The Scum of All Fears: Squeaky Clean Mysteries, Book 5 Read online

  “And why is he targeting me so much? I mean, I know he wants to get to you. But he’s aiming a lot of fury my way, and that doesn’t make sense.”

  “I wish I had some answers. But I don’t.”

  I released a slow breath and leaned back. “How was he finally caught?”

  “It was a fluke. A delivery driver got lost. He went to the house. Knocked at the door and got suspicious that something was wrong. He followed his gut instinct and called the police. When they showed up, they found evidence that the Scum River Killer had been using the location. They staked the place out. When Jones brought his next victim there, they arrested him.”

  “Let’s assume then, that he’s taken Clarice and this other woman to a location that’s off the beaten path, but not too far away. How do we find it?”

  “That’s the question of the hour. This time, finding it can’t be a fluke. One more life lost at this man’s hands is one life too many.”

  His words were true. I glanced at the clock behind him and gasped. “I’m supposed to have my interview with Kansas in an hour. Maybe I should cancel.”

  “You shouldn’t do that, Gabby. In fact, maybe you should fly out to Kansas for an in-person interview.”

  “You just want to get me out of Norfolk.”

  He raised his hands. “I can’t deny it. I’m worried to death about you.”

  “Do not worry about tomorrow for tomorrow will worry about itself,” I reminded him.

  He nodded solemnly. “I know. This case just may be a test of my faith, though, because I can’t shake this feeling of dread.”

  I stood. It seemed irreverent to look out for myself by doing this interview since Clarice had been taken. But there was nothing else I could do at the moment.

  ***

  I stepped into my apartment and immediately felt the thick heat in the place. I walked over to one of the AC vents and put my hand over it. Sure enough, nothing was blowing out.

  Great. Now of all times.

  This wasn’t exactly a good time in life to crack my windows open. Not with Milton Jones on the loose.

  I didn’t have any time to report this to Rose.

  Instead, I quickly fixed my hair and put on a blouse and jacket. I kept my jeans and flip-flops on, knowing that the camera would never see them.

  Then I sat at my desk, pulled up the video chat, and waited for the Medical Examiner to call in.

  Promptly at 3, my computer dinged and I accepted the request.

  An older lady with bobbed blonde hair and plastic-framed glasses appeared on the screen. Sue Smith.

  I went through the interview without any problems—except the fact that my mind was elsewhere. Not only was it on Clarice, but I was also reflecting on what a huge change moving to Kansas would be for me.

  Was it a change I was ready for? And no matter how much I’d convinced myself that Riley and I could make it work long-distance, in truth, I had no idea how it would work out.

  Sue Smith’s questions were mostly expected. Why did I want to do this job? What kind of experience did I have? Why should they choose me over other applicants?

  She’d also done some research. She knew I was a crime scene cleaner and asked me how I thought that would help me.

  She’d been polite and kind and had even sounded amused by some of my answers and my thoughts on crime scene cleaning.

  We said goodbye, and I turned off my computer. Sue Smith was supposed to get back with me by the beginning of next week. I was going to try and not worry about a decision until I knew if I had a decision to make.

  I wiped the sweat from my forehead, realizing my glistening face probably didn’t make the impression I’d hoped for.

  Rose had told me to tell her if I needed anything. I think this officially qualified. Though I sometimes tried to fix things myself, there was no way my budget could handle a repair like this.

  I could call her, but a walk sounded like the perfect way to sort my thoughts. I grabbed my keys and, just as I started down the stairs, Bill McCormick stuck his head out of his door. I think he was missing Sierra because she was usually the one he stopped and peppered with stories.

  “I had a date with Rose last night.” He grinned a grin larger than any I’d ever seen on him.

  “How’d it go?”

  He rubbed his hands together. “I think things are looking up for me. It was a great date. She actually laughed at my jokes and listened to all of my many opinions on politics.”

  “Sounds like a match made in heaven.”

