Page 21 of Autopsy of a Fairytale

“How do you mean?” Garrett guided the vehicle with whitened knuckles.

“He’s showing off. Not just in the display, but with his skill,” she explained. “Lumen was killed on a Sunday, the timeline granting him almost a full day to perfect the scene. If Emily was still alive at 2:00 a.m., that gave our killer only a few hours to rip out her heart, pose her, and clean the shop before I arrived.” Like Lumen’s Customs, The Espresso Shot had been spotless. No signs of forced entry or a struggle. No fingerprints or blood or stray dustings of flour. Not even the scent of sugar. Only the fragrance of death and bleach and stale coffee bathing a corpse.

“Brett Lumen was drilled into an intricate floor-standing chandelier. Emily was merely seated in a tub, her arms wrapped in metal carvings. She would take significantly less time to pose.” Garrett said.

“I know, but to clean the shop so thoroughly that forensics didn’t even find stray coffee grinds? How is that possible in only a few hours?”

“Unless we revisit the multiple killers’ theory.”

“That scenario is looking more and more promising…” Bel paused. “And where are they getting these custom pieces? A ceramic tub shaped similar to a cup? Carved wood and metal. They look like Lumen's creations. He was the only one in town with the talent to build complex furniture.”

“That I know of.” Garrett slowed the car to a crunching halt on the gravel driveway and threw it into park. “Maybe Lumen did design these pieces.”

“How do you mean?” Bel could practically see the wheels in her partner’s head spinning with smoke-producing speed.

“Eamon Stone is a stranger. He moves to the outskirts of town, strives not to be caught on camera, and in a community unable to keep a secret, no one has heard of him. Shortly after he arrives, killings start, and he was Lumen’s last client. What if the chandelier for his foyer was a mask for the true chandelier he commissioned?”

“You think he hired Lumen to design his own death shroud?” Bel shifted in her seat to stare at her partner.

“It’s possible.”

“What’s the motive?”

“He’s insane?” Garrett shrugged. “What if he commissioned the chandelier for his renovations to account for the crime scene parts he ordered? Perhaps Lumen was a loose end he needed to tie up. What if he isn’t here for Lumen? Or Emily? What if someone in Bajka is the reason Eamon Stone moved here, and he’s creating a spectacle to keep us running in circles so we don’t see his true intentions?”

Fear crawled like spiders over Bel’s skin as movement caught the corner of her eye. The feeling of being watched hung heavy against her flesh, and she turned just in time to catch a dark shadow vacating one of the upper floor windows. She inhaled slowly, trying to force the fear from her body as she exhaled. What if Garrett was right? What if Eamon Stone was here for someone else, the killings a red herring for his true plans?

“It makes sense… if it were the plot of a thriller.” Bel twitched as if to knock off the hundreds of invisible legs coating her arms, and Garrett looked crestfallen at her rejection.

“There’s no evidence to support that theory.” She placed a hand on his to soften the blow. “We won’t throw it out, though. Maybe you’re right, but ordering furniture and having an argument doesn’t make you a killer. Suspicious? Yes. But we need more than just coincidences.”

“I know.” Garrett sighed, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the car door. “But I can’t shake the feeling that Eamon Stone is involved somehow.”

“Me neither,” Bel admitted as they walked toward the mansion. It was why they had driven to interview the stranger straight from The Espresso Shot. Lina Thum had seized control of Emily’s body. The crime scene had been photographed and sketched, and final evidence collections and interviews were being overseen by the Sheriff. If Mr. Stone was involved, they didn’t want to give him any more time than he already had to compose lies and alibies.

“Bajka Police!” Garrett knocked on the front door, and it swung wide, the latch not secure. “Mr. Stone, are you home?”

“Listen.” Bel gestured toward the rear of the mansion. “Is that a saw?”

Garrett froze, his hand shifting to his sidearm. “Bajka Police!” The grating sound continued.

“Mr. Stone?” Bel yelled over the sinister song of metal teeth, and the saw silenced instantly at her voice.

“Back yard.” Eamon’s thundering rumble echoed through the decaying rooms. “Watch your step as you walk through. Wouldn’t want you to fall and break your necks on my renovations.”

The detectives exchanged a wary glance before plunging into the beast’s lair. The saw continued its devastation, and they followed its siren’s call until they found the owner of the house on the grass outside the back door.

“Good evening, Detectives.” A low menace reverberated beneath Eamon’s greeting, and Bel heaved a sigh of relief to find the towering man was fully dressed this time. Not that the black tee shirt stretched dangerously tight over his sculpted form offered him any modesty. He was sin wrapped in perfection, and the instant Bel stepped into his line of sight, his dark eyes snapped to hers. For a second, only the two of them existed as he lowered the power tool, his pull impossible to resist. And then Eamon took a deep breath, leaning almost imperceptibly toward her as if to capture her scent. Bel recoiled as the look in his haunted eyes changed from threatening to predatory, their intensity giving her the impression that the god-like man before her wanted to murder her where she stood. To carve her open and wear her blood. That or he wished to kiss her. A kiss that would leave her blind to his flaws, that would pin her shaking body up against the wall and not relent until she ceased to exist except in his arms.

“Detective Emerson.” He said her name like the slice of a blade, like the taste of wine. “Detective, Cassidy. What can I do for you, fine officers?” Eamon released Bel from his hold, pinning Garrett with his death stare, and the air rushed back into her lungs.

“We would like to ask you a few questions about Emily Kaffe, the owner of the Espresso Shot,” Garrett said, shifting slightly before Bel, as if to stake his claim on her.

“I can’t imagine why.” Eamon folded his muscled arms over his chest, the movement revealing a peak of color over his shoulder in the distance. “I didn’t know the woman. I only visited her shop once or twice to stock up on coffee… did something happen to her?”

“Yesterday at 3:24 p.m., you were seen on camera in the alley behind the Espresso Shot,” Garrett continued, ignoring the man’s question.

“My, my, something did happen to her.” Eamon’s eye flicked to Bel’s, heat burning in their soulless black. “Did someone kill her? Was it like poor Mr. Lumen’s death? What a shame. I thought small-town living was supposed to be safe and peaceful.”

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