Two Scoops of Murder (Felicity Bell Book 2) (15 page)

“
I
don’t think
you should go in there, Basil.”

His wife looked scared and Basil’s chest started to swell. This was where he could make his mark. This was where he could come across as a real man and make a big impression. Until now she’d looked at him as if he were her lapdog and she the big kahuna. But no longer! Intrepid and undaunted, he would get some of his own back.

“Nothing to be afraid of, darling,” he reassured her. “You better get behind me, though. Just in case there is someone in there.”

Lara did get behind him and it boosted his ego even more. They’d come to this inn to celebrate the fifth anniversary of their honeymoon. Little had they known the trip would turn into some sort of visit to Madame Tussaud’s chamber of horrors. First the proprietor of the inn, that nice old man with the long white beard, had been shot. And now that sweet wife of his, Mrs. Mary Long, had suffered the same fate, only even more gruesome. Someone had actually bashed the poor woman’s brains in. How much more medieval could you get?

It was safe to say they weren’t staying in this place one more minute, but then that tall policeman had come and told them they couldn’t leave yet. If he hadn’t stopped them they would have packed up and been halfway home to Cleveland by now.

As it was, they were obliged to stay in this hellhole. Though if you asked him, whoever murdered this couple had no intention of slaying any of the guests. While they were all waiting to be interviewed, Mrs. Thomson had told them that the whole thing revolved around money, as usual.

Some big developer types operating out of New York City had their eye on the inn and the piece of land it sat on. They wanted to buy, but the Longs refused to sell. Probably, Mrs. Thomson said, these big developer types had hired a bunch of killers to take care of the Longs. Whack the old couple, snap up the inn, build a five-star resort and voila.

It sounded plausible, thought Basil Potter. Quite plausible indeed. He’d seen plenty of movies where big developer types resorted to murder to get their hands on a piece of prime property.

And then there were the children. Still according to Mrs. Thomson Rob and Ruth Long had wanted to get their hands on the property for years, and had been pestering Mom and Dad to sell. Only Mom and Dad hadn’t wanted to sell, so there you had your motive, big as an inn.

And as it so happened, the children were here right now. At the inn, staying only a couple of doors down the hall from their parents. One of them must have snuck into Mrs. Long’s bedroom, bashed her brains in, and quickly returned.

Pity Mrs. Thomson hadn’t seen the killer. She’d proudly told Basil and Lara that it was she who’d sounded the alarm. She’d actually heard the murder taking place. Right above her head! Can you imagine?

The Potters had imagined and had shivered freely. They’d been sound asleep at the time, snugly in their beds. And then all hell had broken loose. Police cars arriving, ambulances, and then that pounding on the door, the tall policeman demanding they step out and subject themselves to an interrogation.

The moment they returned to their room, Lara had said there was someone there. A presence. Basil had credited this to nervousness, but then he heard a creaking sound coming from the bathroom.

“Just…let me have a look,” he whispered, taking a firm grip on the bedside lamp. It didn’t have much heft but it would have to do. In his everyday life he was a used car salesman and didn’t have a lot of experience attacking midnight marauders. Still, for the sake of Lara, he would do whatever it took. He loved his wife, and this was his chance to prove to her once and for all who was wearing the pants in the Potter household.

He snuck to the bathroom door. It was ajar, which was suspicious in and of itself, as he didn’t remember having left it open. Step by step, he approached the door, Lara right behind him, lending moral support.

He teased the door open with one hand, the lamp held high over his head. Whoever was in there would feel his wrath soon enough now.

He stepped in, then quickly flipped on the light, hoping to surprise their unwanted guest.

He blinked against the harsh light. Nothing. Then his eyes traveled to the shower curtain, which was closed. Had it been closed before? He couldn’t remember.

He swallowed with some difficulty, nerves now raging through his stocky frame. Stealthily, he approached the shower, once again holding the lamp aloft. Then, with a sweep of the hand, he parted the curtain, prepared to rain down hellfire on the culprit foolish enough to attack an innocent couple.

He was surprised to find a small pool of blood in the bathtub, but no one present. He frowned. Why would there be blood in their bath? It sure as hell hadn’t been him bleeding all over it.

He looked back at Lara. “Is this yours?”

