(5)
Chintz and Callum rarely talked about his work. She babbled on endlessly about the people at parties she catered, and he enjoyed listening to her. But he preferred to leave his job at the station, often told her that most murders were crude violence and not much more—drug or gang related, too much alcohol when arguments broke out, or domestic disputes. But this case was different. When he finally came home and they settled at the kitchen island, he shook his head.
“The murders have to be connected. Both victims had lists in their pockets on typing paper cut to the same size with checkmarks next to the victims’ names. But the murder styles were different, and that’s odd. Most killers use the same m.o. And this hanging was so elaborate. We think someone tied the rope to a car, or it would be too hard to lift Garnet off the ground.” He rubbed his hand over his eyes, one of his tired habits.
“And both victims attended parties that I catered.” Chintz fretted about that. Was it just a coincidence or did someone use her parties to choose his victims? “Maybe that connected them somehow, too.”
“We can’t rule it out.” Callum reached for one of her cupcakes.
When her hub got gung-ho on a case, he lost track of time.
“Did you eat anything yet? It’s past supper time.”
He grinned. “Have you eaten yet?”
Okay, he had her there. She motioned to his cupcake. “Two of those.”
“Just what I thought.” He bit his in half. Show-off. “Mm, good.”
The man had a sweet tooth. He could be had with devil’s food cake. Appropriate, huh? Since he worked to ferret out evil. “You hungry? I could whip up something.”
Cupcakes wouldn’t hold him for long.
He unbuttoned his shirt, took it off, and draped it over the back of a chair, then yanked the white T-shirt beneath it out of his jeans to hang loose. “I’ll settle for a sandwich. You?”
She went to the refrigerator and returned with some of the leftover ham salad she’d made for the tea and half a loaf of French bread. They made quick work of them, which made her happy. Two more leftovers down.
As they ate, they talked. He asked, “Do you remember what the guy was like who invited Shayla to the company party?”
“Oh, yeah. Tall. Lanky. Brown hair that fell over one eye. Dimples deep enough to fall in.”
He raised a black eyebrow. “Really? Did you take a picture?”
She laughed. “Didn’t have to. I have an indelible image in my mind. He was with Shayla, but he was really working the room, too. The guy didn’t know how to turn off the charm.”
“Did it bother Shayla?”
“She told me that his date cancelled on him, so he asked her at the last minute, as a friend. Implied that no one would take them seriously, so it was safe for him to be seen with her.”
Callum’s expression said exactly how he felt about that. “If you ask a girl out, you treat her well. Period.”
“I agree, but you’re a man of honor. Brock was more of a frat boy. At least, that’s how he struck me.” She finished her sandwich and reached for another cupcake.
Callum did, too. “They’re legal now that It’s time for dessert.”
Not that he ever worried about that. She picked up their dishes to rinse. “Have you compared the names of the people at both parties? Did anyone attend both of them?”
“No overlap.”
She should have known he’d already have thought of that. “So what now? You go door to door where they live, start talking to friends?”
He swiped cake crumbs off the granite counter and dumped them in the sink. Then he headed to the couch. “Yup, time to put in serious leg work. It’s going to take some deep digging to try to piece something together.”
One of his mantras. Police work was as much about leg work as crime scenes. She came to sit in the chair across from him. “I cater another party on Tuesday. I’m going to be holding my breath that no one dies between the soup and salad. I’m just being silly, right?”
“What kind of party is it? Maybe I should send someone undercover to keep an eye on things.” He sounded like he was only half joking. She’d wanted reassurance. His answer made her worry more.
She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t think someone’s crashing my parties, do you?”
“Not really, why would they? But parties seem to be a common theme.”
“No one died from the tea party I catered.”
“Maybe that one was too civilized.”
She chewed her bottom lip. “My next job is for a book club. The members take turns hosting it at their own homes. I’ll be at one of those monstrous old houses that line Park Forest Avenue.”
“That sounds more like a garden party. You’d think that would be civilized, too.”
“Let’s hope so. It’s another finger food event for a dozen women.”
“What are you making?” He always asked about the dishes she’d prepare.
“Spring rolls, gazpacho shooters, crostini with goat cheese, and chicken satay.”
“Nothing sweet?”
She gave him a sugary smile. He always focused on desserts. “Lemon cream tartlets with berries.”
He licked his lips. “You’ll make a couple extra for me, won’t you?”
“Don’t I always?” If she didn’t, he’d just steal two of them she needed. With no shame.
Suddenly serious, he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Some guy at the local paper wrote an article and called this killer St. Nick, because he’s making a list, checking it twice. I wish no one had glorified him. It will only egg him on.”
Chintz understood, but it was a clever nickname. At the moment, it felt like they were sifting through sand to find one or two grains of truth. If they didn’t come up with something, the killer would probably strike again. But they had no idea how to prevent that.
She asked again, “Do you think the killer’s randomly picking victims at parties, or is he only targeting parties I cater?”
“The last two parties you worked were big events with lots of people. Maybe that’s what draws him.”
She hadn’t thought of that. Larger catering services usually handled the bigger parties in the city. Her next event was small. Hopefully, that would make it safe.
