Chapter 68
VERNON
The police station seemed to quiet around Vernon as he gazed in horror at his phone.
He couldn’t believe the words that had just come out of his mouth.
He’d mentioned to his wife that he “knew someone” at the New Vic Theatre Company, and now found himself tasked with buying tickets and attending a play.
Goddamn, the Marigold mob was really getting under his skin. He “knew someone” because Sophie Gilman worked there? Sure, maybe he’d ask her for front-row seats.
He slumped at his desk, gazing absently at his houseplant as he focused on the murder investigation.
Okay, now he had a second body that didn’t fit anywhere.
And CJ Moore had gone missing, yet there was no physical evidence that she’d killed Sunny Wheeler.
Hell, there was barely any evidence that she’d killed Frank DeYoung.
So what did he have? An eyewitness claimed CJ had pushed Frank DeYoung, a second witness—now murdered—submitted a signed statement making the same claim. And the fact that she’d jumped bail implicated her almost as well as a confession.
Except had she run? If she’d taken off for good, would she have left everything behind? If she was savvy, yes, but he didn’t see CJ Moore as a competent criminal.
Vernon poured a sip of water at his houseplant’s roots.
There was a killer running around with a knife.
Most murders, you knew the killer immediately because they “loved” the victim, and weepingly admitted everything when you asked.
Most murders, despite the Hollywood nonsense, were one-offs.
Crimes of passion and stupidity. But this felt different.
This felt planned.
This didn’t feel like the end of something.
And that was exactly why Vernon needed to ensure it went no further.
Okay, so assume the two deaths were related.
CJ had killed Frank DeYoung, but she hadn’t killed Sunny Wheeler.
A young woman dating Ocean Mistral? No. Mistral had more sense than to fall for a killer.
Plus, nobody with a big sweet smile and silly eyeliner had sliced into a guy’s neck like that.
Who did? A killer with some knowledge of anatomy, judging by the cuts. So who, in all this mess, also understood the human body at that level?
Artists studied anatomy. Ocean Mistral had found the body, and Vernon didn’t doubt that she would kill for her family. On the other hand, she wouldn’t kill a man like slaughtering a pig. She had too much respect for human life. Hell, she wouldn’t kill a pig like slaughtering a pig.
What about George Kagant? He’d worked for a medical instruments company as an engineer. He probably knew his way around an anatomical drawing. As did Jane Sheffield, who’d spent half her time moving surgical equipment to disaster zones.
None of that called out to Vernon, so he needed to assume the cases were completely unrelated.
Except that struck him as wildly coincidental.
Still, the most bizarre coincidence of all would be if strange flukes never happened.
So was there another killer, an unrelated killer, stalking the foothills of Santa Barbara?
He thought about that as he shuffled through the paperwork on his desk. Nah. The murders were definitely connected. And if CJ Moore had killed Frank DeYoung, then she must’ve arranged Sunny Wheeler’s death, too, if only to lose the second witness.
And how were Mrs. B and her tenants involved? He didn’t know, but for the first time that struck him as more of an opportunity than a curiosity. There were people who didn’t talk to the cops, but everyone opened up to the Marigolders.