Homicidal Holidays Read online

  “Nah,” Emily said. “I’m good.”

  As soon as Shauna’s silhouette vanished from her field of vision, Emily ripped open the glove compartment, fished out the list she’d found earlier, and slid it into her back pocket.

  Shauna returned minutes later. “Ready?” she asked, opening a pack of Ritz peanut butter crackers that she must have bought from a vending machine inside. She offered Emily a cracker.

  “Actually, Shauna, I think I’ll pass on the crackers, thanks.” Emily pointed to her bloated stomach. “Too much wine and cheese. But I probably should use the bathroom while we’re here.”

  Her grinning mouth full of crackers, Shauna made a shooing motion.

  The rest stop was almost deserted. Emily entered one of the restroom stalls and locked the door. She slipped the piece of paper out of her pocket and stared at it for a moment. She could follow the trail it suggested. Try to find out where Shauna had gone on St. Paddy’s Day, after Emily went home. Ask around the hospital to see if any codeine had disappeared from the pharmacy where Shauna worked. Peek in Shauna’s file drawers to see if she’d made any charges at Frederick’s of Hollywood around mid-March.

  Or she could trust that Shauna had better judgment than she did. That whatever Shauna had done was for her best friend’s sake.

  Without another thought, she threw the list into the toilet and flushed. Shauna was right. Emily did deserve better. She had always deserved better. Jeff, on the other hand, was scum and had gotten exactly what he deserved.

  She had to believe that.

  “So,” Shauna said, after Emily climbed back into the car. “Are we ready now?”

  “We sure are,” Emily said. Several minutes later, when Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” came on the radio, Emily turned up the volume, and they both sang along. Mid-chorus, Emily glanced over at Shauna, who crooned the catchphrase words with conviction, to which she raised her own voice. Though she might have crappy taste in men, she sure knew how to pick her friends, and thanks to her best friend, Shauna, she would survive without Jeff.

  Some of her future boyfriends might not survive, but she would.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Shaun Taylor Bevins is an aspiring writer, voracious reader, mother, wife, scientist, and teacher. When asked the all-revealing question, “Cats or dogs?” she answers, “Both!” She’s especially honored to be included in this Sisters in Crime anthology. You can learn more about her at her website www.broadneckwritersworkshop.com.

  TALK LIKE A PIRATE DAY

  (September 19th)

  DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES, by Cathy Wiley

  “Your wench is on line seventeen.”

  Detective James Whittaker pulled his attention from the murder case file he was reviewing to stare at his squadmate. “My what?”

  Arthur Freeman, Whittaker’s usual partner in the Baltimore City Police Department, was leaning back in his chair, a grin on his wrinkled face. “Your wench. Those were her words.”

  Whittaker raised an eyebrow as he pressed the button for extension 2117. “Since when are you my wench?”

  “Since it’s Talk Like a Pirate Day, me hearty. Arrr!” Cassie Ellis said, then stifled a giggle.

  He shook his head. “Talk Like a Pirate Day?”

  “Aye. ’Tis every September 19th. Quit rolling yer eyes,” she said in a firm tone that stopped him mid-roll. “It’s a real—I mean, ’tis a real holiday. Fer over ten years now.”

  He moved the manila folder he had been reading in order to see his desk calendar. “Ah…so how does one celebrate Talk Like a Pirate Day?”

  “By talkin’ like a pirate, of course, matey. Have you hanged anyone from the yardarm? Killed any bilge-sucking rapscallions with your cutlass?”

  Whittaker glanced down at his Glock, the closest thing he had to a cutlass. “Not lately.” When he heard Cassie sigh, he added a half-hearted, “Arrrr.”

  “Oh, that sounded real enthusiastic, James. Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to come over tonight and…shiver me timbers.”

  He laughed. “Now that I can be enthusiastic about. But I don’t get off work until after eleven tonight.” Glancing at the right corner of his computer, he noted there were six hours to go. The first quarter of his shift had been rather quiet. He hoped the rest of the night would be the same.

  “No problem, me matey. Actually, after you sailed out of port last night, I got inspired and wrote in me logbook for three hours. Okay, let me talk normal for a bit. Since I wrote until 4 a.m., I slept late this morning. Thank God for the automatic cat feeder or Donner would have woken me up much earlier.”

