Killer confession, p.1
Killer Confession, page 1
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KILLER CONFESSION
Jamie Winters Mysteries book #7
by
KELLY REY
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Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2022 by Kelly Rey
Gemma Halliday Publishing
http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
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CHAPTER ONE
I'd always known that my sweet tooth would get me into trouble. It finally did in the local supermarket on the afternoon of September 13th, while I was actively ignoring the healthy fruits and veggies for the tasty sugar and fat of the snack food aisle. I'm not talking about a couple of extra pounds kind of trouble. At 98 pounds, I'd welcome that. A little Tastykake weight could only give me a few much-needed curves.
The trouble came when a woman just on the other side of the endcap said, "Gillian, I've been worried about you since Vic's murder."
"I'm managing," another woman, presumably Gillian, said. "But I can't tell you how hard it's been."
Maizy Emerson elbowed me in the ribs, almost making me drop a box of Butterscotch Krimpets. "Did you hear that? She said murder."
Maizy was the seventeen-year-old niece of my landlord slash man-of-my-dreams, Curt Emerson, and the Batman to my Robin when it came to crime-solving. That is to say, she was the one who programmed the Batcomputer and drove the Batmobile while I stood around in slack-jawed wonder at her insane skill set. Despite the difference in our ages, intellect, employment status, and sleep requirements (she had none of the latter two, too much of the second, and the first, never mind), we'd bonded over our shared affection for Curt as well as the murder investigations we'd managed to bumble into and out of together.
Maizy's go-to look was tattered jeans, a baggy hoodie, scuffed Doc Martens, heavy black eyeliner, and vivid Smurf-blue hair. Maizy sucked up all the oxygen in the room, which was fine by me because I tended to avoid attention like a gremlin avoids sunlight. Probably for the best, since my go-to look was mom jeans, sweatshirts, and bargain bin sneakers.
My name is Jamie Winters. I'm in my early thirties with blah brown hair, meh hazel eyes, and the body of a pubescent boy. Oh, and I drive an antique car—and not the valuable kind. Other than that, I had it going on.
"Do you mind?" I snapped, clutching the box more tightly.
"Mind what?" she asked. "You poisoning yourself with five pounds of sugar and cholesterol and bleached flour? Why should I mind? They're your arteries."
I rolled my eyes. "Let's go. I want to be home before Tattletales comes on." I had a serious crush on the host, Bert Convy—never mind he'd been dead for years. Timing had never been my strong suit.
Maizy grabbed my arm. "Your social life is an inspiration, but I think that's Gillian Hartman's voice. You know who that is, don't you?"
I shook my head. "Not a clue."
She blew out an exasperated sigh. "Gillian Hartman owns Glow." She must have noticed my lack of comprehension. "Glow? The fancy spa in Watersford that charges a couple hundred bucks for a mud wrap?"
Why would people pay someone to wrap them in mud when they could wade into the Delaware River and do it for themselves? Also, that would explain why I didn't know Gillian. Watersford was a pricey historic town along the river, a place where elegant mansions with wraparound porches sprawled beneath hundred-year-old shade trees. Now that she'd brought it up, I remembered a write-up in one of the Philly papers. Glow was so upscale it was practically a private club, catering to the well-to-do, ladies-who-lunch set and local television personalities who favored champagne brunches. I didn't have the financial status to get beyond its glossy red door.
"And," Maizy added, "she's married to Victor Hartman. Or she used to be anyway."
I looked at her blankly.
"The guy who wrote about aliens and gossip and three-legged albino widows?" she prompted.
I felt a jolt of recognition. "You mean those nasty articles in Grapevine?"
She nodded. "And on TV. Vicious Vic's Grapevine Live. But you've probably never seen that, 'cause it comes on at ten p.m. It's a real chuckle-fest. Oh, and he wrote that trashy biography of that rich business guy."
I'd never watched Grapevine Live, but I'd read a few of his gems in the highly profitable rag that trafficked in unverified stories and ridiculous conspiracies. He'd come by his nickname honestly. Vicious Vic had managed to concoct stories worthy of Twilight Zone, stirring them up from the gutter, if necessary, in between skewering celebrities, politicians, and lesser luminaries alike with his stiletto pen. He'd recently published a scorching unauthorized biography about J. Wayne Steele, a local businessman, and his alleged shady deals and stable of sugar babies. If Mr. Steele had been livid after its release, Mrs. Steele had been lethal. Because of Vicious Vic's exposé, she was suing her husband for half his fortune and custody of their Bouvier de Flanders, Pierre Le Chien de Fantaisie aux Cheveux Gonfles, better known as Pip. Rumor had it Vicious Vic slept with one eye open and paid the paper delivery boy to start his car every morning. If he'd been murdered, the field of suspects would be wide and deep.
"Do they have any suspects?" the first woman asked.
Maizy's eyes got wide. She swept aside the boxes of Tastykakes and practically climbed onto the shelf to get a better listen. Murder, she mouthed to me.
