To make matters worse, someone is leaving roses in front of Susan’s
door. Is she being stalked by a killer?
Available from http://bookswelove.net/authors/dowell-roseanne/
Excerpt:
Georgie Porgie pudding and pie kissed
the girls and made them cry — now it’s time to die.
He released his hands from the victim’s neck, and the
lifeless body slumped to the ground. He stood back, and stared at it in disgust.
“You thought you were so cool, didn’t you, George?
Playing all the girls like that. You could’ve had anyone you wanted, but you weren’t satisfied with one. You wanted
them all. Then you broke their hearts and left everyone else to pick up the pieces.”
He stooped down, lifted George’s head, and propped it
against a rock, then pulled a tube of lipstick from his pocket and smeared it across the victim’s mouth. How many times
had he seen George wipe off his lips coming out of the locker room? “You won’t wipe it off this time, Buddy.”
He stuffed a paper into George’s hand and tightened
his fingers around it. “You don’t look too cool now.” He laughed and pulled a container of pudding and a
strawberry pie out of his knapsack, opened them, and dumped them over George’s head. The gooey mixture ran down George’s
face.
He licked his lips. “You poor, pathetic bastard.”
Gathering up his knapsack, he took one last look at the body,
then turned and ran from the park. His job was done.
***
Susan propped the News Gazette on the counter and focused
on the headline. ‘Georgie Porgie, Pudding and Die’ by
Susan Weston, it blared at her. Her headline. Her story. She’d done it. Finally got her headline. She drummed her hands
on the counter and did a little dance step. She swore if her grin got any wider her face would crack. .”Susan Weston,
journalist!” she shouted. God, she wanted to shout it from the rooftops.
The phone rang, startling her. “Who the heck is calling
at this hour? “ She grabbed the phone. “Hello.” Bella rubbed against her legs, waiting to be fed. “Hello?”
Susan grabbed the box of kitty food, filled the bowl, and set it on the floor.
“Hello,” she repeated, ready to hang up if no
one answered this time.
The evil, raspy voice on the other end sent goose-bumps up
her spine. “Who is this?” she whispered.
The voice mumbled something she could barely hear.
“Strawberries? What are you talking about?”
“Just for you,” the garbled voice continued.
“I can’t hear you. Who is this?” What kind
of sick joke is this?
She caught the words, “loved your headline,” more
garbled words, and “Watch for Jack be nimble.” Then the phone line went dead.
Susan grabbed the counter to steady herself. Her hand trembled,
and she stared at the phone. She dropped the receiver back into its cradle as if it was on fire. But she couldn’t stop
the trembling. Her stomach churned. Nausea filled her throat. What was wrong with her? Just someone playing a sick joke. This
wasn’t her first crank call, why react like this? Maybe because none of the others had sounded like this.
He said he liked her story. That shouldn’t bother her.
Something about that voice, so harsh, so evil. It gnawed at her. The hair prickled on the back of her neck. Something about
it seemed familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.
After pouring a cup of coffee, she read the story under the
headline aloud, trying to keep her mind off the phone call. “Police are investigating the death of thirty-one year old
George Lucas, whose body was found last night in Lagoon Park near his west side home.” The sound of her shaky voice
surprised her.
What was the matter with her? “Get
a grip, girl.”
Must be the effect of seeing the lifeless body. The way George
Lucas’s eyes stared into space. What was he thinking when he looked into his killer’s eyes? The distant street
lamp didn’t help. It cast an eerie shadow on the victim. His face frozen in terror, lips parted in a silent scream,
and his head tilted to one side as if it was too heavy for his neck. The way one hand clutched at his throat and the other
gripped the note, fingers frozen around it, sent icy chills through her, even now. She shuddered.
Thank God there wasn’t any blood, since the image would
forever be embedded in her mind. Susan rubbed her arms to warm them.