  Donner meowed in the background at the mention of his name. Whittaker enjoyed picturing them. Cassie in the kitchen, where she spent the majority of her time; Donner near the food bowl, where he spent the majority of his time. In honor of the holiday, Whittaker added an eye patch to the cat and a wench costume to Cassie in his imaginary scene. With her red curls and blue eyes, she’d look fantastic. He had to clear his suddenly dry throat slightly before speaking. “Well, if you don’t mind me getting there late, I’ll come over after shift change.” There were definitely advantages to dating an author.

  “I’ll even feed you. I’ve got some pirate grub for ye, also known as jambalaya.”

  “I’ll be there, then. As long as we don’t get a call. I’m next up.” He winced as the other line lit up. Freeman picked it up before it could do more than bleep. Whittaker eyed his partner, heart sinking when the older man nodded toward him, then jerked his head slightly in a we’ve-got-to-go motion.

  “I spoke too soon,” he told Cassie.

  “You should have knocked on wood. Or a peg leg,” she said. “Hopefully, you’ll have an easy case to close. Call me if you’ll be later than midnight. If not, just come over after you clap the dirty scallywag in irons and put him in the brig.”

  He rolled his eyes at her pirate lingo. Crazy woman.

  * * * *

  Cassie wasn’t the only crazy one, Whittaker realized as he stepped out of his unmarked sedan onto the cobblestone pavement of Thames Street. All around him, people wearing eye patches, puffy shirts, and bandanas on their heads were stumbling about Fells Point, one of Baltimore’s prime entertainment districts. Whittaker even saw several people with parrots on their shoulders.

  He noticed that the crowd, even drunk, instantly recognized him and Freeman as cops. Word on the street was that whenever a black man and white man, wearing suits, were seen together, they were either police detectives, feds, or someone was filming the next Men In Black installment.

  “Okay, so there’s Captain Jack Sparrow,” Freeman said as they approached the cordoned-off crime scene, where two actors playing dueling pirates had reportedly fought to the death, literally, an hour before, when the loser fell into the harbor.

  Whittaker followed Freeman’s gaze and had to agree that the distraught man talking to the uniform did look like Johnny Depp’s character in Pirates of the Caribbean. He sported the complete ensemble: beaded dreadlocks, black-lined eyes, pale skin, trimmed mustache and goatee, and pirate clothing. “So does the guy who drowned look like whatshisname…Orlando Bloom’s character?”

  “Will Turner,” Freeman answered. “And I guess we’ll find out when the recovery divers bring him back up. Probably won’t look too good, though.”

  Whittaker scanned the scene until he spotted the dive team. The waters of Baltimore’s Inner Harbor offered poor visibility, so one diver on the surface was serving as tender, holding a rope to guide the virtually blind diver at the bottom. Whittaker saw the line go taut three times. Evidently the diver below had found something. Or someone.

  He approached the Captain Sparrow lookalike and signaled the officer who had been speaking to him to step back. “I’m sorry to intrude. I’m Detective Whittaker.” He pointed at his partner. “Detective Freeman.”

  The pirate-costumed man took a deep breath. “Shaun Gilmore.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?” Whittaker ask
ed.

  Gilmore looked back at the dark water. “It was crazy. I don’t know what Larry was thinking. We were dueling, like we always do.” He gestured toward the cutlass tucked in his belt. “We do it all the time, at Renaissance festivals, the Fells Point Fun Festival, SCA events.” Whittaker raised his eyebrows. “SCA, that’s the Society for Creative Anachronism. Basically, we’ve performed this duel everywhere. Larry’s never done anything like this before.”

  “Larry?”

  “Larry Bailey. We’re business partners.” Gilmore reached inside his doublet and pulled out a card.

  Whittaker glanced down and did his best not to groan. The card read Swashbucklers Arrrr Us.

  “So what exactly did Larry do today that he hasn’t done before?” Whittaker angled his body to block Gilmore’s view of the recovery divers pulling up the body.

  He didn’t move quickly enough. The pirate’s already pale skin went dead white. Whittaker grasped Gilmore’s shoulders and turned him around so his back was toward the water.

  “What did he do, Mr. Gilmore?”

