Two Scoops of Murder (Felicity Bell Book 2) (11 page)

D
orothy Valour plunked
her perky butt down on the pink plastic chair and took a sip from her appletini, then checked her phone. Still no message from Reece. She and her BFF Avril were partying hard at the latest greatest Village club and so far so good. The place was packed, the owner had personally greeted her at the door, and she’d lit up the dance floor with her signature moves, then joined the DJ to spin the latest tune.

Now if only she could get her future husband to toe the party line…

Reece hadn’t returned her last three messages and frankly she was getting fed up. She’d already posted a veiled message on her Facebook and Twitter feeds that she was in a very bad mood, a selfie of her famous pout speaking volumes, and for the cretins amongst her followers had added that someone was about to feel the heat. The post had been shared thousands of times but still no response from the culprit.

She didn’t get it. Why would he be hobnobbing with his father at a time like this? There was so much stuff to take care of right now. Parties to go to and friends to see and about a million decisions to make for the wedding and he chose this time to go off the grid.

For a brief moment she played with the idea of heading down to Long Island to pay him and his yokel dad a surprise visit but then decided against it. Men came to Dorothy Valour, not the other way around. She believed in training her men, and she needed to put it into Reece’s head that Dorothy Valour always came first, no matter what.

She decided that the time for half-measures was over. If he didn’t return to New York right now she would simply call off the wedding and shame Reece Hudson before the whole world.

Not that she meant it, of course, but that’s just how she rolled.

The pounding music was starting to give her a splitting headache and she dug around her purse for an Advil, then glugged it down with another appletini—drinks were on the house, after all.

Reece had sent her a picture of a dog. Apparently his dad had gifted him some stupid mutt and she was supposed to get all excited about it? She’d immediately texted back that she was a Peke girl and would never betray her darlings by bringing some mongrel into the house. He hadn’t responded.

She took another selfie, pulling a sad face, this time backlit by the strobes firing on the dance floor and posted it on Instagram, adding the caption
‘partying alone tonite #achybreakyheart.’
If her fan base didn’t go wild now, she didn’t know them very well. This would go viral, and would be in every tabloid the world over, beneath headlines suggesting the end of Doreece.

Then she sent the selfie to Reece, adding
‘Feeling lonely tonite. Missing my Reecie.’

She grinned as she hit send. If he didn’t come crawling back now, she wasn’t the woman she knew she was.

R
eece’s phone dinged
, and he checked the message. He frowned at Dorothy’s latest shenanigan and felt the anger rise in his gut like bile. The woman seemed to think he was her little lapdog and that he was put on this earth to jump through her hoops. Well, she had another thing coming. He switched off the phone and shoved it into his pocket. Radio silence. He frankly needed it.

When he looked up he saw that his father was watching him, a twinkle in his eye. “That fiancée of yours again?”

Reece nodded. “She’s…”

“Needy?”

“Well…”

“Manipulative?”

In spite of himself he grinned. Dad had Dorothy’s number, that was for sure. He checked the firing line, where a couple of customers occupied booths and were now engaged in aiming their rented guns at the targets, squeezing off shot after shot.

He’d spent so much time here as a kid that just to be back gave him a warm and fuzzy feeling most people didn’t associate with gun ranges. Back then he’d sat tucked away safely behind the counter with his dad, as the latter checked IDs and handed out guns and ammo.

Mom had usually taken care of the house while the range was Dad’s domain. Then Mom had died when he was seven, and it had just been him and his old man. He now felt as if he’d never been away, and it felt great not only to be back but also to find that the good people of Happy Bays weren’t star struck at all.

Everyone knew who he was, of course, but they didn’t treat him differently. No awkwardness, no selfies, no nonsense of any kind, and even as he walked down the street people acted normal, not freaking out and staring after him as if he’d just flown in from Mars. In fact Happy Bays just might be the only place on the planet where he could be himself.

Then he trained his eyes on the backs of Alice and Felicity as they stood at the range. Alice was teaching her friend to shoot and had gifted her a mighty nice gun too, straight from her uncle’s gun shop. As far as he could tell Alice was a great shot. Felicity? Not so much. Though she did throw a mean punch. He touched his nose, which was still sore. Yeah, she was one tough cookie, that one.

His eyes drifted back to Alice. The way she’d stood there in the barn had bowled him over. So fresh-faced and natural. Nothing like the fake blondes out in Los Angeles. And nothing, he was forced to admit, like Dorothy Valour.

“Do you mind taking care of the store for a bit, Reece? I want to go check on something,” Dad said as he stood and stretched his limber frame. At sixty-one, the old man was still in fine fettle.

“Sure thing, Dad. Take all the time you need,” he said as he settled back behind the counter. And as he sank deeper into his chair he found his mind straying to the worrisome thing Felicity had told him about.

