She thought about getting out of bed and getting to work. Instead she took one of the sleeping pills she usually saved for stressful times in her life. Her heart ached and her head pounded and she wanted to sleep until it all went away. She promised God that if he would just help her out with the hangover, she’d never drink red wine again.
She fell asleep until the next morning, and when she woke, she instantly noticed three things. One: She was still dressed in the clothes she’d had on the day before. Two: God had been good to her and her hangover was blessedly gone. Three: Her heart still ached. She wasn’t over Quinn yet. Maybe she should have asked God to heal her heart instead of her head. The only consolation, although not a big one, was the fact that she would never have to see Quinn again.
Lucy changed into her bathrobe, then padded into the kitchen and made coffee. While she waited for it to brew, she fed Mr. Snookums and grabbed the reader mail out of her purse. Three of them had the same typed address and Boise postmark. The others were from California and Michigan. The reader from California praised Lucy’s talent and wrote that she was looking forward to her next book. Lucy set that letter aside to be filed with the other readers whom she planned on sending a note and a bookmark. The writer of the Michigan letter wasn’t so praiseworthy. He pointed out that the trajectory of a bullet’s path in her second novel was physically impossible. He’d drawn a diagram and asked if she did research. Lucy filed that letter in the trash.
She took the three remaining letters with her to the counter and poured herself a cup of coffee. She checked the date on the postmarks and opened the oldest, which had been sent mid-February.
I’m your biggest fan. I’ve read everything you have written and consider myself quite the Rothschild aficionado.
Aficionado? That was a little over the top, Lucy thought and leaned her behind against the counter.
I’ve followed your career closely and have read all of your books. I am in awe of your talent. You’ve kept me sane when I thought I would lose my mind in this insane world.
You’ve given me hours of nail-biting suspense, and I would like to return the favor. I would like to share with you my own little mystery.
Lucy took a drink of her coffee. For legal reasons, she did not read people’s unpublished manuscripts. She was going to have to write to this person and tell him or her not to go to the expense of sending it. She looked at the envelope sitting on the counter and noticed there wasn’t a return address. Weird.
I am sure you will appreciate my little mystery as much as I’ve always appreciated yours. Quid pro quo, I always say.
My story begins like this. A woman tired of dating losers just out for sex decides to take care of them one by one. Kind of like a vigilante. Ridding the world of perverts and degenerates. Men who can’t commit or who are whiners. Men who beat their wives or girlfriends, cheat on them and scam women out of money, to say nothing of the trail of broken hearts they leave behind. Have you ever asked yourself why nothing bad ever happens to them? Why they are allowed to go blithely on their way to the next victim? Well, something should be done about those men. They deserve to know the pain they cause as they draw their last breath.
At first I thought I would write a book about these dirty men, but I lack discipline. And re-ally, the odds of getting published are so slim. So, I’ve decided to live it instead.
Lucy straightened, and she felt her forehead get tight.
Read the front page of the Statesman dated Feb. 25th. What the paper fails to mention (because they couldn’t know something the police don’t even know) was that Charles Wilson kicked so hard I thought he was going to kick his bed apart so I had to hold his legs down. He was frightened and pathetic. Poetic justice, I say.
Do you like my work? I’d love to sit down with you for a critique. To get your thoughts, but of course, that is impossible.
Well, I have to go.
So many men. So little time. So much to do.
Lucy reached for the next letter and opened it. This time she pulled out a front-page news clipping along with a letter. A photo of a house blocked off with yellow crime scene tape dominated half the page. The headline read DAVE AN-DERSON, SECOND MAN TO DIE IN HOME WITHIN THE PAST MONTH.
This letter was shorter and more vehement.
Don’t you just love the incompetence of the BPD? They haven’t figured out yet that the two deaths are related. Morons. Cavemen. But what can you expect? Certainly not intelligence. Not from men. Dave Anderson was a big bumbling buffoon who flattered himself that I was interested sexually in him. Dirty man.
Read the Statesman article. What a riot. The police have nothing to release to reporters because they have nothing. I leave nothing behind. Nothing can be traced to me. I’m too smart for them. I learned everything I know from reading mystery novels. Your mystery novels.
Flattered?
Lucy might be a little slow on the uptake sometimes, like when it came to realizing that everything Quinn had ever uttered had been a damn lie, but not this time. She knew what this was. She’d done too much research, delved into too many twisted minds, written too many books, not to recognize bragging when she read it.
Breathless wanted her to know exactly what she’d done. She was showing off. Like when Mr. Snookums killed a mouse and left it on the back porch for her to discover and admire. A killer wanted Lucy to see and admire her work.
Lucy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her cat jumped off a kitchen chair, and she jumped out of her skin. Her heart pounded, and she raised a hand to her throat. “Holy Jesus,” she whispered. She set the letter on the news clipping and stared at the third envelope. She didn’t really want to open it, but she had to. This time she was more careful. She retrieved her pink Playtex gloves from beneath the sink and pulled them on. Her hands shook as she grabbed a steak knife and sliced the top of the envelope open. She tipped it upside down, and another article and letter fell into her palm. The newspaper had run a photo of the victim, as well as a picture of the crime scene. Lawrence Craig, the man Lucy knew as luvstick, looked out from the paper, a slight smile tilting up the corners of his mouth. Her scalp got tight, and tension pulled at her brows. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Well, the BPD finally figured it out. Three murders in eight weeks and they finally figured that they were related. Duh! I know they’re waiting for me to mess up. Make a mistake, but I won’t. I’m too smart for them. I’ve been thinking that maybe I will write a book about what I’m doing after all. Someday when I’m more disciplined. You know what they say; write what you know.
Here’s a little FYI between professionals, in case you want to use it in your book. When you suffocate someone, they make a little noise in the backs of their throats. At least that’s been my experience. Maybe that doesn’t happen with everyone. I’ll keep you posted. Lawrence made the most noise, thrashing about like it would do any good. He liked the idea of me tying him up, but not so much at the end, I guess.
When I first started, I thought it would be difficult to find dirty men who are willing to be handcuffed to a bed. For the most part, it has been easy. Men will do just about anything if they think they might get sex. But you’re an intelligent woman, and I’m sure this doesn’t surprise you. I’m sure we have a lot in common and could spend hours swapping dating horror stories.