Murder for Breakfast

By Bert Brun

Instead of appearing for breakfast at the Seattle Victorian bed and breakfast run by Meg Yarmouth and recently retired Anders Hauge, gentle young Tab Oakley, a guest, is found mutilated and murdered in nearby volunteer Park. The only clue is his vanished gold Celtic crucifix. Even worse, one, then two more gay Seattle men are subsequently found similarly murdered. Anders and Meg find themselves sucked into the cascading violence, along with Seattle police department detective Lt. Socrates ("Sock") Ginsberg, a surprisingly philosophical black cop. The trio must wade through a cast of suspects, including a religious fanatic, a biker gang and neo-Nazi skinheads, before the real culprit is revealed, a killer who years before suffered sexual abuse, at a priest's hands. Before he's apprehended, he almost adds Anders to his list of victims.
Murder for breakfast is a fast-paced mystery, recommended for mature readers due to the theme and content.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bert Brun
• Release date: Sep 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465758682

Bert Brun

Retired oceanographer. Also worked as a high school teacher, rubber plantation inspector in Sumatra, and fisheries administrator in New Zealand. Bachelor and master degrees in science from New York state universities. First got the writing bug while in college and have published eight books in last 10 years plus three plays produced. Lived in eight states, most recently in Alabama, with wife Ann, four dogs and seven cats.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Two men emerged slowly from the fog. The slighter, jacket-clad one did most of the talking. His voice was higher, younger sounding than that of the other man, who wore a trench coat. They sat on a bench not far from a haloed park light, their voices muffled in the moist night air.

The slighter man got on his knees in front of his companion and gently opened the other’s fly. He loosened and extracted what he sought, sighed, and put his mouth to it. The seated man leaned his head back, his eyes closed. As the kneeler worked, the other began to emit low moans which gradually grew louder, mixed with short panting breaths. Finally, the taller man gave a spasmodic shudder and pushed the kneeler's face away. The kneeler, who was also breathing rapidly, hugged the other’s leg.

Then the seated man opened and focused his glazed eyes. A look of revulsion came into his face. He suddenly grasped the still kneeling man's neck with both strong hands. The kneeler's hands tore desperately against the iron grip, to no avail. Very quickly it was over. The kneeling man now lay slumped on the asphalt path in front of the bench.

The murderer got to his feet, re-ordered his clothes and stood for a moment looking down at the body. He ripped something from the dead man’s neck. Then he took out and opened a pocket knife, quickly found his victim's penis and severed it. The dim park light caught the bright red trickle.

Trench coat man carefully wrapped the organ in his handkerchief and put it in his pocket. He stood over the body for a moment, before stooping to find and remove the dead man's wallet. Then he turned away and strode off down the hill, through the thickening fog, back toward Broadway.

ONE

Ow! The paring knife had slipped and nicked my left thumb. A few crimson drops of blood sprinkled down onto my heap of apple slices. And two Granny Smiths to go before I had enough peeled and chopped for the apple crisp. Red, white, green -- I had created an instant tiny collage of an Italian flag

It wasn’t bad, just enough to be a nuisance. Shit! Now I'd have to sneak downstairs for a band aid without waking Meg. If she caught on she'd be bound to get on my case for never leaving enough time for things to go wrong.

I looked around the kitchen. Both coffees already going, high octane stuff in the big urn and a smaller Mr. Coffee pot gurgling for the wimps who'd requested de-caf. Life- giving aroma was already in the air. I still had to get a kettle going so that actor kid could have his herbal tea later.

The bran muffin mix was made up, just had to spoon that into tins and pop them into the oven. Eggs, if guests wanted them, I'd do to order. This always suited them fine and didn’t challenge my limited skills too much.

The door bell rang. Seven fifteen and someone's at the door? Just what I needed. I sucked at my thumb as I hustled through the dark blue-carpeted foyer toward the Prince Edward Bed and Breakfast's big oak front door. Through the glass upper section I could see two men in suits, one burly, one smaller. Jehovah's Witnesses? At this hour?

I opened the door a crack without undoing the chain and peered out. One of the men held up a wallet with a gold badge pinned inside. Lieutenant. Seattle Police Department. Uh-Oh. What the hell?

You the owner? The shorter man, with skin the color of milk chocolate, seemed to be in charge. He wore a dapper lightweight fedora, like Frank Sinatra in his swingin' days.

I nodded.

Detective Lieutenant Donald S.Ginsberg, S. P. D.

Donald Ginsberg? Unlikely.

Can we come in for a couple of minutes?

I nodded reluctantly and undid the chain to let them into the foyer.

Ginsberg was a wiry guy, maybe five foot eight. Three-piece gray suit, starched white shirt with a tie so perfectly knotted you could tell it was a thing with him. Wire rimmed glasses were perched on his small nose.