I really didn't want to hear it. I shook my head so hard my eyes nearly crossed. Sure, we'd come through our misadventures alive, if no wiser, but that didn't mean I was eager to do it again.
"Not yet," Gillian Whoever said. "The police are still talking to everyone."
Police, Maizy mouthed to me.
"They haven't been able to get in touch with that secretary of his yet," Gillian added. "His boss claims she's conveniently been out on personal leave since Vic died. Not that I trust a word that woman says."
I bristled a little. There'd been an unmistakable element of suspicion in that comment. Why did everyone always blame the secretary? Why did someone like Vicious Vic even have a secretary? He hadn't needed any help in slinging the mud.
Shady, Maizy mouthed to me.
Maizy had a big mouth. I'd had enough of it and launched into an elaborate pantomime routine meant to infer that I was taking my impending sugar buzz to the checkout.
She rushed over to me. "Where are you going? We can't leave now. This is a new case for us."
"I don't want a new case," I told her. "I'm still not over the old case."
"You might not want it," she said. "But you need it. It's not healthy to obsess over the past."
"It was three weeks ago," I said.
She shrugged. "Not the point. You have to learn to let go."
"Good advice," I told her. "You have to—"
Two women suddenly emerged from the next aisle, both dressed impeccably, both with mirror-smooth, blonde bobs, both carrying bags that could not only accommodate every dollar I owned in the universe but cost it as well.
"Here's our chance." Maizy gave me a shove, and I stumbled directly in front of them like a sloppy drunk, blocking their path. They each took a simultaneous step back with matching expressions of horror. Which I really didn't get because, while I might not have been ready for Fashion Week, I didn't think I looked that bad.
"Excuse me," I mumbled. "I didn't mean to—"
"You're Gillian Hartman, aren't you?" Maizy stepped up beside me, holding a slip of paper between two fingers. I frowned down at it, but she passed it to Gillian too quickly for me to read it. "It sounds like you could use our services."
Our services? We didn't have services.
Gillian barely looked at the paper. Instead, she stared at Maizy's blue hair. "Who on Earth did that to you?"
"Did what?" Maizy asked.
"Your hair is blue," her companion said, managing to sound polite as she gaped.
"Oh. That." Maizy shrugged. "Accident of birth. Anyway, about your husband's death. Sympathies, condolences, blah, blah, blah. We can help you find out who killed him."
Gillian blinked
"I know he's dead," Maizy said. "And thanks to the acoustics on Aisle 7, I know he was murdered. That's where we come in."
Her approach could have used some work, but it prompted Gillian to finally read the paper in her hand. "Tee? What's Tee? What is this?"
"Tee is me," Maizy said. "That number is the Pibbs Investigations hotline."
Tee? Pibbs Investigations? That familiar sense of dread started to swirl around my gut. Maizy had found her newest adventure.
"Are you trying to tell me you two are investigators?" Gillian asked.
"Not trying to," Maizy said. "You'll find I'm fairly succinct."
She narrowed her eyes. "Aren't you a little young to be a private investigator?"
Maizy pointed her chin at me. "Don't worry, my partner ups our average age considerably."
"I don't know about considerably," I said through tight lips. And what was with Pibbs? The only Pibbs I'd ever heard of was Miss Pibbs, aka Ashley, the calico cat I'd liberated from a murder suspect after she'd gone on the lam, then given a more fitting name. Would Maizy possibly do something so outrageous as to call herself Tee and concoct a phony private investigation business using the discarded name of a purloined cat?
Of course she would.
I nudged her. "Can I talk to you?"
"Plenty of time for talking later," she said. "While we work on this case."
"I haven't agreed to that," Gillian cut in. "And I'm not going to. You're rude and tactless, and you have blue hair."
Maizy stared at her open-mouthed before shaking her head. "Wow. Seriously?"
"She's not rude—" I began defensively.
Maizy interrupted me. "You think blue hair signifies some kind of intellectual challenge?"
"This conversation is over," Gillian said. She brushed past us, her chin in the air. "Come on, Evelyn."
Maizy stuck her hands on her hips and turned to stare at me. "Tell me she was kidding."
I gave a helpless shrug. I didn't think she'd been kidding. She'd looked dead dog serious to me. Or was that dead husband?
Evelyn lingered behind with a glance after Gillian. She kept her voice low. "Don't mind her. She's not usually like that. It's just with all that's going on…"
"We understand," I said. "She's stressed. We're stressed. Life is stressful. What can you say?" I looked at Maizy. "We did all we could."
Maizy snorted. "Hardly."
"She won't hire you, you know," Evelyn said. "There's no point in pushing her. She doesn't believe in private detectives."
"Believe in them?" Maizy repeated. "We're not ghosts."
Evelyn colored slightly. "That's not what I meant. She's a very private person, and the idea of an investigator poking around, invading that privacy, is horrifying to her."
"We understand," I said. "No hard feelings. Nice meeting you."
Evelyn shot another glance in Gillian's direction. "But there might be another way."
"There usually is," Maizy said. "We're listening."
