The Catacomb Gourmet

By KT FANNING

Who is killing the members of a musical theater workshop?

Ivy Noble, owner of San Diego’s popular West Side Storybooks, is an amateur psychic. The card of death haunts her readings. When fellow members of her local workshop start disappearing, death also haunts her dreams. Ivy believes they have been been murdered.

Jerzy Lipinsky is a retired police officer turned private eye. Ivy hires him to look into the disappearances of her friends, which are oddly similar to his search for a missing Navy wife.

The killer is a gourmet cook whose victims’ lives end in his macabre hidden catacomb. Secretly using his victims as the prime ingredients in his recipes, he serves each delectable meal to his unaware significant other. Who is she, and who was the only whole skeleton carefully preserved in the catacomb?

Four men connected with the workshop are gourmet cooks. Which one of them is the Catacomb Gourmet? Can Ivy Noble, working together with the help of her new friend Jerzy Lipinsky, solve the mystery before one of them becomes the Gourmet’s next victim?

• Language: English
• Publisher: KT FANNING
• Release date: May 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476160863

KT FANNING

K. T. Fanning was born in Montclair, New Jersey, on the first day of Spring.She has lived in Oklahoma, Colorado, Illinois, Northern California, Southern California, the beautiful northern Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, and currently resides at Hermit's Rest in the Grand Canyon.The indie author's adventures have taken her to most of the contiguous United States, both coasts of Canada, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Mexico, Scotland, England, France, Egypt, Germany, and the Bahamas.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

We should have gotten a hotel room. No offense, but it smells like a duck farted down there.

Maybe I don’t want the whole seventh fleet knowing I’m with you.

What if she comes home?

She won’t be home for hours. Anyway, she doesn’t even know about my man cave. The man held back the heavy hanging tapestry that concealed the door. Look, baby, I’ll pay you double. Go ahead. I’m right behind you.

Her high heels clacked on the stairs as she started down. He aimed his foot at the center of her back. She had no time to scream. Her neck was broken by the time she hit bottom. The Gourmet loved a nice, clean kill.

He carried her into the rank underground room which was not so much a man cave as a catacomb, a cavernous underground cemetery full of crypts carved into the walls.

Life among the dead was good. Each niche hewn from the walls held a delicious memory, the bones and decaying body parts of carefully chosen prey. A few graves stood empty, waiting.

There was only one complete skeleton in the macabre burial chamber, only one whose bones the Gourmet kept gleaming, free of cobwebs, with fresh flowers in its bony hands.

The Gourmet smiled as a fat amber spider wriggled from the empty eye socket of a lone skull. He loved the artistry of spiders, their beautiful intricate webs. Weave me a dream, he whispered. I love a good nightmare. The spider scurried into the darkness of the shadows behind the freezer.

The Gourmet stood over the mission table where he had placed her lifeless body. He remembered the day he found the piece at the Del Mar Fairgrounds rummage sale. This antique table was one of his favorite bargains because it was perfectly suited to his purpose. The volunteer who had priced it didn’t know its value, but the Gourmet saw the quality of the Spanish workmanship in the large planks of weathered oak and how the table would clean up beautifully. He offered a price much lower than the tag and bought the table for a song.

The Catacomb Gourmet picked up his butcher knife, caressing it fondly like the skin of a woman. He went to work. When he was done, he placed the cuts of meat wrapped in aluminum foil and butcher paper into the freezer, carrying what was left of the woman, her head and some of her bones, to one of the empty crypts where he arranged them tidily. He scrubbed the blood and offal from his hands in the cellar’s old laundry sink until they were raw.

What a lovely evening this had been. The Gourmet had bided his time, sitting at the bar watching the amateur whore flirt and gyrate on the dance floor. Not wanting to call attention to himself, he had left quietly, waiting in his car until she came out, when he enticed her with a sweet deal in the dark shadows of the parking lot. She was giggly and not especially bright, but that may have been due to the amount of booze she had consumed.

The Gourmet deposited the whore’s light raincoat and neatly-folded clothes in the trash can in the corner, admiring her strappy shoes. She had big feet for a woman. His were small. He wondered if her shoes would fit him. It excited him to find a pair of high heels that he could wear. She carried another pair of shoes in her large tote bag, slip on sneakers with a flower pattern.

