Jack Ryder Mystery Series: Vol 1-3

  “I’ve known the woman since we were children. It’s not her,” Weasel growled.

  “We have to at least look into it,” I said. “And you know it.”

  “Good grief. Okay then, but be careful with her, all right? She’s in a fragile state of mind.”

  “I’m always gentle,” I said and smiled. “So, are we looking at a connection on the three deaths here?” I asked.

  Weasel shook her head. “I talked to Sheriff Ron earlier, and we both agree there is no need to look into that angle. Nothing connects them, apart from the fact that they were committed in our town within a close time frame. I think it’s just a coincidence. There is nothing that indicates they’re related. One of the deaths is a suicide, so that is certainly not connected to the others.”

  I wasn’t sure I agreed, but didn’t say it out loud.

  “What about the man Melanie’s friends said they saw at the parking lot at the restaurant right after they were done eating?” I asked. “I can’t seem to get him out of my mind.”

  “The Animal Control guy?” Weasel asked.

  “Yes. They said he was driving one of the vans from Animal Control and had snakes in a tank inside the van. He offered them a ride, they told us. One of the girls took a look inside and saw the snakes.”

  Weasel nodded. “Joel called Animal Control, and they told him they didn’t have a guy in that area on that date.” She looked at me pensively. “You think he might have followed her back to the house?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea at this point. But I think we should have a drawing made and send it to the newspaper and ask the public to help us find this guy. Tell them we’d like to talk to him.”

  Weasel nodded. “I’ll set that in motion. The friends said they got a pretty good look at him. They can help us get a good picture of this Snake-guy. What else? How are we on the suicide and the homicide on West Bay Drive?”

  “Nothing much to tell yet,” I said. “I’m looking into Rhonda Harris’ finances. She made quite a lot of money the last couple of years. I’m trying to figure out where the money came from.”

  “Good. But don’t spend too much time on the West Bay Drive case. The murder of the judge has first priority now, and finding Melanie Schultz and her child. Judge Martin was a high-profile judge around here. People will be demanding justice. I know the Mayor will. It’s going to create quite the media-drama once they get the news. I’m not looking forward to that part.”

  I got up from my chair, holding the file in my hand. “I want to take a closer look at it anyway,” I said.

  “By all means. It’s your case now. Knock yourself out.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and walked towards the door. I grabbed the handle and looked back at Weasel. “And don’t worry. I think you look great on TV.”

  I ducked just in time to avoid the stapler hitting me.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  April 1990

  She had everything she could ever ask for in life. She had the most beautiful house in a gated area, she had the biggest most expensive car, and the most beautiful jewelry that Victor brought home for her almost every month just to spoil her.

  She had everything, her neighbors said, with jealousy in their voices. Even her child was beautiful. Her little baby boy, who was now five years of age, was just so…so perfect.

  Why wasn’t she happy? Why wasn’t Annie enjoying any of it? Why did she constantly feel like she was trapped in a prison and couldn’t breathe?

  Why?

  She asked herself that very question every day when Victor kissed her goodbye with those yellow crooked teeth and bad breath of his, and she was left alone with the child. She never knew what to do with him. To be honest, she found it hard to spend time with him, and often she would leave him downstairs with some toys, then walk upstairs and go back to sleep or just hide. She didn’t know what it was about the child, but she just didn’t like to be close to him. She feared it was because of how he had come to be. Did she resent him for it? Did she somehow blame him for the rape?

  She didn’t know. All she knew was that she was counting the days till he would start Kindergarten after the summer. Then, Annie wouldn’t have to be with him all day. Finally, she would be able to have some time for herself.

  While sitting in her bathrobe in her bedroom, listening to the boy play with his toys downstairs, smashing cars into each other and pretending they exploded, she wondered if she even loved him.

  Victor adored the kid. There was no doubt about it. He loved the boy. But Annie found it harder and harder. When she looked at his face, she sometimes thought she saw Tim’s eyes, or one of his friend’s facial expressions. And that was when she was reminded of what had happened on that dreadful night six years ago.

  Two years ago, she had confided everything to her mother. She hadn’t been able to hold it in anymore, and just told her everything. She asked her if she was a terrible mother because she found it hard to look at her own child.

  Hoping her mother would understand her, she had leaned against her shoulder, longing for a comforting hug, but her mother had, instead, moved away and turned her back on her. She had walked to the kitchen sink and started peeling potatoes while saying:

  “Well at least everything turned out fine, right? At least you have a good husband now, and you live a great life in that big house. I tell you, I’ve never had a house like that. You should be very grateful and not dig up all these ugly memories. Make the best of what you’ve got. That’s what I always say. That’s how you get by; that’s how you live a good life.”

  Annie had stared at her mother’s back while she spoke. While tears streamed across her cheeks and the feeling of abandonment pierced her stomach, she imagined grabbing that potato peeler out of her mother’s hand and piercing her in the heart with it. She wondered what it would feel like and closed her eyes to shut out her mother’s words. They felt like punches to her stomach.

