A Stab in the Dark, page 6
part #2 of Whodunit Antiques Series
Abigail filled James in on their afternoon visit to Mary Chang’s motel, and told him about the creep who had left an email address.
James groaned. “Must be that fan club.”
“Fan club?” Abigail asked.
“There are people out there who make rock stars out of serial killers. It’s demented if you ask me.”
“It is in bad taste,” Grandma agreed. “And it really is too soon. But, to be fair, it’s not unheard of. In the antiques world, items related to Bonnie and Clyde, Billy the Kid, and so on are very popular items.”
“That may be, but Billy the Kid’s victims didn’t die a month ago, Granny Lane. They ought to wait until those who were close to the victims are long gone. But there’s no accounting for decency.” James’s jaw tightened. “The guy who left the email address? Yeah, I have a feeling it’s the punk who has the original Wallace Point Ripper knife.”
Abigail gasped despite herself. “He has the murder weapon? How do you know?”
“A long time ago it was taken out of the evidence room at the station and sold in the black market. Can you believe there’s a black market anywhere near Wallace Point? Eventually the knife ended up in his hands, though the police haven’t ever been able to get it back from him. We don’t have definitive proof, but he certainly seems to have it. He calls himself a ‘murderabilia’ collector. Collects memorabilia of murderers.”
“Wait.” Abigail frowned. “So the police know who this guy is and they know he has the weapon. Why aren’t they going after him?”
“Like I said, we don’t have definitive proof, and he hasn’t been very cooperative. He fancies himself an amateur policeman too. ‘Knows his rights,’ and all that hullabaloo.”
Abigail fell silent, finding it ironic that James would call someone else an amateur policeman. James took the lull as an opportunity to stuff more shepherd’s pie into his mouth. Grandma, despite her obvious interest, looked like she could fall asleep at any moment. But Abigail was brooding.
“It sounds like the police need our help on this one,” she said at last.
“Oh yeah?” James finished chewing his food. “What advantage do you have over this guy that the police don’t?”
“Well, for one thing, I’m not a police officer. If this guy thinks I’m a regular person, or better yet, a potential customer, he might talk to me.”
“Abigail, dear, what are you suggesting?”
“I don’t know exactly, Grandma. But what if…” Abigail was thinking fast. “What if I pretend to be interested in one of his pieces? I could email him and, you know, just try to meet him and get him talking.”
James wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Hey Cupcake, I think you just had a bright idea.”
“Thanks, James. I do have those every so often.”
He grinned. “But what if, instead of being interested in something he might have, you offered him what we already know he wants: the bloody shirt of the recent murder victim. It’s in the evidence room. I can get a picture of it to send to our collector.”
“Right. Then once we have a time and a place to meet the guy, we can turn the tables on him, try to find out whatever he knows.”
“Oh, Abigail, I don’t know,” Grandma interjected. “This sounds awfully risky.”
Abigail reached out to touch Grandma’s hand. “It is a bit risky. I admit that. But I think it might help crack this case. We can’t let someone continue to get away with murder, not to mention what this is doing to Sheriff Wilson.”
Grandma frowned, then nodded.
“It’s a plan then,” James said, reaching for a cookie.
Chapter 10
Abigail stared at her email, feeling half-impressed with herself and half-repulsed by the memorabilia collector. The first email she’d sent had simply stated she had a rare item she wanted to sell, and that she had heard he might be interested. Abigail figured he was cautious in his line of work and would be more willing to work with someone who was equally cautious.
He had responded just as discreetly, confirming he was a collector of rare items. He wanted to know what type of rarity she could offer. The guy never gave his name, never betrayed anything about himself.
Abigail followed his lead. In her next email, she asked whether he had heard about the motel murder on the outskirts of Wallace Point. With some hesitation, Abigail had attached the photo of the bloody shirt James had provided.
She was careful to share nothing about who she could be, except that she was female and on the younger side, in hopes of lowering his guard.
The creep took the bait. He’d made an offer, an offer which Abigail automatically refused. She didn’t know the first thing about the dollar value of murder memorabilia, but she did know that when someone made any kind of offer, it never hurt to ask for more, and that’d make her seem more legitimate.
The collector accepted her counteroffer and gave her a date, time, and location. Then came the real risk—revealing that Abigail would be accompanied by a man. Two people were more intimidating than one, so the guy might get cold feet at the unexpected change in the agreement.
To soften the blow, she claimed the man was her boyfriend and that he was the real connection to the evidence. She hadn’t told James that detail; she didn’t plan to tell him, either. She was pretty sure James would use the information to tease her, and he had given her a hard enough time already.
Then, for a full day, Abigail sat on pins and needles, waiting for the guy to reply. Once he finally did, she grabbed her phone and dialed James’s number. When he picked up, Abigail said, “We’re on.”
*
Grandma handed James and Abigail sandwiches and two thermoses of steaming coffee as they stood on the front porch of the store. “Now, you two be careful,” Grandma told them, looking up at the gray skies. “If anything seems odd, just get out of there.”
“Don’t worry,” Abigail said, kissing her grandmother’s cheek. “We’ll stay on our toes.”
