Point
Ellie braced herself to see her friend murdered on the bed of daffodils.
But as she jogged over the crest of the hill, she halted, her heart jumping out of her chest. There was a young woman lying on the flowers, bramble wrapped around her slashed throat, her hands folded in prayer, her shocked death gaze angled toward the cypresses as if she was looking up at heaven. She wore a silk pink blouse, a black pencil skirt, and garish makeup––the MO was the same.
“It’s not Shondra,” Cord said in a raspy voice.
“No.” Relief slammed into her, followed by a wave of grief for the woman––and dread at notifying the victim’s mother. “It’s Maude Hazelnut’s granddaughter, Honey Victoria.” Does Maude even know she’s missing?
Needing a closer look, Ellie walked toward the once perky blonde with pale blue eyes who was the light of Maude’s life.
If the killer stuck to his pattern, it meant he didn’t perceive Honey as being loving and giving. Vera had once referred to Honey as a “gold digger” telling Randall that the young woman had let her children run riot at the country club because she was too busy talking to the pool boy.
Ellie had merely rolled her eyes at her mother’s gossiping. She knew little about Honey, other than that she was married to an older, wealthy businessman. More than enough to set tongues wagging behind the back of arch-gossiper Meddlin’ Maude, Honey’s comfortable lifestyle could make her Saturday’s child in the killer’s eyes—who according to the rhyme “works hard for a living”.
“Call it in,” Ellie told Cord as she checked out the area. It was quiet, with no hint of anyone nearby. Just the sound of the wind gaining momentum as it roared through the tunnel of trees.
Circling to the other side of the body, she stooped down to examine her more closely, noticing thick bruises around her neck. It definitely looked like the bruises were made from a dog collar, deeper and more pronounced than the previous victims. Derrick’s theory about the dog abuser or trainer could be right, and the hair he’d found at the chicken houses had been blonde. Did it belong to Honey?
One Hundred Nineteen
Bear Mountain
Derrick usually played by the rulebook, as emotions could compromise a case.
But his patience was wearing thin. Ellie’s life––Shondra’s and God knew how many more women’s––depended on him catching the serial killer.
And out here in the middle of nowhere, he had a reprieve from prying eyes. For once, he wanted to take advantage of that.
He pulled Finton back out the car and shoved him up against it. He raised his weapon again, aiming it between the man’s beady eyes. “Where’s Deputy Eastwood?”
“Who?” Finton feigned an innocent look.
Derrick grabbed him by the collar. “Deputy Shondra Eastwood. She’s been missing for days. The Weekday Killer has her, and I believe that’s you. I know about your past. About you and your daddy and your sick perversions, how you play with the dead.”
Finton went still, radiating a depravity that made Derrick’s skin crawl.
“We searched your house and your funeral home and found photos of your activities,” Derrick said. “You’re going to jail for that. But I want to know what you’ve done with Shondra.”
“I didn’t do anything to that cop.”
Derrick gripped the man’s collar so tightly it cut into his neck and he coughed for air. “The jury might go easy if you stop this nightmare and cooperate.”
“I didn’t kill nobody,” Finton said, baring his teeth in a sneer. “And I don’t know where that bitch is.”
“I don’t believe you. I know about your father and about Cord McClain. The Weekday Killer dresses the victims as if preparing them for their funerals, putting makeup on them and sewing their lips closed.” Derrick tightened his finger on the trigger. “That sounds exactly like something a mortician would do. I just want to know if you did it alone or if you and McClain are partners.”
“I told you, I didn’t kill anyone. I like to play with the bodies afterwards, but that’s it.” Finton scratched at his face, and Derrick noticed scars pockmarking his skin. The guy was probably a meth addict. “I haven’t seen that chickenshit McClain in years,” he spat. “But my father disappeared a few months after Cord left, and I think he killed him. So, if you’re looking for a murderer, talk to McClain.”
Derrick released a heavy breath. Finton was trying to change the tune of the questioning, but he wasn’t buying the diversion tactic. “If you