Black Princess Mystery (27 page)

“You think
it was William Murphy? You think he killed his own blood?”

“He killed
one brother, so why not two? If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it
probably is a duck. Yes, I have a strong gut feeling about this guy and both
McNab and I are dying to get our mitts on him.” His phone rang and he spoke
briefly, looking highly surprised. When he hung up, he lifted his eyebrows at
Tasheka. “They found William Murphy.”

“You’re
kidding!” she exclaimed.

“He was
only about forty miles from Lakeside at some camp off the road.”

“Forty
miles?” she said. “He must have been at one of those winter cottages near
Summertime Beach.”

“That’s
exactly where he was. He had the car parked in the trees and was hunkered down
with enough groceries to last a month. The owner of the cottages said he paid
for a week in advance, but then he saw McNab’s public service announcement
about the missing car. He called in immediately.”

“Where is
William Murphy now?”

“They’re
bringing him in and McNab is on his way. Apparently he has Tim Murphy’s wallet
and the priest’s credit card. I don’t want to speculate, but with those things
and the car, it sure sounds like robbery.”

“Right now
robbery is the least of William Murphy’s problems. But if he did it, surely he
wouldn’t have driven only a few miles and taken refuge.”

“Like I
say, people do strange things in these circumstances.”

“That
would be strange,” Tasheka said.

“I have to
go,” he said, touching her hand. “I do not suspect your mother, all right? Are
we cool?”

“All
right,” she agreed.

Shortly
after he left, Tasheka felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness. Then she saw
those flashes again.

She was in the
Paradise
Motel
and they were going at it. “Damn!” she exclaimed, forcing the
memories out of her mind. “Leave me alone!”

Feeling
unbearably agitated, she drove back to her home in Lakeside and parked, but did
not go into the house. It was pitch dark and she took a pen light out of her
glove compartment. She proceeded directly along the Lakeside Road to St.
Timothy’s Church, saw no cars in the driveway or parking lot, and quickly
veered off into the shadows of the trees. The snow crunched underfoot as she
approached the dark rectory, and her heart pounded every time a car drove past
on the main road. Like a practiced thief, Tasheka slipped behind the rectory,
found the ladder that hung on the back wall, and placed it against a low point
on the roof. Without hesitation she climbed up, scurried across a section of
roof, and then climbed onto a wide ledge. From there she could reach the window
she had surreptitiously unlocked in Father Tim’s room. Quietly, ever so
quietly, she opened the window and even though it made only a slight creak, it
seemed to her that the sound carried far into the distance.

After
waiting several seconds, Tasheka climbed into the room and took off her
snow-covered boots, placing them outside on the ledge. She removed the little
flashlight from her purse and, for some reason, felt a great rush of guilt.
Tasheka took a deep breath, regained her equilibrium, and then switched on her
flashlight. She moved the stool and mat, and then opened up the secret hiding
spot. There she found the paper that had slipped out of her hand earlier.
Tasheka pointed the flashlight and read what she saw:

“M-Bexter-Nat,”
she mumbled, reading the same message she had seen the morning she discovered
the body. In capital letters, under ‘M-Bexter-Nat’, was the word: “SEXY.” In
was written in Father Murphy’s clumsy hand.

Tasheka
furrowed her brows, slipped the paper into her pocket, put everything back in
order, and left. She went home and sat on the bed, placing the message beside
her. She knew it was the key to the murder.

M-Bexter-Nat.

Chapter
Seventeen

At ten,
after tracking down Detective McNab’s number on her computer, Tasheka called
him.

“Hello,”
he said. “I was expecting your call, Miss Green, but not on Christmas Eve.”

“Are you
investigating my mother for the murder of Father Tim Murphy?”

“That’s
confidential information.”

“If you
are investigating her,” Tasheka persisted, “I will have our family lawyer
contact you. Perhaps you know him. Philip Masterson of Masterson, Jennings and
Shapiro.”

“Everyone
knows who Pitbull Masterson is.”

“In no way
do I want my mother harassed. If that happens, all hell will break loose,
detective.”

“I think
all hell has already broken loose, Miss Green. That’s why I’m doing my job and
tracking down every lead, no matter how small.” He cleared his throat. “Listen,
Miss Green, I know you’re used to getting whatever you want, but a man has been
murdered and I’m the lead detective. I take that very, very seriously. So if
you want to unleash Pitbull Masterson on me, go ahead. Unleash a whole kennel
full of pit bulls if you want. I’m still going to do my job, whether you like
it or not.”

“If you
harass my mother, I’ll have your head on a stick.”

McNab did
not respond for several seconds. “Are you feeling well, Miss Green? You sound
unstable.”

Tasheka
remained silent.