  Since then, Annie had stopped seeking her parents’ comfort and understanding. While her discomfort in that big mansion grew day by day, she wondered if anyone would even care if she died.

  “Victor would,” she mumbled to herself and shivered in disgust. The more the days passed with him, the more she couldn’t stand being close to him. She always dreaded having sex with him and tried to get out of it if he suggested or tried to make a move when they went to bed. There was always a headache or a tiredness to blame it on. Every now and then, she gave in to him, simply because she felt she had to, since he had done so much for her, and let his stinking sweaty body on top of hers. She would close her eyes and think of something else while he finished his business. Lately, she had started to gain a lot of weight, trying to make herself less attractive to him, and it seemed to be working. So, she continued. Sitting in her bedroom during the day, she stuffed herself with chocolate, cheesecake, chips, and sodas. Soon Victor stopped making approaches on her at night at all. It was a small victory for her, but it didn’t help with the child. She still wasn’t happy, and she blamed the boy.

  “Soon,” she whispered, sitting in her bedroom, while he played wildly downstairs, knocking over furniture and jumping on the couch. “Soon, he’ll be gone all day, and then you’ll be able to enjoy your life. Then you’ll be happy.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  January 2015

  We had a drawing made of the snake-guy and it was published in all the local papers and shown on TV, along with pictures of Melanie and Sebastian Schultz. According to Melanie’s friends, the guy was both long-haired and long-bearded. He wore his hair in a ponytail. It got a lot of immediate response from the public, but unfortunately, nothing we could use.

  As Monday morning came and went, I feared more and more for the life of Melanie and her child. I had hoped they had just gone somewhere else, maybe visited family or friends we didn’t know about, and then maybe would see this on TV and call us. But nothing came of it.

  On Tuesday, I finally had a breakthrough in the suicide of Rhonda Ha
rris. The bank tracked her big payments over the last couple of years and found them to be coming from across the street, from Laura Bennett’s bank account. And they were quite large amounts. Hundreds of thousands of dollars several times a year.

  “Why was Laura Bennett paying Rhonda Harris?” I asked Weasel, when we went for lunch at Juice N’ Java across the street.

  “Ask the husband,” she said.

  So, I did. I called him and asked him to come down to the station. He arrived in the afternoon. I hadn’t seen him since I had been at the hospital to interview him. He looked a lot better now. He was dressed nicely in a white shirt and black pants. He had trimmed his moustache and cut his hair nicely, making him look a little like a young Tom Selleck. He didn’t look like the drunk everybody was so busy making him into. But some drunks hid it well. I smelled no alcohol on his breath, though.

  “Haven’t touched a drink since it happened,” he said, as if he could read my mind. He sat down. “Haven’t gambled either.”

  “Good to hear. So, how’s Ben?” I asked. I knew he was back in school, since Abigail and Austin had told me. They had all tried to be a good friend to him, they said. I liked that.

  “He’s better,” Brandon Bennett said. “It hasn’t been easy, but people have been good to us. They’re taking real good care of him at the school.”

  “That’s good to know,” I said. “That’s what I’ve always liked about this town. We take care of each other here in Cocoa Beach.”

  “So, how can I help you, Detective?” Brandon asked. “Is there any news about my wife’s murder?”

  He hit me right in my guilty spot. I had been dealing mostly with the murder of the judge lately, and I had to put the Bennett killing a little to the side. I wasn’t proud of it.

  “Not much, no, but I do have something I need to ask you about,” I said. I placed the bank statement in front of him. I had underlined the big transfers of money to Rhonda Harris’s account.

  “What am I looking at?” Brandon Bennett said.

  “It has come to my attention that your wife paid your neighbor across the street a lot of money several times a year. Do you know why?”

  Brandon Bennett shook his head. “This is news to me as well,” he said. “Why would she do that?”

  “That’s what I’m asking you.”

  He exhaled. “As much as I would love to help, I have no idea. This is a huge surprise to me as well. I’m sorry, Detective. Have you asked Rhonda Harris’s daughter? She might know.”

  “I have. She didn’t know either. And you’re sure you didn’t know about this?” I asked.

  “Positive.”

  “What about her brother?”

  “What about him?”

  “You said they stayed in contact. How much contact was that?” I asked.

  Brandon Bennett shrugged. “I don’t know, Detective. Not much. I knew he called every now and then. She visited him a few times. I remember he came on the night of the murder. I remember he was angry and they went outside to discuss something. She didn’t want him there. She asked him to leave, but he wouldn’t. He told her he needed money. She said he had enough. Then they went outside and I didn’t hear any more. I guess she made him leave, because she returned alone. I asked her what it was about, but she told me it was none of my business. That’s when we started fighting. She told me I couldn’t go out on the casino boats anymore. I had spent too much money lately. I felt like a child when she spoke to me like that. So, I got angry and told her it was all her fault I was drinking and gambling.”

  “Because of the child.”

  Brandon Bennett looked at the floor. “Yes. I couldn’t stand being at the house. I couldn’t stand being close to her when I felt that way. When I felt like she hadn’t been able to care enough for our child.”