She shook her head, as perplexed as he was. “We have to tell the police,” she said, her voice tremulous.

Basil nodded. She was right. A murderer on the premises, blood in the tub, there had to be some sort of connection.

He ran out into the hall, hoping that gangly policeman would still be there. And as he took a left turn to head on down the stairs, he almost ran into a handsome fellow who looked oddly familiar. He wasn’t dressed like a policeman, but he sorta looked like one.

“Hello, there, sir,” the man growled, then took out a small notebook and pencil. “Detective MacLachlan. Have you noticed anything suspicious here tonight?”

Basil was relieved. He’d been trying to find a cop and he had. “Yes, detective, yes. There’s blood in my bathtub.”

If the policeman was surprised, he didn’t show it. “Blood in the bathtub,” he said in a gravelly voice, as he jotted down a note. “And what bathtub would that be, sir?”

“Room two. We’re the Potters. Your colleague questioned us just now and when we got back to the room we noticed the blood.”

The policeman gave him a lopsided grin, and for a moment Basil thought he looked just like that Chuck MacLachlan, one of his movie heroes. “I better have a look, sir. Please lead the way.”

It was with great relief that Basil led the way to the second floor and to his room. The policeman, who looked a lot more like a policeman than the other guy, asked him a few routine questions along the way, which he dutifully answered.

Arriving at room number two, the cop nodded a kindly greeting to Lara and proceeded into the bathroom to have a look at the suspicious puddle of blood.

He stared at the blood, frowned at the blood, took a seat on the edge of the bathtub to sniff at the blood, and finally dipped his finger in for a taste of the blood. His face looked grave when he finally snarled, “This is blood, sir.”

“Right,” said Basil, happy to find his suspicions confirmed by a specialist.

“We need to take a sample to determine…” The cop directed his gaze upward and started violently. Basil, whose eyes had also traveled to the ceiling, gurgled in shock and horror. A wide spot of crimson had appeared there, directly over the puddle, and as he watched, a drop fell down with a resounding plop.

“Hot potato!” the policeman cried.

Behind him, Lara’s scream rent the air.

“
I
mpersonating
a police officer is a federal offense,” Chief Whitehouse was saying. His face was a thundercloud, and Alice thought he’d never looked more officious in his life.

They were standing in front of the inn, where Reece Hudson had just been arrested.

“Come on, Dad,” she groaned. “You can’t be serious. You’re arresting Chuck MacLachlan? You might as well throw Clint Eastwood in jail, or Bruce Willis. The man’s a bona fide movie star!”

“I don’t care,” her father said through gritted teeth. “He talked to a witness, which I distinctly remember having forbidden, impersonated a police officer, and tampered with evidence.”

“He didn’t tamper. He just wanted to make sure the blood was really blood. You would have done the same.” At the expression of incredulity on her father’s face, she amended, “Well, perhaps
you
wouldn’t, but under the circumstances it was the right thing to do.”

“It was absolutely the worst thing he could have done, and I’m blaming you as much as I’m blaming him.” He was stabbing his finger in her direction, something she didn’t appreciate. “You put him up to this, didn’t you?”

“I did not,” she said with as much hauteur as she could muster. “He volunteered.”

“For that watch committee of yours.” The veins in his temples were throbbing dangerously. “Leave the police work to trained police officers. This is dangerous territory, honey. We’re dealing with a murderer here, not some graffiti artist defiling church walls. This is serious!”

“I know, Dad. And I want to catch this guy just as much as you do.”

He shook his head. “Stay out of it, or next time it’s your ass I’m throwing in the slammer.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she said, incredulous.

“Watch me.”

She watched him stalk away toward the inn and shook her head, then joined the small group who stood conferring near the bakery van. Bettina, Mabel and Marjorie had arrived the moment Reece Hudson had gone in. He’d come out in handcuffs, been stuffed into a police car, and hauled off like a common criminal. And all because he wanted to help.

This was simply too much.

“What did he say?” Felicity asked anxiously.

“They found another body, stuffed in a closet in one of the empty rooms upstairs. The blood had seeped into the floorboards and into the room below. Reece saw the blood and decided to do the right thing and call it in.”

“And as a reward they arrested the poor man!” Bettina cried. “This time your father is really out of line, Alice.”