  “Ever since Milton Jones called into the station to talk to me, my ratings have been through the roof. No way the station is going to drop me now.” He seemed to realize what he’d said and his smile dropped.

  Or maybe it was my scowl that had halted his train of thought.

  “I mean, I hate to profit from your misery. But,” he shrugged. “You know. The state of today’s media is terrible. Blood hungry. Sensational.”

  I forced a stiff nod. “I’m glad things are looking up for you.” And I was. In a weird way. “Speaking of Rose, I’m walking to her house now. My AC is out. Yours?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Like I said, things are looking up for me. Tell Rose I said hi.”

  Oh my. He was worse than a teenager with a crush.

  I waved goodbye and walked a few houses down until I reached a little bungalow that needed some upkeep. I checked Rose’s card to make sure I was at the right place. Sure enough, I was.

  For someone who flipped houses, Rose really needed to put some time and attention to her own. The yellow paint was faded, the flowerbeds overrun, and several shingles were missing.

  When I rapped at the door, it creaked open. Someone hadn’t latched it.

  I waited for several minutes to see if anyone would answer.

  No one did.

  I pushed the door open farther and called inside, “Hello? Anyone home?”

  There was still no response.

  I should close the door so no one could break into the home.

  But then I began picturing Rose lying on the kitchen floor, the victim of a heart attack. Or almost choking to death. Or fallen with a head injury.

  What if someone had broken in and tied her up? What if they’d made a quick getaway and that’s why the door was unlatched?

  That’s when I decided to step inside and just check things out. I needed to be a good neighbor after all, didn’t I? People needed to look out for each other.

  I stepped inside and called for Rose one more time. There was still no answer.

  Somewhere in the distance, a clock ticked. Something beeped—an answering machine, maybe? Otherwise, it was silent.

  I walked through the living room. It was messy and smelled musty. The decorations were minimal. A cheap futon for a couch. Plastic tables meant for patios served as her end tables. An old, boxy TV sat on an upside down clothes basket in the corner. A collection of spoons was displayed on one wall.

  I’d seen better. I’d seen worse.

  I’d seen a lot of things as a crime scene cleaner, so very little surprised me anymore.

  I’d just check everything out, I told myself. Just take a glance around, make sure everything was okay. Then I’d be on my way.

  I continued through the living room and popped my head into the kitchen. I surveyed the place. Dishes piled in the sink. Mail on the counter. The stench of old coffee grounds.

  But no one was there.

  That was good. Right?

  Then I wondered about the bedroom. Rose could have fallen. A quick check wouldn’t hurt anything.

  I veered from my exit plan and walked down a short hallway. I stopped in front of the first door I came to. Using my index finger, I nudged it until the door swung out on its hinges.

  A bedroom came into view. The décor consisted of a mattress on the floor with a blanket on top. Clothes were stacked in tubs against the wall. An anthill of shoes formed in the corner.

  There was one other door on this hal
lway. I tiptoed to the end of the hallway. My heart pounded in my ears.

  Maybe Rose was just irresponsible and hadn’t latched her door. Maybe she’d left in a hurry. Maybe the door was hard to close and a gust of wind had pushed it open.

  If Rose caught me in her house and she wasn’t injured or nearly dead, then my presence here was going to look bad. I could probably even be kicked out of my apartment for this.

  Despite my reasoning, I pushed the last door open. It creaked before slowly swinging out on its hinges. I blinked at the dark room that waited for me. All the shades were drawn and the dark wood paneling, circa 1960, didn’t do anything to help matters.

  My eyes slowly adjusted to the light.

  A bulletin board in the distance came into focus. I stepped into the otherwise empty room. The carpet beneath my feet felt matted and old.

  I moved toward the bulletin board. There were all kinds of papers and envelopes tacked to the corkboard.

  I looked more closely.

  A sick feeling began gurgling inside me.

  It was an autographed picture of Milton Jones.

