Serenity Stalked Read online

  He wondered what it would be like to lose. Part of him wanted to. But perhaps he desired it to be more interesting. He still got the surge of adrenaline from every kill, but he wanted more. The thrill was lessening. He needed to find a way to increase the danger or level of difficulty if he wanted to maintain the same sense of excitement. Killing was his drug and he was feeling as if he needed a higher dose.

  Now all that remained was to ransack the house, steal a few valuables to make it look like a botched robbery, and get out before anything else could go wrong.

  6

  Shelby spent the night tossing and turning. Mrs. Blair was in trouble, trapped in an abusive relationship. Yes, she was lying to herself and choosing to stay in the situation, but there was something in her eyes, a cry for help or a deep sadness that haunted Shelby. It was none of his business, but he couldn’t get it out of his mind. So, against his better judgment, he decided to make one more visit to the Blair house, hoping Jim would be at work and he could speak with Mrs. Blair alone. Perhaps she would be more apt to speak up if away from the dominating influence of her husband.

  When Shelby arrived at the Blairs’ street, he found the house cordoned off from the public with crime scene tape and loitering cops. He spotted a young woman he didn’t recognize, but she stood inside the crime tape and was taking notes.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked.

  The woman looked up. “Are you a reporter?”

  “No. I had business with James Blair.”

  “Not now, you don’t.”

  “Dead?”

  She nodded. “A robbery gone bad, they’re saying.”

  “How many victims?”

  “Three. Jim, his wife…” She trailed off.

  “Not the baby.”

  The woman nodded. “Worst thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “How were they killed?”

  “Stabbed.”

  “Who found the bodies?”

  “The nanny. She had a key.”

  Shelby held out his hand. “My name’s Shelby. Shelby Alexander.”

  “I’ve heard the name. I’m Quinn Edwards. Call me Quinn.”

  “Nice to know you, Quinn. How long have you been in Serenity?”

  “Not long. I’m here doing research for a new book.”

  “You’re a writer?”

  “I’ve published some true crime books.”

  “Anything I’ve read?”

  “I don’t know what you’ve read. Deep Passions was optioned by HBO. That’s my most well-known work.” Quinn squinted at him. “You were involved in the firefight with the Ellis crime family.”

  “It seems a bit much to call them a crime family. But yes. Word travels fast.”

  “I pay close attention to any crime-related news. The only reason I know your name, though, was from talk among cops. It wasn’t in much of the media coverage.”

  “By design.”

  “You don’t seem shy.”

  “Not shy. Discreet.”

  Quinn volunteered a small smile. “Figures. The few things I’ve heard about you have been mixed.”

  “Mixed?”

  “Some like you, some don’t.”

  “I have a tendency to piss people off.”

  “Sheriff Wilkes must have been one of them.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I asked him about you when I first arrived in town. He almost sent me packing.”

  Shelby shrugged. “He and I got off on the wrong foot.”

  Quinn grinned and took a surreptitious glance around. “You don’t have to explain. I can already see Wilkes rubs a lot of people the wrong way.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I’d rather not say. I’m here because of his generosity and I’d like to stay in his good graces. At least until I have all the information I need.”

  “Understood. I don’t suppose I could go inside.”

  Quinn shook her head. “I doubt it. I got a peek, but that was because I arrived with Wilkes.”

  “Wilkes is here, then. He would be.”

  “You don’t want to see in there anyway. This isn’t my first crime scene, but it’s still going to give me nightmares.”

  Shelby grimaced and looked away.

  “So you knew the Blairs?” Quinn said.

  “Through a friend.”

  “Who’s the friend?”

  “It’s not important.”

  Shelby didn’t want to involve Carly. He knew she had nothing to do with the murders, but he didn’t trust Wilkes. The sheriff knew she was connected with Shelby and love triangles were the bread and butter of murder investigations. Better to let the botched robbery theory hold.

  “Edwards!”

  Wilkes stood on the front steps. He did not look pleased.

  “Well, shit,” Quinn said. “I believe he’s pissed about me talking to you.”

  “Tell him I was harassing you. He’ll believe anything that makes me look bad.”

  “I’m not worried. See you around, Mr. Alexander.”

  “It’s Shelby.”

  “Sure…Shelby.”

  Shelby walked back toward his Jeep. A nice young woman, Quinn. Intelligent and charming, although Shelby thought he’d seen the glint of cunning in her eyes. If she maintained her connection with Wilkes, she might prove useful.

  7

  Smith kept tabs on the local television channels, and when the triple homicide coverage began, he sat down to watch it all unfold. Apart from committing the acts themselves, his favorite part was watching it all from afar: reporters with their long string of superlatives, the horrified person-on-the-street interviews, the strongly worded police statements. These last were the best. First, the authorities would speak confidently about catching the monster who had committed such a heinous act, then they would appeal to the public for help. Over time, press releases would become more and more infrequent, and lose the high-minded language. Then, to explain away their inability to make an arrest and bring stability back to the community, the police would blame it on some transient who was “certainly hundreds of miles away.” Media coverage, deprived of new information, would die away…and then life would go on. And he would watch it all from the comfort of his living room.

