Page 22 of Autopsy of a Fairytale

“You were arguing with a woman.” Bel stepped forward, her ocean blue eyes meeting his gaze, challenge for challenge. “Why were you at The Espresso Shot?”

“To purchase coffee, of course.”

“You never went inside, Mr. Stone.” Bel crossed her arms to mimic his stance, and he leaned forward as if amused by her defiance. “Care to amend your story?”

“I planned to restock my coffee supply, but you are correct, I never made it inside,” Eamon spoke to her as if only they stood in the garden, Garrett a distant memory. “I was distracted by my… friend.”

“Does this friend have a name?”

“Alcina Magus.”

“What was the nature of your conversation?”

“Nothing of importance, Detective Emerson. Simply two old acquittances having a discussion.”

Bel ground her molars at his evasive answers, but she had said it herself. It wasn’t illegal to disagree.

“Where were you last night between the hours of 1:00 a.m. and 6:00 a.m.?” she asked.

“Home in bed. Why, where were you, Detective?” He spoke with an expression that hinted he knew exactly where she had been.

“Can anyone confirm your alibi?” Garrett seized control of the conversation.

“Just my renovations, Detective Cassidy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to finish this before I lose the light.” Eamon turned back to his project, effectively murdering the interview. “My sympathy goes out to the Kaffe family. Such a tragedy, but I am new to Bajka, remember? Why would I be involved with this?”

Why would anyone do this was indeed the question, and Bel’s hands flexed. Something was happening in her town. Something sinister, and she couldn’t see the path through the thicket. These deaths didn’t make sense. The victims didn’t make sense. This man before her didn’t make sense.

“We will be in touch, Mr. Stone,” Garrett said, as if it had been his idea to end the conversation. “Don’t leave town.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Eamon stared at Bel as the words fell from his lips, and his heated gaze slid over her scars to the book charm necklace resting delicately on her chest. “What a lovely necklace, Detective Emerson.” He said her name like a threat. He said it like a moan of pleasure. “Whoever gave that to you must care about you a lot.” The murderous hunger slipped back into his irises as he studied her throat, and Bel had to fight her every muscle to keep from clutching the pendant protectively in her fist.

The truth was, she didn’t know who had gifted this to her. It had appeared beside her hospital bed when she woke from her attack without a note or a box. She wasn’t sure what about the simple book on the thin chain sang to her, but she had clasped it around her neck and never took it off. But the stare on Eamon’s face pitched her stomach. It was too familiar, too hungry, too abrasive.

“Have a good evening, Detectives,” Eamon said, dismissing them as he returned to his saw.

“Good night.” Garrett slid a palm against Bel’s back and ushered her back the way they came. They walked silently unnerved through the chaotic house, but Bel froze halfway to the front door, her partner bumping into her suddenly immobile form.

“Wait,” she whispered, something nagging at her memory. She spotted the staircase and raced up the steps two at a time before Garrett could stop her.

“Bel?” He dashed after her, but she didn’t halt until she found a room with a window that opened out onto the gardens. “What are you doing?” he asked as he followed her to where she stood motionless.

“I almost didn’t register them. They were a single sliver of color hiding just behind his head,” Bel said, staring out as the sun set.

“Didn’t register what?”

“The roses.” Bel pointed, and Garrett sucked in a sharp breath. The bushes had been hidden from view where they stood below, but from this height, their vivid blooms were obvious. Behind Eamon Stone’s crumbling mansion was a garden of damning crimson.

“But a garden doesn’t makesomeone guilty.” Bel rubbed her bloodshot eyes. They were getting nowhere. She and Garrett had arrived at the Medical Examiner’s early that morning for Emily Kaffe’s autopsy, but like Lumen’s, it offered more questions than answers. Her body bore no defensive wounds, her blood had been drained, her heart was mysteriously absent, and the curved tears in her chest were indecipherable without the missing flesh.

Garrett and Bel had spent the rest of the day drowning in paperwork and examining evidence, but as evening turned to night, and the station quieted, Bel’s frustration grew as they circled the same theories.

“If it did, we would have to arrest half of Bajka.” Bel grabbed the Chinese takeout container and scooped rice into her mouth. “I’ll admit Eamon Stone’s arrival and his presence at each scene the day before are concerning, but there is no evidence that directly links him. And the killer’s profile doesn’t seem to align with what we know about him.”

Garrett quirked an eyebrow in question as he held his fork over the last spring roll. Bel glanced down at it and nodded, and he speared it, lifting it to his lips.

“Both homicides have been a show, a display of human art,” Bel explained. “The killer wants us to see his work, to marvel at it, to obsess over it. It points to a personality that craves attention. The guilty party will often return as a spectator. They love the thrill of possibly being recognized, and while they don’t want to get caught so they can continue to perform, they also long to take credit for their masterpiece. Eamon Stone is practically a hermit. You know the town gossips would drool over the presence of an eligible millionaire, but not one person breathed his name before this case. No one has seen him around town, and he never ventured to the crime scenes after the fact. I could be wrong, but I believe the killer enjoys the spotlight. He wants to draw our eyes to his superiority.”

“There were plenty of spectators,” Garrett agreed, shuffling through the folders on the desk. “We should have photos of the crowds. You think we caught the killer on camera?”

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