This is my partner. Detective Mazeroski.

The bigger guy behind him flickered a brief mechanical smile. His suit got a ' C' on the neatness test. I had a momentary Twilight Zone moment as if this were a scene from TV’s Dragnet.

What can I do for you? I said. I'm trying to prepare a breakfast for seven people. I wiped my hand on my apron, smearing a little nearly dry blood on it.

I understand. Ginsberg (Ginsberg?) tilted his head up at my six foot three inches and his lenses went opaque for a moment.

Somehow I had to get rid of these guys before the guests started to come down.

You have a guest registered name of Oakley? Ginsberg said.

Yeah. Tab Oakley. Probably still asleep.

Afraid not, Mr. --?

Hauge. Anders Hauge. I spelled the last name out and pronounced it. Even so, hardly anyone ever got it right, the last little uh part.

Mr. Oakley was found dead early this morning in Volunteer Park.

No!

He had a card on him from your bed and breakfast.

I tried to get my mind in gear. Was he--?

We're treating it as a homicide

He just came in a couple of days ago.

Ginsberg whipped out a small notebook and Parker fountain pen from his vest pocket. In microscopic writing he made a meticulous entry, then re-screwed on the cap of the pen and put it and the notebook away.

We'd like to look at his room, if that's possible, he said.

I don’t think so. Lousy timing.

Yes sir. Murder's usually a big inconvenience for people. He stared at me, expressionless.

I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. You got a warrant?

Isn’t that what they say in the movies? After I said it though, I felt like an idiot.

A quick laser blast shot out at me from Ginsberg's eyes. It's in the works. It's up to you. He pulled out his little book again, but I caved in.

Can you be quick about it? I’ve got guests getting up any minute.

Appreciate your cooperation. Mr. Haug-uh. That the right way to say it?

Whattayaknow? The guy got it right. I nodded and we hurried up the two flights to Oakley's room in the attic, the Sky Suite, we called it. Ginsberg followed with quick, almost dainty steps, while Mazeroski lumbered in the rear.

Stan, check out the bureau drawers, will you? Address book, appointments, anything like that, Ginsberg said. I'll riffle through the suitcase.

Okay, Sock, said the partner.

Look, I said. I think I’ll get my wife to help out with the breakfast. Then I'll come back up here. You men be all right on your own for a few minutes?

Ginsberg (Sock?) looked at me with a faint smile. We'll give you a receipt for anything worth keeping as evidence, Mr. Hauge. What is that, Swedish name?

Norwegian.

I dashed down the stairs, all the way to the basement apartment. As I went past the bathroom door I remembered about the band aid, but the cut had stopped bleeding. Meg had flung an encroaching arm and leg over into my side of the king size bed. She usually hogged the middle anyway, leaving me just the right-side third. She snored faintly, twisted long dark hair partly over her face. Our two young tortoiseshell cats, Owlface and Picasso, sprawled on either side of her body.

Wake up, Megan, I said, tugging gently at her soft bare shoulder. Come on, Babe, wake up. The cats got up and stretched luxuriously, squeezing their eyes shut, arching their backs into two open inverted parentheses.

What? she mumbled. What? What time is it? She kept her eyes screwed closed.

About seven thirty. I'm sorry. You have to get up.

She opened one eye. Not my morning. The eye glared at me.

We got a problem.

You handle it. Why did you have to wake me?

You gotta finish the breakfast.

What? Why? She burrowed deeper into the covers. Not my turn. She closed her eyes again. Both the cats got set to attack whatever was doing the burrowing, scrunched down, tails lashing.

I've got two cops up in Oakley's room.

Police? She sat upright, still bleary but coming out of it fast. The cats leaped to the floor like scared squirrels. One strap of her white nightgown had slipped part way down her right arm, revealing half her breast. She rubbed her eyes with her fists.

The kid's dead, Babe.

Her face went slack. God, no! That harmless young man -- Her eyes brimmed with tears for a moment. What happened?

In Volunteer Park, they said. Homicide. Look, I've gotta get back upstairs. I'm trying to get them out before the guests get active.

All right. Go on, then. I'll get some clothes on and go right up to the kitchen.

Coffee should be done -- man, how I could use a cup, too -- but the other things are barely started.

Just go. I won't even have time to do my face.

Women. You got to love them.

Your face looks fine, Babe. I pecked at her lips and took off. I took the three flights up two stairs at a time. I thought I could hear stirrings from the three rooms on the second floor, and clunks from our antiquated water pipes. When I arrived breathless back in the attic, Mazeroski was out on the little balcony adjoining the suite and Ginsberg was scooping the contents back into Oakley's toilet case.