  “Well, we’ve choreographed the duel so that Larry loses his cutlass and puts his hands up in surrender. Typically, then I force him to his knees, walk behind him, and pretend to knock him out.”

  “Okay.” Whittaker did his best to focus on Gilmore’s words and not the pirate hat.

  “This time, we had a good crowd watching. And when I disarmed him, he turned to me and said, ‘Well, you won. I guess I need to walk the plank.’ And then he freaking jumped off the pier and into the water. I tried to grab him and stop him, but it was too late. With all the heavy garb on, he sank like a stone. I kept waiting for him to come up, but he didn’t.”

  “Wouldn’t he have realized the costume would weigh him down?” Whittaker asked after exchanging a dubious glance with Freeman. They had observed many examples of stupidity in past investigations, but this might be the worst.

  “I would’ve thought so. Then again, he did have a lot of rum this evening.” Gilmore glanced toward one of the many bars on the waterfront. He shuddered once, violently.

  “Why didn’t you go in after him?”

  Gilmore shook his head. “I know how heavy our stuff is. If I had gone in, I would have gone under, too. And I’m not a good swimmer. I tried to get people to rescue him, and a few jumped in, but no one could find him.”

  Whittaker wasn’t surprised. If Bailey had sunk to the bottom, it was way too far down for anyone to reach him. Huge sailing and freighter ships routinely docked at that pier, so obviously the water was quite deep.

  “Were you paid to perform tonight?” Whittaker watched as the EMTs loaded the body bag into the ambulance.

  “Yeah.”

  Shouldn’t he have said aye? “By whom?”

  “The Fells Point Foundation. They try to bring business here, so we were hired as entertainment. We’re one of the best-known pirate-impersonator companies in the area.”

  “You do look like Captain Jack Sparrow,” Freeman said, breaking in for the first time.

  Gilmore swiveled his head sharply and sneered. “I am not Captain Jack Sparrow. Swashbucklers Arrrr Us is a historically accurate organization. We use only authentic costumes, weapons, and phrases. We act out historical events, not movies or books. It’s all serious. Other than the ‘Arrrr’ in our name, which we only agreed to because Maggie thought it was clever. Oh, God, Maggie!” Gilmore spun around toward the gawking crowd. “She took a break for dinner before all this started. She’s probably done by now.”

  Whittaker noticed the uniforms struggling to hold back an attractive woman wearing a pirate wench costume. He raised an eyebrow at the miniscule amount of fabric. Good thing that this September evening in Baltimore was warm or she’d be freezing.

  Whittaker hazarded a guess. “Is that Maggie?”

  “Yeah. She’s another partner and performer in Swashbucklers.”

  As soon as Whittaker gestured to the officers to release her, she raced over.

  “What’s going on? Why are the police here? Are you okay?” the young woman asked with a mixture of concern and confusion.

  “I’m fine, it’s just…” Gilmore sighed, ignored the other questions, and turned back to Whittaker. “This is Maggie Patrickson. She’s my girlfriend.”

  Whittaker detected a certain defensive note to that declaration. “No need to worry, Mr. Gilmore. I seldom hit on witnesses.”

  When Freeman coughed the word “Cassie,” Whittaker made a mental note to smack his partner later. Cassie was the reason he’d used the word seldom instead of never.

  Gilmore’s girlfriend turned to face Whittaker, tucking a strand of dark hair beneath her bandana. “You can hit on me all you want, Officer Gray Eyes.”

  “Detective,” he corrected, watching Gilmore’s jaw tighten. “I’m Detective Whittaker, this is Detective Freeman. We’re with Homicide.”

  “Homicide!” she squeaked. She grabbed Gilmore’s arm and looked around frantically. “Oh, God. Where’s Larry?”

  When Gilmore shot him a pleading look, Whittaker answered, “I’m sorry to inform you that there was an incident this evening during the performance. Mr. Bailey is dead. He apparently drowned in the harbor.”

  He watched as all the color leached out of her tanned skin and tears filled her eyes. “No! No. What happened?”

  Whittaker eyed the weeping woman closely as Gilmore related what had occurred. When Gilmore explained that Bailey had said he’d “walk the plank” before jumping in, Whittaker saw confusion in her eyes before she covered her face with both hands and sobbed.