Maybe she was, but I wasn't. I was busy eyeing those chocolate Kandy Kakes.
"Gillian's got a sister," Evelyn said, "Her name's Heather Baddenlooper and—"
I cut in. "Baddenlooper?" I remembered that name. Anyone who'd ever heard it would remember it. Heather Baddenlooper had been, maybe still was, a client of Parker Dennis, the law firm where I slogged through eight grueling hours a day avoiding my bosses and deciphering lawyer scribble.
"You know her?" Maizy asked me.
I didn't want to divulge any of Heather's personal business. I shook my head. "It's just an unusual name."
"Not if your name's Hoppenscotcher," Maizy said.
I ignored her.
"Heather's easier to deal with," Evelyn told us. "She's less, you know…" She trailed off.
"Superstitious?" Maizy asked.
"Private?" I asked.
"Volatile," Evelyn said. "In fact, Heather always reminded me of Tinkerbell somehow. She works at Bamboo, the hair salon at Main and Fifth? I'm sure she'd be interested in hiring you."
Oh, great. A fancy spa and a hair salon. It was like my worst nightmares come to life as conjoined twins. I ran a furtive hand across my hair.
Maizy pushed it down. "Be who you are."
Sure. That had gotten me far in life.
"I'm going to put Heather in touch with you," Evelyn said. "I know she'll want you to look into Vic's death."
"Why would she hire us if her sister won't?" I asked. And why had I asked that question? I didn't want anyone to hire us. I wanted to go home and watch forty-year-old game shows and eat Tastykakes.
She sighed. "Look, I know we're talking about Vicious Vic Hartman here. He was no one's favorite person. I get that. But Heather was close to her brother-in-law and is very close to her sister."
"Thanks," Maizy said. "But we don't chase clients." All evidence to the contrary, since at this very moment we were standing in a supermarket doing just that. Maizy whipped out another scrap of paper and scribbled her cell number on it. "Give this to Heather, and we'll see what happens."
Evelyn looked at it. "Are you T. Pibbs?"
"I can neither confirm nor deny," Maizy said. "My identity is classified. She can speak freely to the person who answers the call."
I turned my head so that Evelyn wouldn't see my eye roll. I waited until she had tucked the paper into her purse and hurried off, shopping basket in hand, before I turned on Maizy. "Are you happy now?"
"That question implies that I'm sometimes unhappy," Maizy said. "But false assumptions aside, yes, I'm happy. We've got another case."
"No, we don't. You heard her. Gillian won't hire us."
"But Heather Boopenlager will," Maizy said.
"Baddenlooper."
She steamrolled on. "Now we need to lay some groundwork and find out more about Vicious Vic."
I already knew enough about him to know I didn't want to know anything else.
"I've already got a job," I said. "If you want to waste your time researching this guy for nothing, be my guest."
Maizy's cell phone rang. She glanced at the screen, and a little smile played across her lips. She answered it in a brisk, professional tone. "Pibbs Investigations. Tee speaking."
My jaw went slack.
"I've been expecting your call." Maizy grinned at me. "Did she? Well, isn't she efficient. Of course my partner and I will be happy to meet with you. Two o'clock it is." She disconnected the call.
I glanced around for hidden cameras. "Am I being punked?"
"Why are you so surprised?" Maizy asked. "I told you we had a case. Evelyn called her from the dairy aisle and told her about us. I like that Evelyn. She's a real go-getter."
"We really need to have a talk," I said.
"Need some more advice about Uncle Curt?" she asked. "Here it is. Put down the Tastykakes, and let's go buy you a cookbook. Man cannot live on takeout pizza alone."
"Then Man can pick up a spatula and cook his own meals," I said.
She grinned. "Sometimes I'm proud to call you my mentor."
"You never call me your mentor."
"Well, this isn't one of those times," she said. "Anyway, I didn't say you had to make a habit out of cooking or whatever that is you do in the kitchen. Once a month ought to take care of it."
Good thing. Even I didn't want to make a habit out of eating my own cooking.
"I can't blame you," she said with a grimace. "You should probably stick with cereal and leave the complicated food to the pros."
"I told you to stop doing that," I snapped. Maizy had an annoying habit of climbing inside my head—no telling when she might decide to rewire the circuitry just for fun.
"Fish in a barrel," she said with a shrug.
"Besides," I added, "your boyfriend lives on french fries."
"That's different," she said. "Grunt's not my boyfriend. He's my X chromosome challenged associate."
We'd met Grunthold Grimm, Grunt for short, during the course of one of our alleged investigations, when he'd emerged from the shadows inside a dead mall where Maizy, Curt and I had been meeting an informant. Grunt thought age was irrelevant and money was immaterial, probably because he was young and loaded. It turned out Grunt's implacable Zen had been a cover for a laconic overachiever with a dozen patents, a slightly skewed worldview, and an IQ that rivaled Maizy's. They'd hit it off instantly. I liked Grunt, but he was way more boyfriend than associate by any definition.