No sign of drugs or anything, Stan, he called to his partner. Guess that about does it.

You oughtta see this view, Sock, Mazeroski replied. Beyond him was the panorama of the city skyline including the trademark space needle, Puget Sound and the distant Olympic Mountains.

So you're finished? I asked.

Just a couple of questions if you don't mind. What can you tell us about the victim, where he's from, what's he doing in Seattle. Ginsberg took out his little notebook again.

No ID on him? How’d you know his name was Oakley?

He took out one of the Prince’s cards. More luck than anything, finding this card. Tucked away in a jacket pocket. On the back someone had printed his name.

Can I see it? There it was, Meg's miserable left-handed scrawl: ‘Mr. Oakley, we welcome you to Seattle, Meg and Anders’. Typical little Megan Yarmouth touch. She must've sent it out with Oakley's confirmation.

Sometimes we find wallets in nearby trash baskets, if it's been a robbery, Ginsberg said. Meantime maybe you can help us. Then we'll get out of your way.

He's from West Texas somewhere. Told us he hated Texas, seemed odd he’d volunteer that. Most Texans we get are boosters. Came here for an interview at that performing arts institute near Broadway. Wanted to be an actor. He was just a kid, pretty good-looking, I suppose. Nineteen or twenty, I’d say. Ginsberg jotted furiously with small neat strokes of the Parker. He looked up and again the light made his glasses go opaque, concealing the inquisitive brown eyes.

Anything else? Mention any friends here?

I don't think he knew anyone in town.

What about your other guests? They met him, didn't they?

Everyone seemed to get along, pretty much. Guests usually do. They're in town mostly as tourists, in a good mood.

No flare-ups? Nobody antagonistic?

Not that I saw. My wife -- her name is Meg Yarmouth -- served the breakfast yesterday. She'd know better than I do.

We'll need to talk to her. Right away would be best. Might as well interview the guests, too.

Damn it, you just keep pushing don't you? That’s out of the question. I told you we've got a breakfast to serve.

Ginsberg’s stare would've frozen a river. And we've got a murder case to solve, Mr. Hauge. Everyone's a suspect. The more you cooperate, the better off we'll all be.

I held his stare for a second or two, then backed off. I'm sorry. You're right. But couldn't you come back later? It will be a hell of a shock to people.

I understand what you're saying, Mr. Hauge. But from my perspective I'd rather see how people react when they hear bad news. I'll do my best to be tactful. And we won't stay long.

We came downstairs again and I poked my head into the kitchen. Meg had things under control. She came out to meet the cops. Ginsberg identified himself and Mazeroski.

Sorry to cause any fuss, Ms. Yarmouth, Ginsberg said, as courtly to her as he'd been snotty with me. He sniffed, then looked longingly at the coffee urn.

If there's one thing Meg is, it's gracious. Would you like some coffee, Lieutenant? I’ll get you a mug. How about you, Detective?

If they were dogs the two cops would’ve licked her hand. I was just behind them panting for my own caffeine fix. Hey, I'm Norwegian, aren't I?

We all stood awkwardly in the big dining room, sipping away.

Nice place you got here Ms. Yarmouth, Mazeroski said. I never stayed in a bed and breakfast myself.

I’ll give you one of our cards, Meg said, ever the business woman. In case you get visitors needing a great place to stay on the Hill.

What time do your guests come down, Ms. Yarmouth? Ginsberg asked.

Any time after eight or eight fifteen, usually. Why?

I want to talk with them. Briefly.

At her frown he went on, giving the same rationale he'd given me.

I’m not wild about that. But they’ll have to find out sometime, so you might as well go ahead.

Thank you Ma'am. He looked at his watch. Quarter of, now. No point in us clogging up things half, three-quarters of an hour. We can do some paperwork in the car. Come back at half past, okay?

Meg and I looked at each other. I shrugged.

Meg said, Do you want more coffee to take with you? The first one always goes down fast.

The cops left, each holding a refilled mug.

You took it better than I did, I said to Meg. About the guests, I mean.

What a mess. And that poor young man.

At least he didn't die here.

Meg’s eyebrows shot up like they were on strings. Don't even talk like that!

Looks like you’ve got things under control, I said. Why don’t I eat with the guests? Maybe I can help smooth things a little.

All right, she said. Her shoulders suddenly sagged. If this is a nightmare, pinch me, honey. I want out of it.

C'mere, I opened my arms and she settled her shapely little body into them.

These things happen, Babe, I said. We'll get through it.

She raised up her face for a smooch, closing her clear brown eyes. It was a soulful little habit I liked a lot. Just then the first steps came thumping down the staircase. We jumped apart like teenagers caught by the girl's father. We needn't have, because the guests, the Grossmans, quickly ducked into the living room for an early look