Ring Around the Rosy (26 page)

“Susan.” He grabbed her arm to
prevent knocking her down when she bumped into him. “What’s the big hurry? Hot
date tonight?” He grinned at his own humor.

“Oops, sorry.” She swore she’d
seen Greg more in the past two weeks than the five years she lived here.
“Wasn’t paying attention.”

She never realized how tall he was
before. She grinned when she turned and hurried up the stairs. As a matter of
fact, she did have a hot date. Dave was coming over later, and she wanted to
straighten up the apartment and make dinner. It had become a habit, one they
fell into with ease. He even helped her shop for a new couch to replace the one
the intruder slashed to smithereens.

Susan smiled at the memory of him
helping pick out the new couch. “Big,” he said. “It has to be big enough to lie
down on.” His silly grin told her more than his words. “If I’m going to spend
the night, I have to be comfortable.”

Susan hurried up to her apartment,
not bothering with the elevator. She liked that Dave came for dinner whenever
he could. She enjoyed cooking, and Dave enjoyed eating. Besides, it wasn’t fun
to cook only for only one person. She usually ate fast food, but since meeting
Dave, she’d been doing a lot of cooking. Tonight she planned pork chops. Her
only decision was whether to bread them or bake them. She leaned toward baking.
She didn’t care all that much for greasy fried food. But first, she had to look
for that clock.

Two roses sat in front of her
door. She kicked them down the hall and unlocked her door. First place she
headed was the closet where she kept the clock. Not there. She looked on
another shelf, thinking maybe she moved it during the clean up. Nope. Not
there, either.

She went into her bedroom and
looked on the dressers, on her desk. The clock was nowhere to be found. Susan
sat on the edge of the bed.

Was the killer sending her a
message?

She went back to the kitchen and
hit the play button on her answering machine.

“Birds of a feather flock
together, and so will pigs and swine. Rats and mice will have their choice, and
so will I have mine.” Strange noises sounded in the background, almost like fog
horns. Maybe from a boat yard. That wasn’t real helpful since there were plenty
of them around Lake Erie.

Hopefully, Sergeant Dahl could
filter it and figure out what it was. He hadn’t had much luck clearing up the
distorted voice.

The nursery rhyme was meant as a
riddle, and who knew what it meant, unless it had to do with the last line,
‘and so I will have mine’. Will have what? A choice, obviously, but what kind
of choice? Did it mean a choice of people to kill? What was his motive? How did
he choose his victims? Did he pick the nursery rhymes to suit the name, or the
name to suit the rhyme? There was so much they didn’t know and couldn’t figure
out.

He left nothing at the scenes, no
trace evidence, nothing that could help identify the insane person that
committed the crimes — at least, nothing that she knew of. It was almost as if
he committed the murders dressed in plastic. Not a hair, nothing. She knew the
police were thorough and wouldn’t divulge everything to the press. And no matter
how much Dave trusted her, he was the police, and she was the press. They
hadn’t found anything at her apartment, either. How could someone tear up an
apartment that badly and not leave a strand of hair, a piece of thread?

Susan knew most killers didn’t
appear insane. They looked and acted just like her or Dave. Most friends and
relatives were shocked when they heard of the horrendous crimes, and couldn’t
believe that nice, quiet young man could possibly commit such an act. You heard
it all the time on television. A neighbor interviewed about a criminal just
couldn’t believe it.

She browned the pork chops and put
them in a pan, poured cream of mushroom soup, thinned with a little milk, over
the top, covered it with foil and set them in a 325-degree oven. She decided on
rice rather than potatoes, peas and carrots for the vegetable and sliced
tomatoes instead of a salad.
 
They’d make
a colorful presentation on the plate, especially since pork chop gravy was
white. She set the timer for thirty minutes.

Dave told her he’d be here about
six. She couldn’t wait to tell him about the phone call and the clock.

Chapter Twenty-One

Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater had a wife and
couldn’t keep her.

He hid in the park. These people
were all so predictable, never changing their habits or patterns. Peter walked
in the park every night. Like clockwork, Peter strolled toward the swing sets
and sliding board. Did he think his leisurely walk constituted exercise? Not at
that snail’s pace.

Any moment now, he’d make his presence
known. He liked the element of surprise and the dawning look in his victim’s
eyes when they recognized him. But especially when they realized they were
going to die. Peter was a big man, so he’d have to take extra care. It wouldn’t
be an easy fight. There would be a struggle. Of course they all tried to fight,
but Peter was out of shape. Even with his size, Peter would probably have a
heart attack before he finished the job. He hoped not. Half the fun was
watching them breathe their last breath while he squeezed the life out of them.

He jumped in front of Peter and
knocked him to the ground. This was easier than he thought. The bigger they
come, the harder they fall.

Peter gasped for breath — the fall
had knocked the wind out of him. He had to work fast before Peter caught his
breath. He gripped his neck and started to squeeze. Peter’s eyes rolled to the
back of his head, his face turned purple, and soon the last breath of air
slipped out of him.

Working quickly, because you never
knew when someone would come along the path, although in the past week, no one
had. He pulled the body to the sliding board and leaned it against the ladder,
took the pumpkin out of the knapsack and put in the crook of Peter’s arm.
Pretty good carving job, if he said so himself. Finally, he stuck the nursery
rhyme in Peter’s hand and closed his fingers around it. Last, he tied the scarf
around Peter’s neck.

He stood, moved away from the
body, slipped out of his suit, and looked at his handy work. Not necessarily
the best, but good enough. “Thought you were so smart didn’t you, going with
one girl, but playing around with the others. Your wife got wise to you,
though, didn’t she? You were so controlling, and still she managed to sneak
away. Serves you right, you dumb bastard.” He turned and left and never looked
back.