Chintz and Callum rarely talked about his work. She babbled on endlessly about the people at parties she catered, and he enjoyed listening to her. But he preferred to leave his job at the station, often told her that most murders were crude violence and not much more—drug or gang related, too much alcohol when arguments broke out, or domestic disputes. But this case was different. When he finally came home and they settled at the kitchen island, he shook his head.
“The murders have to be connected. Both victims had lists in their pockets on typing paper cut to the same size with checkmarks next to the victims’ names. But the murder styles were different, and that’s odd. Most killers use the same m.o. And this hanging was so elaborate. We think someone tied the rope to a car, or it would be too hard to lift Garnet off the ground.” He rubbed his hand over his eyes, one of his tired habits.
“And both victims attended parties that I catered.” Chintz fretted about that. Was it just a coincidence or did someone use her parties to choose his victims? “Maybe that connected them somehow, too.”
“We can’t rule it out.” Callum reached for one of her cupcakes.
When her hub got gung-ho on a case, he lost track of time.
“Did you eat anything yet? It’s past supper time.”
He grinned. “Have you eaten yet?”
Okay, he had her there. She motioned to his cupcake. “Two of those.”
“Just what I thought.” He bit his in half. Show-off. “Mm, good.”
The man had a sweet tooth. He could be had with devil’s food cake. Appropriate, huh? Since he worked to ferret out evil. “You hungry? I could whip up something.”
Cupcakes wouldn’t hold him for long.
He unbuttoned his shirt, took it off, and draped it over the back of a chair, then yanked the white T-shirt beneath it out of his jeans to hang loose. “I’ll settle for a sandwich. You?”
She went to the refrigerator and returned with some of the leftover ham salad she’d made for the tea and half a loaf of French bread. They made quick work of them, which made her happy. Two more leftovers down.
As they ate, they talked. He asked, “Do you remember what the guy was like who invited Shayla to the company party?”
“Oh, yeah. Tall. Lanky. Brown hair that fell over one eye. Dimples deep enough to fall in.”
He raised a black eyebrow. “Really? Did you take a picture?”
She laughed. “Didn’t have to. I have an indelible image in my mind. He was with Shayla, but he was really working the room, too. The guy didn’t know how to turn off the charm.”
“Did it bother Shayla?”
“She told me that his date cancelled on him, so he asked her at the last minute, as a friend. Implied that no one would take them seriously, so it was safe for him to be seen with her.”
Callum’s expression said exactly how he felt about that. “If you ask a girl out, you treat her well. Period.”
“I agree, but you’re a man of honor. Brock was more of a frat boy. At least, that’s how he struck me.” She finished her sandwich and reached for another cupcake.
Callum did, too. “They’re legal now that It’s time for dessert.”
Not that he ever worried about that. She picked up their dishes to rinse. “Have you compared the names of the people at both parties? Did anyone attend both of them?”
“No overlap.”
She should have known he’d already have thought of that. “So what now? You go door to door where they live, start talking to friends?”
He swiped cake crumbs off the granite counter and dumped them in the sink. Then he headed to the couch. “Yup, time to put in serious leg work. It’s going to take some deep digging to try to piece something together.”
One of his mantras. Police work was as much about leg work as crime scenes. She came to sit in the chair across from him. “I cater another party on Tuesday. I’m going to be holding my breath that no one dies between the soup and salad. I’m just being silly, right?”
“What kind of party is it? Maybe I should send someone undercover to keep an eye on things.” He sounded like he was only half joking. She’d wanted reassurance. His answer made her worry more.
She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t think someone’s crashing my parties, do you?”
“Not really, why would they? But parties seem to be a common theme.”
“No one died from the tea party I catered.”
“Maybe that one was too civilized.”
She chewed her bottom lip. “My next job is for a book club. The members take turns hosting it at their own homes. I’ll be at one of those monstrous old houses that line Park Forest Avenue.”
“That sounds more like a garden party. You’d think that would be civilized, too.”
“Let’s hope so. It’s another finger food event for a dozen women.”
“What are you making?” He always asked about the dishes she’d prepare.
“Spring rolls, gazpacho shooters, crostini with goat cheese, and chicken satay.”
“Nothing sweet?”
She gave him a sugary smile. He always focused on desserts. “Lemon cream tartlets with berries.”
He licked his lips. “You’ll make a couple extra for me, won’t you?”
“Don’t I always?” If she didn’t, he’d just steal two of them she needed. With no shame.
Suddenly serious, he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Some guy at the local paper wrote an article and called this killer St. Nick, because he’s making a list, checking it twice. I wish no one had glorified him. It will only egg him on.”
Chintz understood, but it was a clever nickname. At the moment, it felt like they were sifting through sand to find one or two grains of truth. If they didn’t come up with something, the killer would probably strike again. But they had no idea how to prevent that.
She asked again, “Do you think the killer’s randomly picking victims at parties, or is he only targeting parties I cater?”
“The last two parties you worked were big events with lots of people. Maybe that’s what draws him.”
She hadn’t thought of that. Larger catering services usually handled the bigger parties in the city. Her next event was small. Hopefully, that would make it safe.
