“And…I saw the…the…”

  “The blood?” Chas supplied. Gen nodded.

  “Did you notice that there was blood on every doorway in the house?”

  The distraught author shook her head.

  “I was still kind of half-asleep when I left my room and came down the stairs, but once I saw the front door, I snapped awake. It was so awful.”

  “Did you see anyone or anything that might be helpful?” the detective probed.

  “I don’t know,” Gen stared into space, trying to remember. “I think I might have seen a shadow go in front of the window, but I don’t know if it was just my mind playing tricks on me.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Because I was so scared, and because, I don’t know, it seemed to be kind of a small shadow for an intruder,” she shrugged. “I mean, I write ghost stories for a living, who knows what my mind can conjure up.”

  “I see,” Chas put away his notebook. “Well, I don’t know if it’s possible at this point, but what you probably need is a good night’s rest. Try to get some sleep, and hopefully the morning will shed some light on this whole mess.”

  “Thank you, Detective,” Gen murmured.

  “You’re more than welcome. If you need anything, just text Spencer or Maggie.”

  “I will.”

  The detective followed Maggie out of the room, he’d asked her to be present so that Gen would feel more comfortable, and closed the door behind him, hearing the click of the automatic lock fall into place.

  “Hey boss, can I talk to you for a second?” Spencer was waiting for him on the landing.

  “Sure, let’s go raid the fridge while we talk,” Chas replied, as hunger struck with full force. “Maggie, thank you for being in there, I think it made our guest feel much more secure.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m going to turn in, but if there’s anything else I can do, just let me know,” she replied, turning to head toward her quarters as the gentlemen veered off to the kitchen.

  “What’s up?” Chas asked, reaching into the refrigerator to grab a platter of deviled eggs, and some thickly sliced honey ham.

  “I looked around outside and found this,” the Marine held up a plastic baggie containing a cigarette butt with bright red lipstick on it. The front porch area smelled faintly of smoke.

  “Any ideas?” the detective examined the contents of the baggie without taking it out.

  Spencer told him about the earlier encounter with Miranda Banks, Izzy’s publisher, and about the threats that had been made.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the incident before?” Chas asked.

  The Marine shrugged. “My instincts told me that she was just a nastier than normal old lady. I wouldn’t have thought that she was capable of something like this, but, I guess if she was mad enough…” he shook his head, mad at himself for not having been suspicious of Miranda Banks.

  “But how would she have gotten inside and back out again?”

  “That’s what I can’t put my finger on,” Spencer replied. “I mean, I know she’s small, but nothing shows up on the security cameras, there’s no sign of forced entry anywhere, no footprints…it’s strange.”

  “What if it’s Izzy?” the detective mused.

  “Nope,” the Marine was adamant. “There’s no way. Why would she act out scenes from her own books in someone else’s home?”

  “Attention?” the detective took a large bite of the succulent ham.

  “No way, she’s practically a recluse. The last thing that she wants is attention.”

  “Is she here now? I find it surprising that she wouldn’t have heard all of the commotion and come out to see what was going on,” Chas raised an eyebrow.

  “No one has seen her all day. She may have just skipped town for a bit, to relax and lay low. She never thought that the stalker would find her here. The way that she talked about her publisher, and the way that the crazy old lady acted, I’d believe that she’s causing this, one way or another. We just need to catch her in the act.”

  “And you’re positive that it can’t be Izzy?”

  “Without a doubt, sir. I’d stake my reputation on it,” the Marine replied earnestly.

  “Then what makes you think that she’s okay? She could have been kidnapped.”

  “All due respect, sir, if the stalker had already grabbed the target, why would he…or she…come back to paint with goat’s blood?” Spencer reasoned.

  “That’s a good point,” Chas nodded. He popped a deviled egg in his mouth and chewed with great relish. “It’s been a long day.”

  “Indeed it has,” the Marine sighed. “And it’ll still be a longer night.”

