared dis my food!” she spit out.

Hayley sighed.

The rumors were true.

Felicity Flynn-Chan was a certifiable sociopath.

It was at that moment Hayley realized she should have listened to Randy.

They never should have come to the restaurant.

And both she and her brother were about to pay for that mistake with their lives.

“Those two were ugly thorns in my beautiful rose garden. No one has
ever
criticized my restaurant! I've received the highest compliments from US senators and ex-presidents, movie actors and rock stars! Martha Stewart ate clams alfresco on my patio because all my tables inside were booked, and she loved it! Loved it! And then some nerdy nobody waltzes in here like he's a food critic for the
New York Times
, gorges on my oyster platter, and then has a little case of indigestion after he gets home to his sad little apartment and he dares blame
me
? And he even has the gall to write a scathing review for all to see? Do you think I'm going to let him get away with that?”

“It was a little more than indigestion, Felicity. It was food poisoning,” Hayley said quietly, immediately regretting it.

Felicity waved the gun around angrily. “Who cares? He sullied my good name. And then, not even a month later, that snotty bacon bitch acts like the Queen of England and dares to complain about my fish? Well, I was not going to stand for it! I had already rid the world of that useless Foley character. As much as I wanted Olivia Redmond wiped off the face of this earth, I was not going to tempt fate twice by killing again. No. That would be sloppy.”

“So why not enlist the help of your beloved husband, your dear Alan, the love of your life, who would do anything for you?” Hayley said.

“Yes. It's not like he's never killed anyone. Hell, after his stint in Korea's Special Forces, it was second nature to him,” Felicity said, shrugging. “It was even easier the second time around. Dr. Foley tried to run. I had to line up my shot in just a few seconds and get him before he disappeared behind the trees just the way my father taught me when he took me deer hunting when I was a little girl. Still, if I had missed and he had gotten away, it would have been very messy and complicated. But Olivia, she never saw it coming. Alan stalked her like a North Korean sentry and snuck up behind her, and with one quick snap of the neck, it was done. No fuss. No mess. He's not just an expert in the kitchen. He excels at killing too. Don't you, baby?”

Alan smiled at his wife.

A sick, demented, obsessive smile.

Mr. and Mrs. Whack Job.

Hayley made eye contact with Randy, who signaled her he was ready to make a move. Before she could even react, Randy nailed Alan in the foot with his shoe.

Alan howled in pain, loosening his grip slightly.

Randy seized the opportunity to raise his arm and drive his elbow into the bridge of Alan's nose.

Blood spurted everywhere as Alan let him go and grabbed for his face.

Felicity gasped and jerked the gun in Randy's direction.

Hayley knew she had to do something.

She lunged at Felicity and tried wrestling the gun away from her.

Felicity fought like a tigress, scratching and biting Hayley with all her might.

Hayley plucked the yellow sun hat off Felicity's head and jammed it over her face, blinding her and backing her up against the stove all the while still struggling for the gun.

Out of the corner of her eye, Hayley saw Randy jab a knee hard into Alan's solar plexus. He doubled over, briefly incapacitated.

But not for long.

Randy scooped up the knife from the floor and raced to help his sister, just as Felicity's finger twisted around the trigger of the gun and pulled back, firing off a shot in Randy's direction.

Randy stopped in his tracks, a pale, shocked look on his face.

For a brief moment, Hayley's heart sank.

Had her brother just been shot?

Randy felt his stomach, expecting blood to seep out of his shirt from the bullet wound.

But nothing happened.

Hayley quickly realized the bullet had knocked the knife right out of his hand and it was gone. She tightened her grip on Felicity's hand holding the gun and slammed it into the stove.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Until the gun went flying out of Felicity's hand.

It skidded across the floor and underneath the refrigerator.

Hayley shoved Felicity aside and ran to Randy, grabbed him by the shirtsleeve, and they raced out of the kitchen.

She glanced back in time to see Felicity snagging a broom and then crouching down to use the wooden handle to retrieve the gun from underneath the fridge. If she got hold of that gun, she would undoubtedly come after them to finish the job.