* * *

Dave arrived shortly after six, as
promised, carrying two red roses by a corner of the same floral paper as the
ones she’d found earlier.

He set them aside, before she had
a chance to say anything. “They were in front of the door,” he said. “Latent
couldn’t get any prints but yours off the others. We’ll try these. One of these
times, he’ll slip up.

Twice in one day, he had been at
her door, and the last time while she was inside. Susan’s legs trembled, and
she sunk to her knees. Darn, she hated feeling weak.

Dave helped her to her feet and
held her. The security of his arms calmed her. “Why is someone doing this?” she
asked.
 
“What is he trying to prove?
Whoever put those roses there knew I was home. How could he not with the music
from the stereo blaring. That’s why I didn’t hear him.” She looked into Dave’s
eyes as she spoke, and saw the worried frown.

“Something smells delicious.”

Leave it to Dave to change the
subject. Not that Susan minded. She couldn’t let the roses ruin another
evening. Anyway, Dave was here now, and she felt safe.

She dished up the dinner, but her
appetite had disappeared. Thankfully, Dave ate with gusto. She loved to cook
for him, and, as usual, he helped clear the table and wash the dishes after
dinner.

They sat down on the couch and
sipped their coffee.

She could really get used to this.
Ha, get used to it; she was already used to it. What was she going to do if
this ended after they caught this guy?

Memory of the first time Dave
kissed her and told her he couldn’t resist made her smile. It was the nicest
thing anyone had said to her. But was she letting him take over too much?

“So what did you want to tell me?”
Dave settled back with his coffee.

“Oh my God, how could I forget?”
Susan jumped up. “I know who made that phone call from my apartment. It was
him. He was here — in my apartment. He must have called then. I don’t know why
he’s trying to implicate me in these murders.”

“What do you mean, Susan?” Dave
leaned forward.

“The break-in. He took my clock
and God knows what else. They found the clock with Sally.”

Dave stood up and snapped his
fingers.

“Of course how did I miss that? I
remember you said it looked like yours. In the course of the investigation, I
forgot about it. Then Hill wrote that damn story. I have to go. I need to find
Greenwood. I need to show him the evidence and see if there are any
fingerprints on the clock. Other than yours, that is.”

Just as he was about to leave, her
scanner squawked, and his phone rang. Another body, this time at the other end
of town. Was the killer changing direction, finding a new place to do his deed?
They grabbed their jackets.

Dave held hers for her. “I kind of
like having you ride shotgun.” He brushed his lips across her cheek and pushed
back a strand of hair. “Let’s go.”

They drove in silence, Susan half
afraid to see who the victim was this time. What if the killer came after her?
Was that what he was setting her up for? He knew so much about her. The thought
that the killer was someone she knew shook her. She couldn’t think of anyone
capable of committing these crimes. Still, how did he know so much about her
comings and goings? He had to be watching her or knew her personally. A shiver
ran up her spine.

The crime scene tape was already
in place when they arrived. Susan followed Dave through the small playground.
By now, most of the other policeman knew she was a reporter, but no one stopped
her. Apparently, they figured she was with Dave, and he never prevented her
from getting beyond the tape.

The fact that he trusted her not
to contaminate the scene or report anything that would jeopardize the case
renewed her confidence. But the fact remained, the first time she printed
something they didn’t want public, she’d be standing beyond the tape with the
rest of the onlookers.

The victim leaned against the
bottom of the sliding board — a heavy set young man, early thirties, about six
feet tall, if he were standing. Blond, wavy hair fell over his face, partially
hiding blue eyes gazing in a glassy stare. Thin lips partially open, as if he
wanted to speak, wanted to tell them who did this.

“Oh, my God. Peter!” Susan
swallowed hard.

Dave turned back to her. “You know
him?”

“Peter Richards. I met him at
Meliti’s Market. I went out with him once a long time ago.” Susan couldn’t take
her gaze from the body.

One arm cradled a carved-out
pumpkin with a picture of a female inside, presumably of Mrs. Richards, the
other hand grasped words from a nursery rhyme. The large magazine letters were
easy to read even from the distance she stood. “Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,
had a wife and couldn’t keep her.”

Susan put her hand to her mouth,
afraid of the scream building inside. “That’s my scarf.”

Dave pushed her back. “You need to
leave. Go on get out of here. You saw enough.”

Susan made her way back to Dave’s
car through the trees that surrounded the park. She couldn’t get Peter’s body
out of her mind with her scarf tied around his neck.

Gary and Ray stood talking to Dan
Hill. Dan waved.

Bastard, she thought. Because of
him, Dave was suspended, and she was a suspect. And he had the nerve to wave.

She kept walking. But for her
contact with the killer, and now Dave, she’d be standing on the sideline just
like them, trying to get a story from a police source.

She assumed Ray and Gary had tried
to get pictures. The best they’d be able to do this time was of the park. Since
it was such a busy street, the city had surrounded the small neighborhood park
with trees and shrubbery to filter the noise and created a private setting. It
also made it easily accessible and hidden for the killer.

She drove Dave’s car back to her
apartment. He had insisted she take it; he’d be a long time and could get a
ride back to her place. Sitting down at the computer, not racing to meet the
deadline, allowed more time to think.

Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater
was, of course the headline.

In a quiet park-like setting,
secluded from traffic and the many homes that surrounded it, Peter Richards,
age 32, became the latest victim of the nursery rhyme killer. His body was
found cradling a pumpkin in one hand and the nursery rhyme in the other. Police
believe the body was moved from the scene of the crime and posed against the
sliding board in the park.