  “I appreciate your hard work, Spence,” Chas shook his hand.

  “It’s why I’m here, sir.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Spencer Bengal sat with his back against the rough-hewn planks of the cabin, the sun steeping him in languorous warmth.

  “How’s it been?” he asked Janssen, watching him take an appreciative sip of his beer.

  “Quiet. Real quiet,” the scarred Marine mused, closing his eyes and tilting his face to the sky.

  “That a bad thing?” Spencer studied the wild-looking man in front of him.

  Janssen lived outside the bounds of society by choice, and it was evident that he spent most of his waking hours in the wilderness, though he was clean and relatively presentable.

  “Not this time. I think quiet is okay,” he took another long pull on his beer.

  “Good. I think the situation is pretty close to being handled, but keep your eyes open,” Spencer advised.

  “Always do,” the Marine mumbled, his face still tilted toward the sun.

  “Except now?” his friend chuckled.

  “Yup,” Janssen grinned.

  “What’d you think of the beer?”

  “Good. Get something different next time, tho.”

  “Any special requests?”

  “Just something different.”

  “You got it, brother,” Spencer nodded and rose to his feet.

  It was so peaceful out, with no sounds but those made by flora and fauna, that he wished he could just stay for a while, but there was apparently a maniac on the loose, and he couldn’t afford to take it easy just yet.

  **

  Detective Chas Beckett shut his office door impatiently. Someone had apparently been brought in for booking, and was caterwauling like a cougar in a carwash. With the lack of sleep that he’d had for the past couple of days, it was difficult to get anything done, and with the racket going on in the station, it was near impossible, so he shut the door and tried his best to ignore it.

  The detective had just regained some semblance of concentration when a uniformed officer knocked briefly, then poked his head into Chas’s office.

  “What is it Briggs?” he sighed, dropping the pen he’d been using onto his desk blotter.

  “Sorry to disturb, but there’s a woman out here that you need to talk to.”

  “Is she a dead body, or has she created a dead body?” Chas asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “No sir, but she did ask for you by name, and is leveling some rather disturbing accusations,” the cop explained apologetically.

  The detective sighed again. Apparently, there was no getting out of this gracefully, he was going to have to go talk to whoever was name-dropping.

  “Alright, where is she?”

  “Interrogation room three,” Briggs replied, ducking out and not bothering to close the door behind him.

  Chas heard what sounded like a wheezing Chihuahua yapping loudly and repeatedly, with a heavy New York accent, and debated as to whether or not he should take a couple of ibuprofen now, or after he met with the Chihuahua.

  There was a never-ending litany of threats and accusation being brought down upon the poor, unfortunate officer who’d had the extreme misfortune to be in the area of Joe’s Bar when the call came in that someone was either drunk and disorderly or disturbing the peace, perhaps both. The tiny little leather-bound woman with candy-apple red hair, who was yammering at the beat cop, paused briefly when Chas came in and took her file from the officer, who vaulted out of his seat like it was on fire.

  “Miranda Banks,” Chas said, reading the file and thinking what a stroke of luck it was that the woman he’d been wanting to question regarding the vandalism at the Inn was now sitting in his interrogation room.

  “You’d better be Detective Beckett, or I swear to all that’s holy I’ll call your supervisor and the chief of police and my attorney, who’ll crawl up the backside of this department with…” Miranda was just warming up when Chas held up a hand, interrupting her.

  “I’m Chas Beckett,” he said warmly, holding out his hand, which she shook out of sheer surprise at his courtly manner.

  “Miranda Banks. These yahoos you’ve got working in this godforsaken town need a lesson in manners,” she said, oozing contempt, but at least doing so a bit more quietly.

  “I’m so sorry that you’ve had a bad experience, Ms. Banks. Are you visiting from out of town?” he asked cordially, sitting down across from her as though she’d invited him over for tea.