A murderer in Happy Bays? It seemed impossible. Who in their right mind would want to murder Alistair Long? The man was a gentle soul. He needed to ask Dad. If anybody knew about guns and who owned them in Happy Bays, it was him. And it was then that a disconcerting thought occurred to him. Dad had been one of the few people who’d had a falling-out with Alistair. After Alistair had accidentally killed Benji the two hadn’t been on speaking terms for a while. Could Dad have had something to do with the murder? As soon as the thought popped up he dismissed it again. Of course not. Dad was not a murderer. And over a dog? Nah, that was just crazy talk.

And as he found his gaze drawn to Alice once again he thought she looked really pretty with those earmuffs over her blond tresses. Real pretty indeed.

“
I
’ve been wondering
the same thing all along,” Nathan said. He cast a malevolent eye at the cozy street outside the café window. He didn’t like cozy streets. He didn’t like small towns. And he sure as heck didn’t like Happy Bays.

“You have, huh?” Malcolm said.

Nathan returned his eye to his partner. “There’s something fishy going down. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times.”

“But you haven’t said it a million times.” Malcolm counted on his fingers. “As far as I can tell you’ve only said it twice.” He frowned, thinking hard, then nodded again. “Yep. Twice.”

Nathan’s frown deepened. “It’s just a figure of speech, you moron.”

The two men were seated in Jack’s Joint, a small café in the heart of Happy Bays, just off Loy Street, nursing their drinks. They were both of average build, average height, average age, sporting average faces and looking, to all intents and purposes, absolutely average. Which was, in their profession, paramount. When you kill people for a living it’s important not to stand out.

Malcolm, who possessed below-average intelligence compared to Nathan, frowned. He had the impression he’d just been insulted, but since he wasn’t entirely certain, he refrained from comment.

“I don’t like it. I just don’t like it.”

“It’s just a job, Nate. Just another job.”

“But it’s not, though, is it?” Nathan rapped the table smartly. “For one thing, why haven’t we been paid? Huh? Can you tell me that?”

“Because we haven’t completed the job yet?”

Nathan shook his head. “I don’t like it. I just…don’t like it.” He swept a hand at the window. “And then there’s this town. This creepy little town. With all these creepy little people.”

“What don’t you like about them? They’re friendly enough.”

“That’s just it! They’re too friendly!” He let his eye roam over the other patrons, who all seemed to have too much fun in his opinion. No one was supposed to have this much fun, especially if you lived in a small town called Happy Bays. He eyed them suspiciously. “I think they know.”

“That’s impossible. How could they?”

Nathan shrugged and took a swig from his beer. Malcolm was right. It was impossible. For one thing, they were professionals. They hadn’t stayed in the game for over a decade without being extra careful. Even now, when all they needed to do was kill an old couple, they’d taken every precaution not to get caught.

When he’d pulled the trigger and iced Alistair Long he’d picked up the slug, used booties to cover his tracks, and had parked the car far enough away that his tire tracks would merge with the others on that narrow country road. And Malcolm had kept an eye out so they wouldn’t be disturbed. And yet this whole assignment didn’t sit well with him.

Usually he didn’t even accept a job unless he was paid in advance, but this time the reward had been so handsome and the job so simple that he hadn’t thought twice. And then there was that loan shark he owed money to. Atlantic City didn’t become him.

“Let’s just get it over with,” he grumbled.

“You’re right,” Malcolm said with a sigh. “But she’s such a nice old lady, and classy too. Remember how she gave me those scones for breakfast? After I complained that I couldn’t digest the muffins? She had them ordered especially for me.”

“I know. I love those scones.” It was about the only thing he did love about this town. That and pretty much everything else at that bakery. After their first meeting with the client they’d dropped by Bell’s Bakery & Tea Room, and were surprised to bump into their target. Mary Long had even recognized them and shown them where they could find ‘the best scones on Long Island.’ She was right. They were the best.

For a moment he’d felt sorry about having to kill both her and her husband, but now that the husband was gone, he no longer had that compunction. After all, the lady was grieving. What better way to alleviate her pain than to send her to the same place her husband was at? If you looked at it that way it was an act of mercy, really.

“How do you want to do her, Malcolm?”

“I do her? I thought you would do her?”

“I did the husband, now it’s your turn.”

“Oh, but I don’t want to kill her,” Malcolm lamented. “Those scones!”

“Those scones will be there with or without her.”

“That’s not what I mean. She’s so nice.”

“Yeah, well, they’re all nice. And whether I kill her or you kill her, she still gotta be killed, see?”

Malcolm thought about this. “You’re right,” he finally said. His shoulders slumped. “I’ll do her tonight, how’s that sound?”

“Sounds dandy. And then I’ll kill the next one.”

“Next one? You think there’ll be others?”

Nathan spread his arms. “Who knows? Didn’t you see that gleam in the client’s eye? I’m telling you, once they get a taste for blood there’s no telling when they’ll stop. So. How do you want to do her?”

Malcolm pondered this. “What about a knife?”

“Messy. Very messy.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Poison? I could slip her a poisoned scone.”

“Come on, Malcolm. Why get all fancy all of a sudden?”

“Okay, you’re right. I’ll just shoot her.”

“No! No shooting indoors. You never know who might hear.”