James, with a small black duffel bag slung over one shoulder, threw an arm around Grandma’s small frame and drew the older woman in for a gentle hug. “Yeah, Granny Lane. Don’t worry. I’ll watch out for your granddaughter.”
Grandma gave him a wry smile. “Abigail knows how to watch out for herself. But I appreciate it, James.”
“Okay, let’s get going,” Abigail broke in. “We don’t want to be late for our rendezvous.”
The collector had chosen a location far outside Wallace Point. James and Abigail were essentially embarking on a mini-road trip to the middle of nowhere.
The remote location hadn’t surprised James one bit. To him, it made sense that the collector didn’t want to give strangers any idea where he lived.
Though James had showed up in his own vehicle, Abigail insisted that they take her car. She wanted to have as much control as possible over the situation she was about to get into.
She wasn’t afraid, though. Grandma knew where she was headed and with whom. Abigail was going to give her a call when they arrived at the rendezvous, and then again when they were about to leave.
James believed the confrontation wouldn’t take long, so if more than twenty minutes passed without a second call, Grandma would notify Sheriff Wilson.
Overall, Abigail felt like they had taken a decent amount of precautions. Now it was time to implement the plan.
It began to rain as they pulled out of the parking lot, and Abigail found herself wishing she could’ve taken Thor with her. The Great Dane sat on the porch beside Grandma, watching with big, mopey eyes as she drove away. She would have brought him, but she didn’t like the idea of leaving Grandma alone when there was a killer on the loose.
James turned on the radio to an oldies station. Sinatra’s velvety voice poured into the car, crooning about the life he’d lived. James grinned. “You’re in luck, Cupcake.”
Clutching one hand to his chest and swinging the other out in front of him, as if gesturing to an immense crowd, he joined right in with Sinatra. “I did what I had to do,” he sang, his voice surprisingly good and understated. “And saw it through without exemption.”
“Um,” Abigail said. “No.” She switched off the radio.
James feigned disbelief. “You don’t like my singing, Cupcake? But everyone tells me I’m a great singer.”
“Clearly I’m not everyone. And it’s Abigail.”
“But Cupcake suits you.” James leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh. “You’re so much like Granny Lane when she was younger. I grew up with her, you know.”
Abigail shook her head. “Can’t help but admit I’m a little envious. I didn’t even know she was still around until recently.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I will admit I was a little curious why you never visited her.”
“I have my mom to thank for that. She got upset at Grandma over something stupid, and that apparently was enough to keep me out of Grandma’s life.”
“Man, that had to be hard.”
Part of Abigail was bothered that he had known Grandma far longer than she had. Though she tried not to dwell on a past she couldn’t change, she regretted all the years they had missed.
Her curiosity got the best of her. “What was she like? When you were a kid, I mean.”
“Well, she went through a rough patch when… you know, your mom and grandfather left her. I was pretty young. I really only remember that one day she had a daughter and a husband, and the next day she didn’t. And that she was sad for a while. I remember that because her cookies didn’t taste quite the same. This was, of course, back when Granny used to give cookies away, before she had a store and started using them to extort her customers.”
Abigail thought about the premade cookie dough in the refrigerator at home. And she thought about how awful Grandma must have felt when she had lost her family overnight. From their conversations, Abigail knew that by that point Grandma had made the decision to let her daughter go her own way. She had done her best in raising Sarah, but Sarah had turned out rotten anyway. Still, losing family was never easy.
“I got to know Granny Lane a bit better later on when…” James stared out the passenger side window. “Well, later on. Dad worked a lot then. At least, he was going into the office a lot. I stayed away from home too, always biking the streets with my friends.”
“The mean streets of Wallace Point,” Abigail said. “Sounds rough.”
James chuckled. “Sometimes it was. This was before the Golf Cart Grannies were a thing.”
“I call them the Granny Gang.”
“Even better. But without them roaming the streets, we got ourselves into whatever trouble we could rustle up. Nothing too terrible, but nothing promising either. People didn’t know what to do with me. They left it up to my dad, but he was too busy trying to keep his own head above water.
“Granny Lane knew I needed guidance, so she asked me to come and help her at the store a few days a week after school. She made me watch these old black and white movies. She said I needed to make sure the films were intact all the way through, but I think she had other intentions.”
“She’s sneaky like that.”
“Those movies were nothing like the stuff coming out in theaters then. My favorites were the noirs. The femme fatales, the trench coats, the way a good detective always caught his man. I ate it up, along with heaps of cookies.”
He shifted in the seat, smiling as he recalled his memories of Grandma. “She never treated me differently, the way everyone else did. She went right on being a smart-mouth with a big heart. It doesn’t sound like much, I guess, but it meant a lot to me.”
Abigail imagined her grandmother a decade or two younger. Her hair was probably graying at that point, but not yet the halo of white that it was now. She would have had fewer wrinkles, maybe clearer eyes. But she had still been the same woman—wise, loving, and smart.
Abigail was just about to say something nice to James when a sudden snore interrupted her. She looked over at him to see he was fast asleep, his mouth hanging open.