  “Well, yes, I’m from New York,” she replied, eyeing him with suspicion.

  “Would you care for a cup of coffee, Ms. Banks? The stuff that they have in the break room is pure pond water, but I could make you a fresh cup in my office,” the detective offered, using his big blue eyes to their full advantage.

  The cop who’d been standing silently in the corner of the room stared at Beckett as though he’d suddenly sprouted horns.

  The old dame narrowed her eyes a bit, but agreed. “It’d be better than being in this dump,” she looked around the room with disdain.

  “Not by much, but I’ll try my best,” Chas chuckled.

  It was seriously hard work being so charming to the little toad that clip-clopped along behind him in expensive designer kitten heels. He might just have to sit in the hot tub for a while with his lovely wife tonight to wipe this experience from memory.

  Miranda sat across the desk from Chas in a soft leather chair, and accepted a cup of delicious Costa Rican coffee, grumbling at the fact that he didn’t have artificial sweetener.

  “So, are you from the city?” he asked amiably.

  “Yep, spent my whole life in Manhattan.”

  “I’m from upstate,” Chas confided.

  “I heard of some Becketts upstate, but they were hoity-toity schmucks, so you can’t be related,” she waved a hand dismissively as the detective covered a smile.

  He was indeed one of the hoity-toity Becketts, who had merely chosen a different direction for his life. He had inherited a third of his father’s estate, empire, and antique car collection, but chose to stay in police work and attempt to live a normal life.

  “So, what brings you to our fair city, Ms. Banks?”

  “I’m on vacation,” she snapped.

  “I see. Are you having a relaxing time?”

  “I was until those goons dragged me out of the bar. I was sitting there, minding my own p’s and q’s and this jerk comes up and asks me how my drink was. He asked me that question, mind you. So, I told him that I didn’t particularly care for it, and he offers to get me another one. Why would I want another drink that I didn’t like? So I told him that I wasn’t gonna pay for the lousy drink and that’s when he made a scene. I was just minding my own business,” she shrugged, examining her talon-like nails.

  “The owner of the bar said that you threatened to grab his private parts and drag him outside for a fight. Does that sound familiar at all?” Chas asked politely.

  “That’s not how I recall the situation, no,” Miranda said primly, gulping at her coffee.

  “Okay, well, let me take care of the paperwork on that one. We want to make certain that you enjoy your stay in Florida,” he offered, with a conciliatory smile.

  “That’s the way it should be,” she nodded so adamantly that her leathery jowls shook.

  “I agree,” the detective nodded. “Hey, Miranda…I don’t suppose you could help me out a little bit, you know, one New Yorker to another?”

  “Maybe. Whaddya need?” her guard went up a tiny bit.

  “This bureaucracy just kills me, but…is there any way that I could ask you a few questions, just so that the chief doesn’t chew me up on procedure? He’s an old school stickler on stuff like that. He doesn’t understand how things work where we came from, you know?”

  “How long is it gonna take?” the old prune sighed dramatically.

  “A cuppa coffee and a New York minute, I swear,” Chas raised his hand and put it over his heart, working the blue eyes big time.

  “Fine, let’s get it over with, but I’ll need that refill first,” she held out her empty cup.

  While he was making the coffee, the detective asked questions casually, friend to friend.

  “So, did you hang out at Joe’s last night too?”

  “Heck no, the place is a dump. I went to the Seaside and had oysters and martinis.”

  “Goodness, I’m glad you got in safely. You didn’t drive did you?”

  “Nope, took a cab.”

  “Do you remember what time it was?”

  “Does it matter? Sheesh, what is this Chazzie, an interrogation?” Miranda wheezed a laugh.

  “Feels like it, doesn’t it?” the detective chuckled. “Confidentially, the chief is all about timelines. He’s gotta have a timeline, so if I can just show him that you haven’t caused any trouble since you’ve been here, we’re both off the hook.”