  “Sudden Infant Death Syndrome isn’t anyone’s fault,” I said. “No more than an accident usually is, or a heart-attack.”

  Brandon Bennett shook his head. “I know…I know…It’s just…” He looked up.

  “It’s just what?” I asked. “You needed someone to blame? We all do when bad things happen. It makes it easier to handle. But, it often destroys our relationships.” I sighed and let it go. How Brandon Bennett chose to deal with his loss was his choice. “So, do you believe Laura might have hidden something from you? Was something going on between her and her brother?”

  “He asked for money a lot. I think that was all. I think Laura felt guilty because she had gotten the entire inheritance. He couldn’t take care of himself properly, and she believed she needed to help him out. But he never stopped. I guess that’s why she got angry with him.”

  “You think he could have killed her?” I asked.

  “Peter? I don’t know. I’m not an expert on killers, Detective.”

  I chatted with Brandon Bennett for a little while longer, but didn’t get anything more out of him. I asked him if he remembered any more from the night of the murder, and he told me that he was slowly regaining some memory, but still nothing that would help the investigation. Nothing between midnight Sunday night and waking up at the hospital Tuesday morning. I kept wondering who could have slipped him that drug in his drink and asked him if he had any friends or anyone he suspected could do such a thing.

  “I…I really don’t, Detective.”

  I wasn’t getting anywhere, so I sent him away, then put the papers aside and grabbed myself another cup of coffee. I wondered about the brother, Peter. He was beginning to look more and more like a suspect in my eyes. I watched the cars go by outside my window, while also wondering what had been going on between the neighbors. Rhonda Harris’s suicide note had said I can’t live with myself. What did that refer to? Did she kill Laura? Was she blackmailing her or something? Was she demanding money from her, and when she refused to give her more, she killed her? If so, then what was she blackmailing her about?

  There was a knock on my door and Joel Hall peeked in. “Detective? I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have something I need to tell you.”

  “Come on in. Grab a chair.”

  “It was just something I thought about last night,” Joel said and sat. “Last year, there was a woman in here. She was complaining about John Platt’s latest book.”

  I leaned forward in my chair, then sipped some more coffee. “Complaining? About what?”

  “I was the one who took her report. She wanted to file a report against the estate after John Platt died,” she said.

  I frowned. “Why? Had they committed a crime?”

  “She claimed the books weren’t written by John Platt. She said they weren’t right or something. I never really listened. I pretended to file the report, but never did. It didn’t make much sense, what she said. To be honest, I thought she was a wacko. But I thought you should know anyway.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  January 2015

  “Someone called for Animal Control? I understand you had a snake in your garage?”

  The Snakecharmer smiled from ear to ear. The woman opening the door was in her early thirties.

  “Yes,” the woman said with a deep sigh. “Thank you so much for coming this fast. I just got off the phone a few minutes ago. I was going crazy just thinking about it being out there.”

  She shivered.

  The Snakecharmer looked at the goose bumps on her neck. A thrill went through his body. He thought about killing her right there on the spot, in the hallway of her own house. Just for the thrill of it.

  “Let me show you the way,” she said. “I think we better go through from the inside. I don’t want it to run out into the yard and hide there if I open the garage door. I want it off the property, if you know what I mean.”

  “Of course, ma’am. I understand. And I take it you have children? I saw the bike in the driveway.”

  “Yes, she said. “We have a girl.”

  “We don’t want her to get scared by one of those bastards while playing in the yard, now do we?”

  The wom
an shivered again. She was so elegant when she moved, so feminine. The Snakecharmer loved that. Like a gazelle in the savannah. And she was his prey. Just like the predator in the wild, he was watching her every move without her noticing it.

  “Nice house you have here,” he said, and followed her through the kitchen.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “What does your husband do?”

  “He’s a lawyer. Well, actually, we’re getting a divorce, so…”

  The Snakecharmer froze. He forced a smile. “I see. Well, that’s too bad. I mean, it seems like you have everything here. It’s always so hard on the children.”

  The woman sighed. The Snakecharmer felt the blood rush rapidly through his veins. He wanted so badly to snap her beautiful long neck. Talking about the divorce made the furor rise in him. Almost to the point where he was afraid he might snap.

  Not now, you fool. Not now.

  “I know,” she said, and opened the door leading to the garage. “It’s in here. I saw it over there by the cupboards. It had a lot of colors. That’s how I knew it was one of the bad ones. You know how the saying goes.”

  “Red touch yellow, kills a fellow. Red touch black, friend of Jack,” the Snakecharmer said. “People never remember it right.”

  “I know,” she said with a light laugh. “I can never get it right either. But I definitely saw yellow on it.”

  “I’ll take care of it, ma’am, don’t worry.”

  “I’m glad,” she said.

  “Oh, and I do hope that there isn’t another person involved.”

  “What was that?”

  “An affair. I hope there isn’t a third party involved,” he said with a smirk. “It always gets nastier if there is.”

  The woman looked baffled. “I…I don’t think that is any of your business. Now, if you’ll just catch the snake.”

  “Of course, ma’am,” he said.

  “Say, haven’t I seen you before?” she asked.