Hayley and Randy sprinted out the front door of the restaurant and headed toward her car in the gravel parking lot. But before they could reach it, Alan, a white towel pressed to his nose, burst out a back door, blocking their path. He stopped, glaring at them, bloodstains on the towel.

He was unarmed.

But he was also military trained.

And Randy's fighting skills, which he learned in a scene combat class while briefly attending the New York School of Dramatic Arts, may have helped him get the upper hand, along with the element of surprise.

But they were no match for Alan's training.

And Alan was now madder than a wet hornet and was not about to lose a fight twice.

Felicity came flying out the back door and joined her husband, gun in hand, ready to finally settle the matter.

Hayley and Randy turned and hightailed it into the woods.

A couple of shots rang out, the bullets whizzing a safe distance past them, cracking a few branches on a couple of trees.

Unlike the mellower days of deer hunting with her father, Felicity was in a frenzied state and wasn't taking the precious time she needed to line up her shot in order to take down her prey.

Hayley and Randy ran deeper and deeper into the woods, whipping around to see Felicity in hot pursuit, her injured husband stumbling behind her.

They kept running.

Faster and faster, like they were competing in the Boston Marathon and were within spitting distance of the finish line.

But Hayley was a recreational runner. Two miles in the park was her limit.

Randy was a hiker, not a runner. His foot landed wrong on a rock and he twisted his ankle, falling to the ground.

Hayley snatched his shirt and hauled him to his feet, resting his arm around her neck and helping him as he jumped on one leg for cover behind a couple of birch trees in full spring foliage bloom.

They sunk to their knees and held each other.

“You keep going. I'll be fine,” Randy said, gasping for breath.

“Forget it. I'm not leaving you.”

Hayley poked her head around the tree to see if Felicity and Alan were in the vicinity, but she didn't see any sign of them.

“I think we lost them,” she said.

They continued on slowly, Hayley's arm around her brother, as he hopped along as best he could, until they spotted a clearing. Beyond that was a thicket of trees through which they saw cars whizzing past.

It was the main road.

They exchanged relieved looks and managed to make it out of the woods to a ditch, climbing up on the side of the road.

They waited for a car to come along.

And one finally did.

A black automobile that was zipping along well above the speed limit.

Hayley waved it down as Randy sat down to massage his throbbing ankle.

The car slowed down.

The window on the passenger side lowered.

Felicity Flynn-Chan smiled menacingly at them.

“We've been out searching all over for you two—isn't that right, babe?”

She turned briefly back at her husband behind the wheel, who glowered at them, pieces of white tissue stuffed up his nostrils, sweat pouring down his face.

She raised the gun and rested it on the car door. “Get in. We're going to go on a nice little drive to a quiet place where we won't be disturbed.”

There was no getting away now.

Suddenly a flashing blue light nearly blinded Hayley.

She covered her eyes to see a police cruiser approaching from the opposite direction.

Alan panicked and slammed his foot on the gas pedal.

The Volvo shot off straight at the police cruiser in a high stakes game of chicken. The Volvo blinked first and swerved to the side, missing a head-on collision with the cruiser by mere inches. The car flew off the road and hit a tree with a sickening crunch.

Sergio and Officer Donnie jumped out of their squad car.

Officer Donnie ran to the Volvo while Sergio dashed over to Hayley and Randy.

Sergio's eyes widened with concern at the sight of his husband on the ground, clearly injured.

“It's nothing, Sergio, just a twisted ankle,” Randy said, trying to be brave, but his voice was still shaky from their close brush with death.

“How did you know we were out here?” Hayley asked.

“We didn't. We got a call from a neighbor nearby who heard some shots and called nine-one-one. We were just on our way to check it out.”

Hayley turned to see Officer Donnie handcuffing Felicity; her head was down and her hair was covering her face and her shoulders were hunched over like a woman defeated.

Her husband, Alan, was on the ground, scraped up pretty badly, his nose bleeding even worse now than back at the restaurant.

Their Bonnie and Clyde killing spree was mercifully over.