  “Yeah, I hear ya. I’m a hard-core boss sometimes too. I took the cab back to my hotel at around 11:00. Went to the bar at the hotel for a bloody mary – needed my vegetables you know – and then went to bed. Some wild criminal I am, eh?”

  “Party girl,” he teased, handing her a fresh cup of coffee. “Where are you staying? Nice place on the beach?”

  “Nah, I hate sand, it gets in everything, even my teeth,” Miranda grimaced and sucked on her teeth. “I’m downtown at the Stafford.”

  “Nice place. Great prime rib,” the detective nodded. “I think I’ve got enough to pacify the Chief for now, thanks for your patience,” he stood.

  “You’re welcome. I’m a good citizen you know. And if you have any other questions,” she looked coquettishly over her shoulder as she headed out the door. “The bar at the Stafford is open until eleven during the week.”

  “Noted,” Chas raised his hand in farewell.

  She walked out with one of his worn ceramic coffee mugs in her hand, and he let her go. There were more than enough fingerprints on the arms of the chair and the edge of the desk. There was also the corner from a packet of sugar that had traces of red lipstick on it that looked suspiciously like the lipstick that stained the cigarette butt that Spencer had found outside the Inn. It was fortuitous that Miranda Banks had been busted for disturbing the peace, and it might just lead to a stalking charge against the volatile publisher.

  CHAPTER 16

  Chas Beckett took one of Echo’s vanilla bean scented candles out of an antique lacquered storage cabinet that was snugged into a discreet corner of his office, setting it on his desk and lighting it after Miranda Banks left, to temper the residual scent of aged cigarette smoke and stale perfume. He wrote down a list of items and poked his head out of the office.

  “Briggs,” he called out, seeing the officer at the end of the hall.

  “Hey, Beckett, man I’m sorry that I had to call you in on that one, but that old bird was losing her mind,” Briggs began.

  “No worries, it’s all good,” Chas cut him off. “But if you have a few minutes, there are some things that I need to have chased down.”

  “I think I owe you that, considering,” the officer chuckled. “Whatcha got?”

  Chas handed him the list and explained it to him.

  “Okay, I need the security footage from the Seaside last night between these times,” he pointed to the paper. “Along with the security footage from the Stafford, in the bar and out front, at these times, and call the cab companies to see who made a run from the Seaside to the Stafford within this time frame,” the detective ran his forefinger down the list.

  “That’s it? I’ll have this done in a couple of hours,” Briggs shrugged. “Don’t think I’m strange or anything, but…why does your office smell like cake?” he asked, breathing in deeply.

  “It’s my candle. I have a friend who makes them. I’ll give you her card when you get back,” Chas promised with a chuckle.

  Having dispatched Briggs to chase down evidence that would either support or disprove Miranda’s story, the detective blew out the candle and headed for his car. His next stop would be at the morgue, to go over the strange autopsy results that Timothy Eckels had discovered. Chas felt good about having recommended the rather odd dude for the job. The mortician attacked each case as though determining the cause and circumstances of death was a matter of personal pride to him.

  When he arrived at the morgue, he passed Fiona, Tim’s equally strange assistant on her way out, power-walking with an air of excited determination.

  “Hey Detective,” she called out as she steamrolled by.

  “Ms. McCamish,” Chas replied, amused.

  “Timmy is in the office,” she called out as she exited the building.

  Tim hated when his assistant called him Timmy, which is probably why she did it. Chas just smiled and shook his head. When the detective reached the Medical Examiner’s office, Tim was sitting at the desk, oddly, reading a novel. It was the first time that Chas had seen him reading something other than a technical book or a supply catalog for the mortuary. Timothy Eckels’ life revolved around his job, and to see him taking recreational time while at work was entirely unexpected.

  When the detective knocked softly on the doorframe to get the utterly absorbed mortician’s attention, Tim raised his eyes slowly and blinked several times, clearly still immersed in the world between the pages of the book.