  “Excuse us for a moment.” Whittaker and Freeman left Gilmore to comfort his girlfriend and walked over to the uniforms. “What are the witnesses saying, Officer…Franklin?” Whittaker asked.

  The officer stood up taller for his report. “We’ve spoken with all the witnesses who stayed after the incident. That was most of them, fortunately. We got here pretty quickly, and I think everyone still thought it was part of the act. They all state that the two men, Bailey and Gilmore, were performing a highly skilled, highly intricate duel with cutlasses and daggers, which took them very close to the edge of the pier. Suddenly, Bailey appeared to jump toward the water. Gilmore grabbed at him, but apparently too late.”

  “Was anyone close enough to hear their dialogue during this duel?”

  “Initially, yes.” Franklin checked his notes. “Mostly it was just taunts and threats back and forth, some of which were funny enough to make the crowd laugh. But as they approached the edge, they apparently dropped their voices. One of the witnesses said what she could hear sounded more like stage directions, like ‘take a step to the left,’ ‘watch out for the lamp post,’ things of that nature.”

  “Which witness was that?”

  The officer nodded toward two people wrapped in blankets and sitting on one of the benches. “The one on the left. She was the first to go in after the guy, too. Name’s Denise Rush. Guy with her is her husband, Tom.”

  “I’ll take the wife, you take the husband,” Whittaker told Freeman.

  They walked toward the witnesses, with Whittaker’s shoes making clopping noises on the cobblestoned streets the whole way. When he reached Mrs. Rush, she raised her head, tears in her eyes. Whittaker introduced himself and led her a few yards down the pier so they weren’t within hearing distance of anyone.

  “I was a lifeguard,” Rush said when they stopped. “I should’ve been able to get to him. Maybe if I had reacted sooner.” She scrubbed at her face. “No, what am I saying? It wouldn’t have mattered. He went down so fast. I dove down as far as I could, and don’t think I was anywhere near him. Not that you could tell in such murky water.”

  Whittaker offered her what comfort he could. “It’s very deep in that location. There was nothing you could have done differently.”

  She blinked away her tears. “Thank you, Detective.”

  “When did you jump in after Mr. Bailey?”

  “Is that his name?”
Rush said. “I didn’t know his name. I just watched some guy die, and I didn’t know his name.” She stared at the water and took a deep breath before answering his original question. “As soon as he fell in, pretty much. That other guy started yelling and pointing so I looked down and saw that he hadn’t surfaced. I dove in.”

  “Did you hear anything before Mr. Bailey entered the water?”

  The witness looked up at him. “Like what?”

  Whittaker didn’t want to lead her to the answer, so he skirted around it. “Maybe something that indicated what was about to happen. What led up to Mr. Bailey entering the water?”

  Rush pursed her mouth in consideration. “I didn’t hear anything that showed he was about to do that. Like I told the other officer, it was a lot of under-the-breath type of stuff, more stage directions. I think the one guy, Bailey…” She paused for a deep breath. “Bailey said, ‘step to the left. We’re too close to the edge,’ and then the other guy—”

  “Gilmore,” Whittaker supplied.

  “Gilmore said something like ‘don’t worry, I’m being careful. Are you careful?’ Then Bailey said ‘always.’ Gilmore said something else, but I didn’t hear it. Then they stepped even closer to the edge and said a few other things. I couldn’t hear any of that though.”

  “Was anyone else near enough to hear?”

  Rush glanced back at the edge of the pier, then shook her head. “Other than my husband, no, I don’t think so. They were swinging their cutlasses all over the place. One of them even took out a dagger. They were probably stage props, but they looked sharp and shiny enough. So people were giving them a pretty wide berth.”

  “Did you see the other performer with them? The female?” Whittaker said, following a sudden hunch.

  She surprised him with a laugh. “Oh, trust me, I saw her. So did my husband. She’s hard not to notice.” Rush sobered quickly, staring down at her clenched hands. “But that was earlier in the day. They’ve been performing all over the place. I don’t think she was around during that final show. In fact, I remember that while we were sitting here, after the officers told us to wait to talk to a detective, she walked out of the pub across the street, then ran over when she noticed the crowd.”