  On the television, a reporter was interviewing a neighbor, a heavyset woman of about sixty. He could tell the neighbor yearned to be relevant as she struggled to provide new information.

  “Did you see anyone suspicious in the area on the night of the murders?” the reporter asked.

  “Well…I don’t know that I did,” the neighbor said. “But you never know about people these days. Anyone I saw around here might have been the one.”

  Smith laughed. Humans were such a pathetic species. Nothing gave them more pleasure than having witnessed a disaster or tragedy, especially if it took the lives of fellow humans. They couldn’t wait to tell all the gruesome details, lest someone else beat them to it. Morbid creatures. They could take disgusting delight in someone else’s misfortune and yet frown upon murder.

  “Did you hear anything last night?” the reporter asked.

  “You know, I did hear a dog bark.”

  “What time?”

  “Oh, about 10:30, I’d say. I remember, because it’s unusual. Not too many dogs bark in this neighborhood. I bet that was when the murders were happening.”

  He laughed again. “Not even close,” he said to the woman on the television.

  In the background, police moved back and forth. Trying to appear busy for the camera, he thought. He noticed a young woman standing on the far side of the shot, talking with an older man. Smith leaned closer to the screen, as if it would help him get a better look. The man seemed familiar, but his back was to the camera. Smith sat back in his chair, hoping the man would turn.

  “They say dogs can sense death,” the neighbor saying. “And I guess they can.”

  “Okay, well, thank you,” the reporter said, swinging back to the camera. “Back to you in the
studio.”

  When the anchors appeared, Smith went to the kitchen for a soda. He could hear them from the other room, saying the same things as always.

  “Such a horrific crime.”

  “How could anyone do such a thing?”

  “Shocking.”

  “This brutal act has rocked the community.”

  Their hypocrisy sickened him. The media was no different from individual humans. They loved the drama. It gave them something to talk about and increased viewership, which had a positive effect on advertising rates. In reality, they were the ones profiting from the murders, not him. The only reason he had taken anything was to make it appear as a robbery. No, he didn’t do it for the money; he did it because he needed to.

  He wondered who the man had been. Not that it mattered. Smith hadn’t lived in Serenity long, but it was not a large town. It wouldn’t be unusual to see someone familiar.

  Feeling tired, he finished his soda and headed to bed. When the emotional high experienced during killings subsided, it left him drained. A long sleep would help. He’d find out in the morning how little progress the police had made.

  8

  Shelby sipped his wine. The red paired perfectly with the medium rare steak. “Stopped by your boyfriend’s house.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.” Carly followed his lead with the wine.

  “Not anymore, he isn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You haven’t been watching the news, I take it.”

  “No. I talk to so many people, often drunk ones, that when I have a day off, I disconnect as much as possible.”

  “He was murdered last night.”

  Carly paused mid-sip.

  “Jim?”

  “And his wife.”

  “Oh my god.”

  “And his baby.”

  “Fuck.”

  “That about sums it up, all right.”

  “Do they know who did it?”

  “Not the last I heard. It looks like robbery was the motive. There was a struggle in the bedroom, so they figure Jim woke up during the robbery and fought with the intruder. But the intruder had a knife.”

  “Oh my god.”

  “Yeah.”

  “A baby.”

  “It takes a cold man to kill a baby.”

  “You assume it was a man?”

  “Jim was a strong guy. I’m not sure a woman would’ve had the strength to fight him. And women aren’t fond of knives. I find it hard to believe a woman would stab a baby.”

  “Women have killed babies before.”

  “True. But not usually in such a personal way.”

  “What do you mean, personal?”

  “Knifing. I’ve been on both ends of a stabbing, Carly. Besides strangling a person with your bare hands, it’s the most personal way I know to kill someone. When a knife goes in, you can feel it cutting muscle and tissue, tearing its way through flesh. The blood spurts and runs down the blade and sometimes over your hand. It’s warm, and you can feel their heartbeat.”

  Carly made a face. “Ugh, stop. We’re drinking red wine.”

  “You asked.”

  “Let the record show I don’t need so much detail next time.”

  “Women don’t kill that way. They don’t like the dirtiness of it.”

  “So you’re saying women don’t have the guts to kill with a knife?”

  “Women can and do use knives, but it’s less choice and more necessity.”

  “A knife is also quieter. That could be part of it.”

  “No doubt. But it also takes a great deal of strength to stab someone to death. More than most people think, if cutting into the upper body. There are all sorts of obstacles a blade could get hung up on.”

  “Well, I think you’re full of bullshit. I can totally see women using knives in murders. I wonder what the data would say about this?” Carly sipped her wine. “Poor Jim.”

  “A hell of a way to go.”

  “He could be an asshole, but I wouldn’t have wished this on him.”

  “Your text message nightmare is over, at least. The only vulgar texts you receive will be from me.”

  “How comforting.” Carly stood up and moved toward the kitchen with her empty plate. “Speaking of which, has all this talk of murder ruined your appetite?”