“Don’t I know it,” she muttered, staring at the inn, where now all the windows were ablaze with light. No one was going to get a lot of sleep, she thought. Not with two murders happening in one night.

“Who was it? The dead body?” Mabel wanted to know. She was hugging herself, the night chill creeping into everyone’s bones.

“Dad didn’t say. You know him.”

Marjorie pressed her lips together when she saw her son appear in the door. “Let me handle this,” she said, and made her way over.

They watched mother and son exchange heated words and finally Virgil threw up his hands and for some reason pointed to Alice.

She swallowed, remembering how she’d stolen his little notebook.

Marjorie returned, her face a mask of determination. “It’s a man named Malcolm Samovar. A guest at the inn. He was stabbed to death.”

“Oh, dear Lord,” whispered Bettina. “What’s happening to this town?”

“Why was Virgil pointing at me?” Alice wanted to know.

Marjorie displayed a rare smile. “He claims you stole police property and if you don’t get it back to him, he’ll have to report you. Is it true?”

Alice rolled her eyes. “It’s just his silly little notebook. And I didn’t steal it, I just borrowed it.”

“Alice!” cried Mabel. “You didn’t!”

She flapped her arms like a chicken. “It’s Virgil’s fault! He won’t share information so I saw no other way than—”

“To take it,” said Marjorie with a frown. Then she laughed, probably the first time Alice had ever heard her do so. She clasped her hands together. “That’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever heard! Let’s have a look.”

Alice drew out the notebook and started reading aloud, the other women gathering around her. “Victim #1. Alistair Long. Sixty-four years of age. Resident of Sullivan Street…”

D
orothy Valour was checking
the Daily Mail website for the latest gossip when the page refreshed and a breaking news story appeared. She’d been up half the night, fielding messages from reporters and friends about the rift between her and Reece Hudson. She’d done her usual routine and given them all a ‘no comment’ and the line that she loved Reece dearly and that she fully supported his decision to take it easy and lay low for a while.

It had set off a flurry of news comments that Reece’s career was in trouble and that there was something wrong with the latest contract negotiations for Crunch Time 4. Even Reece’s own agent had been on the phone, asking her what she knew about this, for he’d been unable to get in touch with his prodigy for the last few hours.

Probably because the doofus was asleep, she thought, as it was now three o’clock in the morning, a time when normal people are in bed enjoying a peaceful slumber. She, on the other hand, was reveling in all the attention and secretly hoping that when Reece woke up in the morning, he’d discover that his movie star stock had taken a plunge overnight and was now trading at an all-time low.

She’d carefully conveyed the message that Reece was licking his wounds on Long Island and that she fully supported his decision to spend some quality time with his family in these difficult times. And that she was resolved to stick by him and be the crutch of his declining career.

She grinned evilly when she thought of Reece’s face when he realized that ignoring Dorothy Valour was something only done at one’s own peril.

She was surprised therefore to find that Reece Hudson had been taken to prison in Happy Bays for impersonating a police officer.

Infuriated, she gawked at the news report. There was even a picture of the arresting officer, some gangly sort with a stupid expression on his face, holding up his hand and quoting Dorothy’s ‘no comment’ line.

She scanned the article with rising indignation. Apparently, Reece had been whooping it up with some of the local women at his father’s gun range, at which point he’d decided to insert himself into an ongoing murder investigation by impersonating a police officer and interviewing witnesses at the crime scene.

Livid, she brought up Reece’s number and tried his cell. Straight to voice mail, just like the previous forty-one times. This was it. She rose to her feet in a tizzy and stalked over to the closet, dragged out her travel bag and started dumping in clothes.

If that horrible fiancé of hers thought he could ignore her like this and then make whoopee with the local yokels, he had another thing coming. She would go over there, confront the man, and demand he come back with her to New York right away. If he refused, she would throw both his ring and his promises back in his face and be done with the cheating hound once and for all.

“Crunch time, Chuck MacChuckleton,” she muttered as she threw two or three designer dresses into her travel bag.

She didn’t need Reece Hudson. It was the other way around. And if he didn’t see that and swear allegiance to her once and for all, he deserved to see his career go up in flames, just like it said in the tabloids.

And the tabloids were never wrong. She saw to that.