Malcolm scrunched up his average face. “What about bashing her brains in?”

Nathan nodded appreciatively. “Now you’re talking. Go on.”

Malcolm gave him a blank look. “Well, that’s it. I just bash her brains in and that’ll be the end of it—her.”

“I like it. It’s simple, it’s quick, it’s fairly clean.”

“And I’ll make sure she doesn’t suffer,” added Malcolm. “We owe her that—for the scones.”

“Sure, sure,” said Nathan easily.

He looked up when a lanky policeman entered. Though usually he felt uneasy when meeting an officer of the law, something about this one told him they had nothing to worry about. They’d even met him at Bell’s, and had exchanged a few words with the man.

He’d deemed him absolutely harmless and hadn’t detected even a glint of intelligence behind those cow-like eyes. At least that part was all good. Happy Bays might be as loathsome a small town as small towns go, but as far as cops and scones were concerned, they were on velvet.

F
elicity squeezed one eye shut
, stuck out her tongue, and fired off another round. To her own surprise she was actually beginning to like this shooting thing. Of course all of her shots had been wide of the mark. In fact she’d only grazed the target once or twice.

She took off her earmuffs for a moment and was surprised by the noise of the place. “I think I like it!” she yelled.

Alice frowned. “What?!” she hollered back over the din.

“I like it!”

Alice grinned. “Thought you would!”

They put their earmuffs back on and Felicity resumed target practice. This time she was extra careful to make every shot count, and she had the distinct impression she was improving. Of course she couldn’t be sure until Alice punched the button and the card was reeled in by the electronic target carrier. When it finally did, she squealed with delight. One shot had found its mark. It had penetrated the target’s left ear. At least if a perp now walked up to her with a gun she could kill his ear. That would show him.

“Good job!” Alice shouted, giving her a thumbs up.

“I think I’m starting to get the hang of this!”

Alice nodded and handed her the card. “Souvenir!”

She beamed. “This is so going to be framed!” She handled the gun reverently. Perhaps this hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.

She watched with surprise when three familiar figures approached. They were Bettina, Marjorie, and Mabel, and they didn’t look happy.

Alice pointed to the adjoining bar, and the quintet proceeded thither, Felicity tucking the gun into the waistband of her jeans, now feeling like Calamity Jane. Whatever happened, she was ready, willing and more or less able.

The moment they closed the cafeteria door behind them, the noise of the gun range died down, and they all took a table by the window looking out at the firing line.

“What’s wrong?” Felicity asked.

“We just got the call,” Bettina said gravely.

Alice raised her hand to her lips. “Oh no!”

“What call?” Felicity wanted to know. She wasn’t overly familiar with the inner workings of the neighborhood watch committee yet.

“The call from Chief Whitehouse,” said Mabel, her face uncharacteristically serious. “He’s told us off.”

Felicity could make head nor tails of this. “Off? Off what?”

“Off the investigation,” Marjorie clarified. She appeared sheepish, as the other women threw her annoyed glances. “I know I shouldn’t have told him!” she suddenly cried. “But we
never
keep secrets from each other.”

“Well, you sure as heck should have kept this one,” remarked Alice.

“I know,” said Marjorie, casting down her eyes.

Felicity had the impression she’d been admitted to a secret club but the members had forgotten to hand her the rulebook. “Secrets? What secrets? From whom?”

Alice turned to her. “Marjorie has gone and told Virgil we’re working the case and Virgil has gone and told my father and now he’s gone and told us we can’t work the case anymore.” She rolled her eyes. “He
always
does that. Every time I’m having fun he has to go and spoil everything. Remember that one time I was going to stuff a dead snake in Kimberly Layan’s lunchbox and he caught me taking it to school?” She shook her head, disgusted. “He actually made me fess up to Kimberly. Spoilsport.”

It seemed to Felicity that a murder investigation was quite a different matter altogether from playing a prank in middle school, but she refrained from voicing the thought. “But we don’t care, do we? I mean, your father is not the boss of us. He can’t tell us what to do.”

“He can and he will,” said Alice gloomily. “He’ll warn off all the suspects. Tell them not to talk to us in any way, shape or form.”

“Can he do that? He can’t do that!” If this was the case, Felicity’s article was doomed.

“Of course he can,” acknowledged Mabel gloomily. “He’s done it before and he’ll do it again.”

“So you mean if we want to talk to Mary Long or Peter Conch—”

“No one will talk to us.” Bettina gritted her teeth. “This is the end.”

“I’m so sorry,” Marjorie said feebly.

“It’s not so much you we’re blaming, honey,” said Mabel. “It’s that son of yours. Virgil should decide once and for all whose side he’s one. Ours or the chief’s.”

And with those words, a heavy silence descended upon the company, only broken by the sonorous voice of Reece Hudson. “What can I get you ladies?”

Instantly, the mood lifted, as five pairs of eyes traveled up to the handsome movie star and a collective sigh seemed to hang in the air. The investigation might have gone down the drain, but at least they would be able to tell their grandchildren that they’d been served by a bona fide Hollywood movie star.