  “I’ve been eating the whole time.”

  “I wasn’t talking about food.”

  “Ah. Well, in that case, I’m ravenous.”

  “Good,” Carly said, “because I’ve planned a little buffet for you. I went shopping and bought a few things you might like.”

  “Wearables?”

  “I don’t think I’ll be wearing them long.”

  “I’m intrigued.” Shelby ate the last bite of steak and drained his wine. “Let me wash up a little.”

  Shelby walked down the hallway toward the bathroom. He passed the door to her bedroom and paused. He enjoyed a good lingerie show and couldn’t resist a peek inside to see if she had laid anything out on the bed. Feeling like a pervert, he stopped, listened, heard Carly clanking dinnerware in the kitchen, and gripped the knob. He turned it slowly and pressed on the upper part of the door to keep it from squeaking as it opened.

  He peered inside. On the bed were three pairs of lingerie, laid out in perfect symmetry. A red one with lace and tiny matching bows, a purple set with white dots, and a strappy black number that looked so complicated he felt intimidated, envisioning the awkward moments during attempted removal. It would be better to learn the mysteries of this garment ahead of time. He stepped into the room.

  “Jesus!”

  Shelby’s heart hit the back of his throat like a sledgehammer. In the corner stood a naked form, poised and still. It stared at him, silent and menacing. Shelby jumped back and flipped on the light.

  It was a mannequin, a very realistic mannequin.

  “Shelby?”

  He heard Carly running down the hall. She burst into the room, flinging the door wide. There was a pause while she deciphered the situation. Then she fell on the bed, laughing so hard Shelby thought she might have a stroke.

  “What the fuck!” Shelby said, once he regained his voice. “Why do you have a mannequin in here?”

  “Your face! Oh my fucking god! Your—face!”

  “Never mind my face! The fucking mannequin! Why!”

  It took Carly several minutes to pull herself together enough to sit up. Tears streamed down her face.

  “I’m—sorry,” she said.

  “No you’re not. This might as well be the best day of your life.”

  “No, I’m sorry. It’s just—” She broke off in another choking laugh.

  Shelby strode over to the mannequin and grabbed it around the throat with both hands.

  “Remember what I said about choking being the most personal way to kill? I’m about to pop the head off this motherfucker if you don’t explain yourself.”

  “Okay, okay. Don’t hurt it.” Carly stood up and wiped her eyes. “I’m practicing.”

  “For what? Halloween?”

  “No, although that’s an excellent idea. I’m going back to school. For fashion design.”

  Shelby’s anger faded. “That’s fantastic, Carly. When do you start?”

  “I already have. Most of the coursework is online, so I’ll be able to keep working. I’ll have to go downstate a few times, but it’s manageable. I’ve already talked to my boss at the Barn Door.”

  “Have you told your parents?”

  “No. And I won’t, not until I’m done.”

  “They’d like to know.”

  “I’m sure they would. And that’s why I’m not telling them. I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of thinking they bullied me into it. Besides, if I can’t hack it and drop out again…well, I don’t want to deal with their disappointment a second time.”

  “You won’t have any trouble,” Shelby said. “You’re the smartest person I know. Besides me.”

  “Aw, that�
�s the sweetest thing.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Are you still up for dessert? You think your heart can take it?”

  Shelby smiled. “I’ll risk it. But throw a sheet over that thing, will you? I don’t want it watching. There isn’t enough dessert to go around.”

  9

  “Alexander! Open up!”

  Shelby’s eyes blinked open. He took a moment to marshal his wits enough to remember where he was and figure out what was happening. He was at home and someone was banging on his door.

  He rolled out of bed and peered around the blinds on the bedroom window. A sheriff’s car sat in the drive.

  “Alexander!”

  “Wait a goddamn minute!” Shelby roared. “Give a man a chance to get decent, for chrissakes.”

  He pulled on yesterday’s clothes and ran a hand through his greying hair. He glanced in the mirror to make sure his face wasn’t covered in drool and stumbled to the front door. He opened it to find Sheriff Wilkes, fist raised for another knock.

  “Wilkes, what the goddamn fuck are you doing?”

  “Don’t tell me you were still asleep,” Wilkes said. “I thought people your age were early risers.”

  “Hilarious. What’s this about?”

  “The Blair murders. You’ve heard about them, I presume?”

  “It’s garnered a lot of press. I guess the media loves a stabbed baby.”

  “Did you know the Blairs?”

  “No.”

  “You never met them?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said I didn’t know them.”

  “Were you at their house the day of the murder?”

  Shelby thought about lying, but knew cops, like lawyers, often knew the answer to a question before asking. It made it easier to trip up a suspect.

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Why?”

  “I was there to talk to Mr. Blair.”

  “What about?”

  “Not your business.”

  “Look, Alexander. I have a witness who saw you leaving the Blair house on the day of the murder. They said you seemed agitated. Then I find out James Blair had a nose injury that, while recent, was not a result of the attack that killed him. I don’t suppose I need to tell you how it looks.”