Picking up the paper, she continued to read. “The coroner
will determine the cause of death, but early reports indicate that Mr. Lucas was strangled. Lipstick was smeared across the
victim’s mouth, and he clasped the nursery rhyme, ‘Georgie Porgie,’ in his hand. The teen who discovered
the body reported seeing a man carrying a bag and wearing a gray shirt running from the park moments before. Police have no
suspects at this time.”
Bella brushed against her legs, jumped on the counter, and
snuggled against her.
Susan’s heart pounded. She took a deep breath and let
it out slowly. So much for the thrill of seeing her name on the front page. The image of the body filled her mind. Her hands
trembled while she held the paper and reread the headline with her name below it. It was exactly as she had written it —
not one word changed, short and to the point.
George Lucas lived in her neighborhood. She’d seen him
a few times in Meliti’s Market talking to old Mrs. Meliti. Although they never spoke, they had nodded and smiled hello.
Nice-looking guy, about her age. What a shock seeing him dead. Another shiver shook her body. Seeing a dead body was bad enough,
but knowing the victim threw her for a loop. Made it personal.
Arriving only a few minutes before the police showed up and
ordered her to leave, not that they had to tell her twice, she had viewed the crime scene and then skedaddled lickety-split.
She knew enough about crime scenes to maintain a distance, knew if she got too close, she’d compromise the scene, maybe
even leave trace evidence of herself behind. She didn’t need that. But she’d been close enough to read that paper
in his hand, a nursery rhyme. She’d seen every gory detail.
The nursery rhyme letters, cut out from newspapers and magazines,
and bowl of chocolate pudding and the strawberry pie that had been dumped on the victim’s head would stay in her memory
for a long time. Of course, the police requested that information not be printed.
Requested, hell. Demanded was more like it, but Susan understood.
Those were facts only the killer knew, and it prevented crank confessions. Couldn’t give the public too much information.
After waiting behind the crime scene tape long enough to hear the possible cause of death, she hurried home to write her story
before the deadline.
Susan walked around the kitchen. To sweeten the deal, her
colleagues hadn’t shown up until well after they’d taped off the crime scene, hadn’t seen what she’d
seen. So Ernie printed her story. Her first big byline! Even that
cocky reporter, Dan Hill, hadn’t beat her out this time.
Staring at the large headline, she sipped her coffee. The
words from the phone call rambled around in her mind.
“Strawberries. The voice on the phone said something
about strawberries. Strawberry Pie dumped over the victim’s head.” Her voice cracked at the memory.
Only the killer knew about the pie. Her body shook. Had she
been talking to the killer? What else had the caller said? Jack be nimble. Another nursery rhyme.
Grabbing the counter to steady herself, she repeated part
of the nursery rhyme “Jack be nimble…”
Her mind raced. She pushed away from the counter and paced
the kitchen, trying to remember the rest of the rhyme.
“Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack jumped over the
candlestick. That’s it!”
What the heck did it mean? Was he going to kill again? Was
there a serial killer out there?
She grabbed the phone and dialed the police department. Maybe
it was nothing, but she needed to report it. Something didn’t sit right.
Susan showered while she waited for Detective David Morgan.
The Desk Sergeant had connected them when she explained the strange phone call. Detective Morgan of Homicide, in charge of
the case, told her he’d come by within the hour to take her statement. Just
what she needed, a detective coming here. Why couldn’t he take her statement over the phone? Yeah, right. She knew better
than that. That wasn’t the way it worked.
A few minutes later, someone pounded on the door. “Hold
on, I’m coming.” Good grief, couldn’t they knock like ordinary people. Scared the bejeebers out of me.” Susan opened the door a crack. How the heck did he get past the security door?
“Detective Morgan.” He flashed his badge. “You
called me.”
Susan pushed the chain aside and opened the door. He brushed
past her and walked into her apartment.
Taken aback by the tall, strikingly handsome man and his rude
entry, she caught her breath. Here was Rhett Butler, from Gone with the Wind, reincarnated. He towered over her five-foot-eight
height. Yet, she wanted to wipe the cocky grin off his face. Now she knew how Scarlett felt the first time she met Rhett.