McNab waited
a moment before replying. “You don’t scare me, little girl. I’ve been on the
force longer than you’ve been alive.” He cleared his throat. “But there is
something I would like to discuss with you.”

“Shoot.”

“I’d like
to speak with you in person.”

“Why?”

“I think I
know who killed Father Timothy Murphy.”

“Let’s do
it,” Tasheka said. “My mother won’t be home until tomorrow. Can you come to my
house right now?”

“Really?
It’s not too late?”

“I always
stay up late,” she said. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I’ll be
there in thirty minutes.”

“I’ll be
waiting.”

True to
his word, McNab pulled into her yard thirty minutes later. As he was about to
knock on the door, Tasheka opened it. “Come in, Detective McNab,” she said
warmly, “so nice of you to drop by.” He stepped over the threshold, hat in
hand, and she closed the door behind him. “Come in,” she said, leading the way.
“I put Kie downstairs so he wouldn’t jump up on you.”

“How
thoughtful,” McNab said.

Once they
arrived in the opulent living room, McNab was clearly stunned by the beauty of
it. The couch was large and luxurious, colorful Victorian lamps flanking either
end. The polished hardwood floor gleamed, reflecting the golden hue of the
fireplace, and atop the marble mantle sat a framed photo of Father Tim Murphy standing
at the fair with Tasheka and her mother. There were also two recliner chairs, a
red wicker love seat with flowery cushions, and a handsome chess set in the
corner. It sat on a mahogany table and there were two chairs for players.

“Do you
play?” asked McNab, strolling up to the chess set.

“Still
learning,” Tasheka said.

“Game?”
McNab inquired, glancing at her with false warmth.

“It would
be a pleasure.”

“Thank
you,” he said, sitting at the table and eying the expensive ivory pieces. “I’ve
never seen a set like this. It’s very unique.”

She held
up her queen. “With global warming, ice and snow is melting in the northern
hemisphere. Did you know treasure hunters are finding mastodon tusks in
Siberia?”

“I didn’t
know that.”

“It’s
true. These tusks are perfectly preserved and they’ve sat there frozen in ice
for tens of thousands of years.” She showed the bishop. “Every one of these
pieces was carved from the best quality mastodon ivory by the great St.
Petersburg artisan himself, Anatoly Chernyshevsky. It’s one of a kind.”

“Just like
you, Miss Green,” McNab said, looking deeply into her eyes.

“And just
like you, detective. I suppose everybody is a one of a kind.”

“I suppose
so,” he casually replied, moving his first pawn forward. “I must say I’m
impressed with your accommodations, Miss Green. Everything is first class.”

“You’ll be
more impressed by the time you leave tonight,” Tasheka said.

“Oh, why’s
that?”

Tasheka
sat down across from him, lowered her head and slightly lifted her eyes. Though
McNab was a study in politeness, Tasheka was impressed by his intensity. She
could see his mind churning even when he was doing nothing. He was the type of
man who heard and saw everything. Nothing went by him unnoticed. Had he
suddenly left the house, Tasheka was sure he could describe in minute detail
every square inch of what he had seen, including her, the clothes she wore, the
words she spoke, even every piece of furniture. It was as if he was some kind
of camera recording the world in front of him. Tasheka moved a pawn.

McNab
moved another pawn forward. “You and your mother live very comfortably.”

“Yes, we
do,” Tasheka said, making another move. “My father was a wealthy man who
provided well for us.”

McNab ran
his fingers over the king’s crown. “This chess set must have cost thousands.”

“Ten years
ago it was appraised at over three hundred thousand dollars,” Tasheka noted in
an offhand way.

“Now
that’s impressive,” McNab said, flabbergasted.

“It was a
gift to Dad from a wealthy oil barren in Russia.” She moved her knight and
looked up at him. “Detective McNab, my mother is very emotional. It’s her
Russian heritage.” She kept speaking, though McNab made it seem as if he wasn’t
listening. “She is very frail, very weak. After Dad died, she was in the
hospital for several weeks because of her mental health. There’s no way I want
a repeat of that episode. Any stress on her is something I wish to avoid at all
costs.”

He brought
out a bishop. “Right now we have the unsolved case of a murdered priest. There
is pressure coming from all sides. I have one goal and one goal alone, and
that’s to find the person who did this and bring him—or her—to justice.” He
smiled. “But if someone comes forward and admits to the crime, then everything
else is a moot point, isn’t it?”

“Why would
anyone admit to the crime? If he’s kept it secret this long, why would he
suddenly change course now?”

“Maybe
conscience,” McNab said. “Sometimes people get angry and do things they
shouldn’t, but they are not evil people. They have a conscience. Maybe that
conscience is bothering her. Maybe she needs to come clean. I’m sure she would
feel a lot better if she did.”