She shook her head in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” She sighed and settled into the driver’s seat for the long drive.
*
Abigail called Grandma as they approached an abandoned gas station along a deserted country road. “We’re here,” she said. “Start the clock.”
James sat up in his seat, creased and rumpled after his long nap, but fully alert. There was another car already in the empty lot when they pulled in. Abigail didn’t know too much about cars, but it was obvious this vehicle was a modified Japanese import—the kind of car one could hear coming a mile away. It had black tinted windows, keeping its driver a mystery.
Abigail parked her car but left it running. James grabbed the duffel bag he’d tossed into the backseat and the two stepped out into the wind and drizzle.
The door to the other car opened and a man stepped out. Abigail immediately felt there was something familiar about him. He wore a black trench coat, black pants, and a black beanie.
A split second later, Abigail realized who the collector reminded her of: Mary’s description of the killer caught on tape.
Chapter 11
Rain flew into Abigail’s eyes as she and James edged toward the man dressed in black. Gusts of wind howled around them, drowning out the sound of their running engines. Time felt as if it had slowed. Abigail wondered whether James had seen the motel tapes, or if he had spoken with Mary. Did he have any inkling of the danger they might be in?
Keeping an eye on the man in black, Abigail watched James approach the stranger. He moved cautiously, but he didn’t show any signs of fear.
The man in black came closer. “What’s in the bag?” His voice was hoarse and shaky. That caught Abigail off guard. Was this guy actually afraid? Or was this some type of tactic?
James unzipped the bag, keeping his gaze trained on the stranger. He pulled out a ragged shirt, shook it out so the man could see the rips in the fabric and the splatters of blood, and then he stuffed it back in the bag.
The shirt belonged to James. Or, it had belonged to him, before Abigail had taken a pair of shears to it. Grandma had dyed the corn syrup herself. She managed to create a shade that looked disturbingly like old, dried blood.
Enticed by the glimpse of the shirt, the stranger stepped closer and Abigail was finally able to get a good look at him.
The guy was hardly more than a kid—a tall kid, maybe, but a kid nonetheless. He was skinny and pale. A fine stubble grew on his gaunt cheeks. Dark bags wallowed under eyes sunken into an angular, sallow face.
Abigail got the feeling this guy spent most of his time in front of a computer screen.
“Let me see it again,” the collector said. His voice cracked.
James grinned. “No. Change of plans.”
The collector’s eyes flicked back and forth between James, Abigail, and the bag. “I don’t like this. Your girlfriend already changed the plans once.”
Abigail inwardly flinched, but she kept her face free of any emotions. For now, all she could do was hope James was somehow too focused on the situation to notice the ‘girlfriend’ bit.
“Yeah, well, I hear you have the original murder weapon.” James took another step toward the collector. “I’m willing to pay a lot for it.”
The collector shifted his slight weight from one combat booted foot to the next. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do,” Abigail said. She had been the one to contact the kid, so she hoped he might still have a smidgen of trust in her. “I asked around. A couple of sources said you had the same weapon used by the Wallace Point Ripper. We’ve got money.”
The collector smirked. “Your sources lied. Who were they, by the way? I’ll have to remember to set them straight.”
Suddenly, James took two quick strides and closed the gap between him and the collector. The collector was tall, but James was taller and broader. “You know I won’t tell you that. So how about it?”
The collector took a step back, his back smacking against the side of his car. “Look, we have no business here. You want to buy what I can’t sell. I want to buy what you won’t sell. Guess we should just go our separate ways.”
James slammed his hands on both sides of the collector, blocking him in. “You’re not going anywhere until you sell us that knife.”
The collector’s pale face somehow became paler. “Okay, okay, fine. I used to have the knife, all right? But I don’t anymore. I sold it.”
James growled, “Who bought it?”
The collector put his hands up to keep James from coming any closer to his face. “I have to protect my buyers. I’m sure you understand.”
James snapped. He grabbed the collector roughly by the collar and shook him. “Listen, punk. We’ve been nice up until now, but you’re really testing my patience. A piece of your collection was used in a murder. All I need is a court order to make your life pretty difficult until you talk. And trust me, I can get a court order. I’m sure you understand.”
“All right, all right!” The collector cleared his throat. “The truth is, I don’t know who bought it.”
Abigail watched as James’s jaw tightened, and for a moment she worried he might get physical with the kid. Well, more physical than he had already gotten.
But, thankfully, the collector seemed to have lost his nerve. “I swear, man, I swear. Whoever it was reached out to me via email. I knew when I saw the email address that it was fishy, so I was pretty wary of doing business with this person. But they made an offer I couldn’t refuse, and they were willing to pay half up front before I even dropped off the knife.”
“How?”
“How what?”
James gave the collector a hard shake. “How did they make the payment?”
“They sent me the payment through an untraceable digital currency. There’s no way to figure out who paid me. Believe me, I tried.”
“Okay. Then what?”
“They told me to leave the knife in this old mailbox at an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere. I dropped the knife off just like they told me to, and before I even drove away, I got the other half of the payment.”