After transferring the cash from her bag to his pocket and running her driver’s license, debit, credit, and supermarket cards through a shredder, he placed the handbag and her keys into the can and secured the lid.

Kneeling in front of her new grave, he chuckled. I’ll bet you didn’t think you would be paying me tonight, did you? Then he folded his hands in an attitude of prayer and bowed his head reverently. I commend the soul of this dearly departed sinner to your care, Lord. Forgive her for being a filthy whore. May her soul and the souls of all the faithful departed rest in peace. Amen.

Rising and turning away from the fresh kill, the Gourmet approached the resting place of the whole skeleton. He said, I hope you like her. I am keeping my promise. You will never be alone. He gently brushed the remains with an ostrich feather duster. Disposing of the wilted bouquet, the Catacomb Gourmet wrapped the skeleton’s fingers around fresh blood- red hibiscus blossoms. These are from the garden. Remember how you loved that bush? You should see how much it’s grown.

A glance at a black Kit Kat clock hanging on the wall behind the table told him he had lost track of time. The Catacomb Gourmet grabbed the plate of fresh ground meat he had set aside and hurried upstairs. She would want dinner ready when she got home. He would prepare one of her favorites, a tasty putanesca. Yes, whore’s spaghetti would be perfect. He liked to give the classic Italian recipe from Sophia Loren’s cookbook his own personal touch. He would serve it with homemade breadsticks dipped in olive oil and spices, a wild fennel salad, and wash it all down with a smooth imported Italian Pinot Noir. Tiramisu would be perfect for dessert.

Flipping the lights off, the Catacomb Gourmet locked the door behind him, ensuring the tapestry hid it from view. Down in the stygian darkness, ticking off time now meaningless to the dead, the plastic eyes and tail of the grinning Felix on the wall wagged silently.

CHAPTER TWO

Days like this made Jerzy Lipinsky wonder whatever possessed him to become a private eye. His love of classic film noir, that was what, and a knee injury that put him behind a desk when he would rather be out on his old beat.

Jerzy had loved being a cop, but he didn’t like being stuck behind a desk. He had figured turning private investigator might prove a more lucrative occupation. Being assigned to missing persons detail had helped Jerzy decide to take the leap, retire from the police force, and open his own business. Tempting though it was, he had resisted buying a trench coat and Humphrey Bogart fedora.

Jerzy took a sip of the rotgut coffee getting cold in its Styrofoam cup. Maybe I should switch to tea, he thought. This swill tastes like skunk piss. He sized up the man standing in front of him.

Short, maybe five and a half feet tall. Thick head of dark, wavy hair. Eyes the color of cold blue steel. Digital camouflage blue working uniform pressed to perfection. First Class Petty Officer rating insignia. Polished black safety boots. Carried himself at attention like he didn’t know what at ease meant. Never smiled. Probably ground his teeth. Probably a lifer.

No sir, she had no family that she would have gone back to. No, sir, she had no friends.

Jerzy said, Mr. Pinkley, if I may ask a personal question, were you having any problems in your marriage?

No, sir. My marriage is like a ship. I’m the captain and she’s the crew. My wife knows her main job is to take care of my needs. Her secondary job is to bring in money. Sure we had an argument every now and then. Who doesn’t? All I know is she didn’t meet the ship when I got back from Westpac. That’s a Western-Pacific deployment, sir.

I know, Jerzy said. Go on.

Well, sir, my wife didn’t meet me at the ship last Tuesday. I had to bum a ride home. My car was parked in the driveway, but she was gone. Didn’t even take her cell phone. Just like she walked up to the store. I asked the neighbors, but nobody saw her leave the house. When I get my hands on her, she’ll take a lickin’.

A lickin?

Yes, sir. My wife knows better than to make me lose my temper or disobey me. She was supposed to pick me up at the ship at oh dark hundred.

Are you saying you beat your wife?

No, sir. I would never beat my wife. But sometimes I have to discipline her. I’m real careful never to hit her where it shows, and only when she provokes me. What would you do stuck down on the dock with a heavy duffel bag after six months out to sea and no ride home?

Private Investigator Jerzy Lipinsky said nothing.