  CHAPTER 13

  My blood froze.

  What in the world? An autographed picture of a serial killer? I couldn’t wrap my mind around it.

  My gaze scoured the rest of the items there. A hair sample. A dirty sock. A postcard-sized painting of the sunrise.

  I glanced at the initials at the bottom of the artwork. MJ.

  Milton Jones? He’d painted this? I’d bet anything that the hair and sock was his as well.

  This wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.

  In the corner, I saw an article that highlighted Riley’s accomplishments as a prosecutor.

  My instinct to run became even greater.

  I had to get out of here. I turned around, ready to flee.

  Before I could take the first step, I heard the front door open.

  Rose was back.

  Or someone else.

  Someone worse.

  Someone like Milton Jones.

  My eyes darted around the room. There was only one place to hide in the barren space. The closet.

  I quickly tiptoed to the door, opened it, and crammed myself into the space. I hadn’t pulled the door fully closed when I heard someone step into the room.

  I pushed myself back into the dark recesses of the closet.

  There must be some clothes in the small, musty space. Maybe some boxes. The smell of mothballs and dust filled my nostrils.

  The floorboards groaned in the room. My gaze refused to leave the sliver between the door and its frame. It offered me a glimpse into the room.

  Rose appeared.

  I could hardly breathe. What would I do if I was caught in here? How would I explain it?

  For that matter, who cared about explaining things? How was I going to get out of this one alive?

  Was Rose a serial killer’s sadistic helper? She would have had the key to my apartment. Maybe she’d seen that Luminol delivery come and guessed that I might use it at a crime scene. Maybe those messages had been her idea.

  Rose stopped at the bulletin board and stared at all the memorabilia there for a moment. She said something under her breath and giggled. Then she began pacing.

  I tried to make out what she was saying, but I had no luck. It was all jumbled and low. As she walked closer to the closet, I pressed myself back.

  The floor let out a telltale squeal.

  Rose stopped pacing and stared at the closet.

  Oh, no.

  I had to hide. Now.

  I pulled something from a hanger in front of me. A coat? It wasn’t big enough.

  I grabbed behind me again.

  That’s when I saw a hand.

  A limp, lifeless hand.

  Before I realized what I was doing, I screamed.

  ***

  “Who’s there?” Rose asked. Her eyes were wide and her gaze fastened on the closet.

  I couldn’t hide in the small, enclosed space with a dead body any longer. Besides, Rose knew I was there. The scream had made that much apparent. Staying here would only delay the inevitable.

  Now I had to fight for my life.

  And get this corpse off me.

  I darted from my hideout, practically falling in front of Rose onto the sticky carpet. I pulled myself to my feet and backed against the wall. Rose stared at me like I was the bad guy.

  “Miss St. Claire. What are you doing here?” Her voice sounded calm. Eerily calm. “Why are you in my house? In this room?”

  “Dead. Body.” I pointed behind me.

  “Dead body? What are you talking about?”

  “The bigger question is why do you have a dead person in your closet?”

  “In my closet?” She let out a small laugh. “That’s just Earl.”

  Just Earl? She really was sick and twisted. “Who’s Earl?”

  “He’s my CPR dummy.” One of her eyebrows rose toward the ceiling.

  I turned around. A lifeless arm reached from the closet. A lifeless . . . plastic arm?

  Sure enough, that hadn’t been a real hand. My mind had been playing tricks on me. My adrenaline had gotten the best of me.

  Not my proudest moment.

  But still, that didn’t mean that Rose wasn’t a sicko killer.

  I pointed at her. “You’re helping Milton Jones.”

  Her face went pale. “You don’t understand. You’re jumping to conclusions.”

  “What other conclusion could I possibly jump to? You have Milton Jones’ stuff hanging on your wall.” I nodded toward the bulletin board.

  “I can explain.”

  We began pacing around each other in a circle, each hugging the edge of the walls and sizing each other up like boxers in a ring, waiting to see who would make the first move.