Tasheka
brought out her knight. “Father Tim was a good friend of mine and I want
nothing more than to find the person who killed him, but I cannot have my
mother threatened. Obviously you have to conduct an investigation, but please
be tactful in regards to my mother.”

McNab
smiled strangely and brought out a knight. “I’m always tactful, little lady.”

Tasheka
bristled at being referred to as little lady.

“I’m not
overly interested in your mother,” McNab admitted casually. “I look around me
and see wealth, comfort, and a very nice standard of living. Why would a woman
risk all that? I lied in bed thinking about that last night, you know. Would a
woman of your mother’s standing risk losing all this and being sent to jail for
the rest of her life?”

“Good
point,” Tasheka agreed. “That makes no sense.”

He looked
around the room. “It makes no sense at all, but people aren’t completely
rational now, are they? People have emotions that sometimes rule their minds.
Yet I ask myself how strong these emotions would have to be to take such a
risk. I investigated your mother and I know she was enamored with the priest. I
even talked to the police psychologist and he told me it was probably a rebound
effect. The death of your father was a tremendous blow, you were at university,
and she had no one. It was only natural that she should need someone to fill
the void. Now Tim Murphy had some good qualities, but he was also a man who,
how shall I say it, was morally challenged. He played with your mother, used
her, and disrespected her. She realized this, of course, and gave him his
walking papers. One night, in a lapse of judgment, she told a man at Mike
Power’s store that she would pay him to kill Tim Murphy. There were witnesses.”

“She was
on medication,” Tasheka snapped back, moving her queen. “The doctor will tell
you she was not responsible for her words during that episode.”

“I believe
you,” McNab returned, moving his queen. “The mere fact that there were
witnesses discounts her in my mind. If she was serious, she would have secretly
contacted someone and made arrangements in a surreptitious way. But she made
this offer in front of several people in a public store. It was not to be taken
seriously and I investigated her only as a matter of course, to satisfy my
superiors.”

Tasheka
seemed relaxed and made another move. “So she’s not a credible suspect?”

“Not to
me,” McNab dismissed with impunity. “Your mother is emotional, but a killer?
No, I never thought that.” He pondered his next move for a long time. “But
there is something of particular interest to me.”

“Oh?”

“Police
ranks are, like any other profession, filled with individuals who think in a
variety of ways. One constant theme is that because the crime was similar to
some others, we may have a serial killer on our hands. Perhaps the priest was
one of many victims. Even though we have no history of a serial killer near
Lakeside, there’s a chance a serial killer is an outsider who came in for a
one-day excursion. What do you think? I know you have even been studying serial
killers.”

Tasheka
was not surprised by his knowledge of her, but smirked as she made the next
move. “You seem to know a lot about me.”

“I know a
lot about everybody. It’s my business.”

“Do I
think this is the work of a serial killer?” Tasheka asked, rubbing her hands.
“You know, I was wondering that the last few days. This certainly wasn’t a
typical murder. How many priests are executed like that, especially under those
conditions? And the cutting off of the hand is a red flag.”

McNab
nodded as he stared at the board.

“It’s
possibly the work of a serial killer,” Tasheka speculated. “What’s your
opinion?”

He moved
another piece and seemed delighted with his play. “If it is a serial killer, it
could be most anyone. Sometimes victims are chosen at random by the men and
women who do this. That’s what makes catching a serial killer so difficult.”

“Men,”
Tasheka said.

“Excuse
me?” McNab asked, looking at her.

“Male
serial killers work like that, but women act much differently.”

“Detective
Henry made a point of insisting your mother could not be involved,” McNab
casually mentioned, “and he speaks very highly of you. I believe he thinks you
have some special insights into the mind of a female killer. Is that accurate?”

“Female
serial killers usually kill people they know.”

“I have
found that to be the case,” McNab agreed, nodding. “Tell me, since you know so
much, do female serial killers fall into categories, or are they one of a
kind?”

“Female
serial killers fall roughly into five categories,” Tasheka noted. “There are
comfort killers, visionaries, power seekers, hedonists and disciples. Comfort
killers are the most prevalent. She kills someone she knows, someone whose
death can benefit her financially: a husband, boyfriend, or a person in her
care. Dorothea Puente, for instance, killed seven of her lodgers for their
social security checks and buried the bodies in her garden.”

“Yes,” he
said, nodding. “I’ve had a few women cross my path that would fit into the
comfort killer category.”

“The
visionary serial killer,” Tasheka continued, “has a break with reality and is
the type who hears voices. Martha Wise comes to mind. She said the devil
followed her and forced her to poison her mother, her aunt and her uncle. She
tried but failed to kill other members of the family.”

“Fascinating,”
said McNab, studying Tasheka with his penetrating eyes. “You mentioned power
seekers. Who are they?”

“Power
seekers are people who have a pathological need to dominate. And what affords
greater domination of one person over another than murder?”