Look, can you help me find her or not? I filed a missing person report. The cops are no help. All they said was she’s not in any of the hospitals or in a reported accident. Said if they had to look for every Navy wife who runs away they wouldn’t have time to protect and serve the rest of the community.

Jerzy ran his hand through his thinning hair. Do you have a picture of your wife?

Yes, sir. Got it right here.

Jerzy studied the photograph. Blonde, helmut hair, vacant blue eyes, granny skirt, cheap pastel sweater with embroidered flowers. Church lady. Something familiar about her. Trade the granny skirt for a mini and the sweater for a sequined tank top; rat the hair, add some fake eyelashes and heavy makeup, and she could be Linda from the bar.

What did you say your wife’s name is, Mr. Pinkley?

Her name is Linda, sir.

Couldn’t be a coincidence.

And you said she works at Hewlett Packard?

Yes, sir. The sales office on Aero Drive in Serra Mesa, two blocks from base housing where we live. My wife is the receptionist there. She has to work within walking distance. I don’t like her driving my car. Don’t trust women drivers. She’s only allowed to drive it to pick me up on the base when the ship docks. I keep track of the mileage.

Hewlett Packard had an office right down the street from the 94th Aero Squadron. That was where Jerzy had seen Pinkley’s wife. She was a regular at the popular restaurant and bar when her husband was out to sea.

The first time Jerzy saw her she tried to pick him up, asking him if the style of the restaurant, a French farmhouse from World War I, was how it really was back then. Jerzy had laughed and told her he had no idea since he had not been alive during the First World War, nor had he ever been to France. When he didn’t offer to buy her a drink, she asked some other guy to dance. Jerzy watched them go out the back door into the bushes on the side of the Montgomery Field airport runway. They returned some time later, all kissy-faced, to belly up to the bar and down a few tequila shooters. Not the last time he saw Linda do that with a guy she picked up at the bar.

Jerzy liked to frequent the Aero Squadron. You could easily make a free meal of their happy hour spread. The food was good and so was the atmosphere. He enjoyed the company. It beat going home to an empty house with nothing but night’s long darkness waiting to envelop him in loneliness. It beat having to throw something together for a solitary supper, without conversation or laughter, or Laura.

The Squadron bar was always full of women looking for men and men looking to score. Not that they were all promiscuous by any means, but because of the proximity to the base housing complex, a large percentage of the women were Navy wives who found themselves lonely, bored, and frustrated when their husbands were out on long deployments. They wanted fun, and the kind of forgetfulness sex had to offer. Observing the head games in the bar, Jerzy remembered how love and life flowed free and easy with Laura, with never a need for games between them.

Inevitably Jerzy would see the woman he knew only as Linda in the Squadron working the crowd and dancing up a storm. The scuttlebutt was that this Navy wife had a reputation. Seems she had a habit of picking up sailors on the dock whenever her husband shipped out. She was on the arm of some squid before the boat even cleared the Coronado Bridge to sail out of the bay. Rumor had it that for a fair price Linda would show a sailor a good time in one of Mission Valley’s many tourist hotels.

Not one to limit her prospects, the business crowd at the Aero Squadron also provided Linda with a steady income. There was always some guy happy to avoid going home and willing to pop for dinner and some fun and games. Along technology row, the suits paid more than the sailors.

According to the bartender, Linda wasn’t looking for love; she had a husband. She just wanted some fun, and she always said no harm was done. She liked the married men because she felt safer that way. What their wives never knew couldn’t hurt them, right? If a guy wanted to give her a little money to help pay the bills, why not? She liked pretty clothes and jewelry. Why shouldn’t she have the best? Why shouldn’t she have the things her husband would never give her?

It was hard to picture Linda as the woman in the photograph Jerzy held in his hand. This was a picture of a long-suffering Navy wife. The only thing that picture lacked was a halo.

Jerzy looked up at Pinkley, standing stiffly in front of his desk. So this was the husband. Jerzy wondered if the man knew about his wife’s antics. Pinkley began to pace, marching back and forth between the door and the windows that looked down on the heart of the gas lamp quarter.

You gotta find her, sir, Pinkley said. I don’t care how much it costs.

I’ll do what I can, Jerzy promised. But if your wife doesn’t want to be found, this won’t be easy.