  “Explain then.”

  “First you tell me why you’re hiding in my closet.” She was questioning me?

  I sighed. “Because my AC isn’t working. Your front door wasn’t latched. I thought you might have had a heart attack or something, so I came inside to check on you. I found this little shrine instead.”

  “Likely story,” she muttered.

  “Your turn.”

  She shrugged. “I’m a collector.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that I collect souvenirs from serial killers, especially Milton Jones.” She circled more.

  “Why would you do that?” Seriously. I couldn’t comprehend this. I’d seen some crazy things. I’d heard some crazy stuff. But never this.

  “I find killers fascinating. Okay? It’s my dirty little secret.”

  “Because you’re one of them. You’re a killer.”

  She blanched. “Of course not. I’m no killer. This is no different than watching those shows on TV. People dress like killers from the movies—Jason from Friday the 13th or Freddy Krueger—and no one bats an eyelash.”

  “You’re helping killers profit off of their crimes. How do you think the victims’ families feel about that?”

  “It’s a harsh reality. I can agree to that.”

  “So why do you do it?”

  “It’s just a hobby. Besides, you clean crime scenes. Don’t tell me you have no fascination with crime and murder yourself.”

  I wanted to deny it, but could I? I wasn’t sure. Rose was messing with my mind.

  “Did you take Clarice?” I wished I had my gun. A knife. A lifeline from Regis. Something!

  She stopped circling for a moment. “Who’s Clarice?”

  “Have you been helping Milton Jones?” I wasn’t buying her story. Not yet.

  “There’s no way he’s in Virginia yet. That’s a long trip across the country.” She sounded sincere, like she really didn’t know. Maybe she was just a good actress.

  “That’s what I thought, too. But I’ve seen him.”

  Her eyes widened. Not with horror. With infatuation. “Really?”

  “I’m still not convinced that you�
��re not guilty here, Rose. Acting like a schoolgirl with a crush isn’t helping your case.”

  The sparkle left her eyes. “I’m only guilty of being obsessive. I’m no killer.”

  “That’s what they all say. Let’s call the police. Let them sort this out.”

  She raised her hands in the air. “Sure thing.” She slipped her phone out of her pocket. “In fact, that sounds like a great idea.”

  CHAPTER 14

  “Why were you in her house again?” Detective Adams asked me.

  I stood on the lawn in front of Rose’s place. The sun beat down on me, and I tried to ignore the trickle of sweat that started on my back. “When I found the door unlatched, I thought something was wrong. I just wanted to check and make sure she was okay.”

  “And when she came inside, why did you hide in the closet instead of letting her know you were there?”

  I sighed, fighting exasperation. “Because she had mementos of Milton Jones hanging in her room. That kind of freaked me out, to say the least.”

  “She’s threatening to press charges.”

  I could hear the woman inside the house, loudly and clearly expressing her side of the story. I knew this didn’t look great for me, but couldn’t they see the bigger picture here? There were more pressing issues at hand!

  I threw my hands in the air. Why fight my frustration? “You should be pressing charges against her. She’s obviously working with Jones. I don’t care what she says.”

  “We’re looking into it, Gabby.” He sounded so even-keeled that I wanted to scream.

  Instead, I crossed my arms. “Are you arresting me?”

  “No, we’re not arresting you, Gabby. We do need to finish up with Rose here.”

  “So I’m free to go?”

  He nodded. “But please, no more breaking into people’s homes.”

  ***

  An hour later, I sat across from Riley at a Mediterranean restaurant that had hummus and baba ghanoush so tasty it would knock your hijab off.

  Despite that, I barely tasted it right now. All I knew was that I was glad not to be in my apartment. I had to clear my head.

  I dipped my pita bread into the hummus and shook my head. “I don’t get it. Why can’t the police arrest Rose? Isn’t it obvious she’s guilty?”