Pinkley frowned. What do you mean, ‘doesn’t want to be found’? What the hell does that mean? Sir?

Calm down. I’m sure no harm has come to your wife. I know how anxious you must be for her welfare.

Pinkley burst out laughing. Her welfare? I want to find my wife so I can kill the whore.

CHAPTER THREE

West Side Storybooks had an ideal location in a sunny corner of Seaport Village’s tourist mecca facing San Diego Harbor across from Coronado Island. Its welcoming atmosphere offered an eclectic selection of books and music, comfortable chairs, and the very popular TeasPot run by Summer Starling, formerly of Newcastle on Tyne in England.

The store’s owner, Ivy Noble, gave card readings at the popular psychic fairs that brought in a good number of locals as well as the numerous tourists who enjoyed wandering through the quaint boutiques and cobblestone streets of the village. San Diego’s productive literary community also participated in local author events, readings, and book signings at West Side Storybooks.

The store’s success enabled Ivy to employ a staff large enough for her to enjoy the luxury of free time. Using part of her inheritance to open the book store, Ivy had made a good investment that had paid itself back ten times over.

Since her divorce Ivy had found herself with energy to spare. Adjusting to single parenthood had not been so difficult. Joe had been an emotionally distant father for years, even when he was physically present, leaving her to parent Tiffany and Jack alone.

Adjusting to life as a single woman was something else. The unexpected outcome of her breakup was finding herself no longer welcome among the married couples who had been their friends for years. The women she had called friends made no secret that now that she was single they considered her a threat. They no longer included Ivy in their social circle.

Ivy had plenty of professional friends, but there was a personal element missing in those relationships. The isolation of her new life had been a blow, so seeking a new social outlet she had joined a musical theater workshop. West Side Storybooks had quickly become a favorite hangout for some of the workshop members.

This afternoon, with the offshore layer known as June gloom beginning to lift over the bay, Ivy found herself at one of the TeasPot’s outdoor cafe tables enjoying a late lunch of tea sandwiches with the group’s best soprano, Leatrice Deveroux.

Leatrice, as always, was a vision in pink, from her pink-tinted hair to her pink lace dress and shoes.

Ivy pushed the plate of sandwiches toward Leatrice. You haven’t eaten a thing, she said.

I had a huge breakfast, Leatrice replied. I tell you, dear heart, all this place needs is a piano and you can host musical evenings that will bring in lots of new customers.

Ivy smiled. We already have live music nights every Saturday featuring local musicians and jazz bands.

Oh, I know, but you could make it more modern, like a small piano bar where people can get up and sing. I really think you should give the idea some thought. It would be an excellent way to meet men.

I think I’m not as interested in meeting men as you are interested in my meeting men.

Well my dear, I know times have changed, but these days I hear it’s quite acceptable for a woman to ask a man out. You are a very attractive woman. Sometimes you remind me of a modern Helen of Troy. All that golden hair and lovely green eyes so unusual they could cause a little war.

Ivy laughed. Goodness, I hope not. Besides, modern woman that I am, I am very old fashioned when it comes to dating. I want to be asked. After so many years married to Joe I don’t seem to know how to date. It’s not like getting back on a horse. It doesn’t all come back to you, not to me anyway.

Leatrice took a sip of her tea. Well then I don’t see how you can expect to marry again. Do you want me to pray about it for you?

Oh, Lee, I have been married all my life. I like my independence. I want to enjoy myself for awhile. Anyway, you know the kids come first with me. I’m so busy between them and the store. I don’t have the time to worry about the mating game. Anyway, I’m too old for games and all the rules seem to have changed.

Age is in one’s mind, dear.

Is that why no one knows how old you are?

Leatrice laughed. Members of the workshop were always teasing her because she wouldn’t tell anyone how old she was and she did not believe in birthdays.

A warm breeze ruffled the ranunculus and poppies in the flower boxes that enclosed the small patio area outside the store. The sun’s rays peaked through the dissolving clouds, brightening the rainbow colors of the flowers. Ivy heard Jack’s voice calling, Mom! Hey, Mom!

Twelve-year old Jack ran around the Spanish tiled fountain toward her, well ahead of her daughter Tiffany.

Goodness, look at the time, Leatrice