Simone Is Not a Killer

By Rebecca Markus

Love triangles can be fatal.

In 1967, suburban neighborhoods were rarely marred by brutal crimes. But housewife Beverly Dumont's shocking murder shattered that tranquility.

Simone isn't proud of her casual affair with Don. His wife's death is tragic, but she never insisted that he leave his spouse. Sucked into a dangerous vortex, she learns that her blood-strewn scarf was discovered near the victim's bed—and although she claims she has no idea how it got there, a dogged detective isn't buying it.

Hardheaded Detective Hornsby won't stop until he sees Simone behind bars. He's determined to put her at the Dumont home on the night in question. After all, she has shown herself to be a scorned woman capable of violence.

As she races to prove her innocence, Simone must confront her own dark and secretive past. Can she dodge the detective's probing questions and clear her name before it's too late?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebecca Markus
• Release date: Nov 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223867227

Book preview

1

The Crime Scene

Detective Jason Hornsby

Iarrived about an hour after the first officers. It was Saturday afternoon in the spring of ’67. I’d just gotten to the in-laws’ house with my wife and kids when the station tracked me down. I can’t say it was a shame that I had to leave them there, but of course, it was a shame about the dead woman.

Beverly Dumont was found by the couple’s twelve-year-old daughter Melissa. The girl and the other two children had stayed overnight at their grandparents’ house. When the grandparents brought them home shortly before lunchtime Melissa went straight upstairs to the master bedroom and found her mother in the worst possible way; lying on the bed covered in blood. The poor grandparents had to comfort the traumatized youths while dealing with the shock of seeing their daughter in such a state.

When I showed up at the picturesque suburban home the crime scene had already been locked down tight by my fellow officers at the Portland Police Bureau. A few uniformed men stood in the yard and the coroner sat on the porch steps waiting to get the go-ahead to inspect the body. Judging by his sour demeanor he too had been called away from some social event. Maybe he’d thought this would be your typical death by natural causes and he’d be in and out in a jiff. If that were the case I wouldn’t have been called to the scene.

He touched the brim of his hat when I approached and greeted me. Hornsby.

Krause, I replied. How are the wife and kids?

Well, he said. And yours? How old is your boy now?

Thirteen. I stepped around him and continued into the house. Pleasantries and small talk were necessary in these situations to keep our humanity. But neither of us wanted to remain at the scene longer than we needed to.

I removed my hat as I crossed the threshold. Being in short sleeves and without a tie a man might feel conspicuous doing business. But I’d been on the force for fifteen years— five as a detective— and this wasn’t the first time I’d been called away from my weekend plans to investigate a murder. As a two-time war veteran, I was no stranger to the macabre. However, this type of crime in a quiet West Coast neighborhood was a first for me.

The house was a large colonial style probably no more than ten years old. Inside was spotless and decorated with a feminine touch; floral accents and modern colors. Nothing seemed amiss at first glance. Not the vase of flowers by the door. Not the framed photographs of the family that hung on the foyer wall to the right of the door.

Officer Ramsey filled me in as I ascended the open staircase to the second floor. There in the master bedroom lay that poor housewife on her back, eyes closed, arms stretched one above her head near the headboard and the other resting on the second pillow where her husband Don would have slept. Why he hadn’t appeared to have slept there was the next question on my mind.

If it hadn’t been for the blood-soaked bedding and spatter on her face I might have thought the woman was sleeping. The baby blue top sheet and a thin blanket had been pulled up to her chest haphazardly. The blood had soaked through and spread out in a dark circle like a child’s scribbling of a stoplight. Sprays of blood painted the headboard and the unused pillow next to her. It was hard to look at, but for a curious detective, even harder to look away.

Ramsey pulled the blanket down to reveal the cause of death while I retrieved my pen and notebook from my jacket pocket. I noted the position of the body and the wounds on her chest. Stab wounds right through her pretty pink nightgown. But there was no weapon in sight. And there were no holes through the blanket or the top sheet.

Is this how the family found her? I asked. With the sheets pulled up over her?

The victim’s mother says nobody touched anything.

So the perpetrator covered her up after the killing as if to hide the crime at first glance. But it was no use.

Any sign of forced entry? I asked.

The frame on the back door is broken, Ramsey said with a nod. Looks like someone forced their way in. There’s no deadbolt so it wouldn’t have been hard to do.

Seems like a safe neighborhood. No reason for extra precautions, I suppose.

You’d think.

We exchanged the knowing glances of men in law enforcement. Too many times we’d seen bad things happen to good people. Lately, it seemed like the world was headed for Hell in a handbasket.

We’ve dusted for fingerprints, he told me.

I grumbled and nodded then asked, How did the grandparents get in with the kids?

Had a key, I guess. Came in through the front door.

I looked around the tidy bedroom. Tidy, that is, except for the brutal murder. A pile of clothing lay heaped on a chair in the corner. I approached and picked up each article: a beige skirt, a white brassiere, and a blue blouse. And on the floor underneath was a pair of white cotton panties. Only three feet away stood a wicker clothes hamper.

Odd, I said more to myself than anyone. The woman’s house is meticulously clean, but she didn’t bother to put her intimates in the hamper when she dressed for bed.

Ramsey picked up a plastic evidence bag from the dresser and handed it to me.

We found this near the bed.

Inside was a sloppily folded sheer fabric with a loud print of orange and purple flowers. The pattern seemed out of place in the subdued suburban home. Not like something this proper woman would own.

What is it? I asked without taking the bag from him.

It’s a scarf. We found it on the floor on the other side of the bed. He turned the bag over to show me a brown blot on the other side. There’s blood on it.

I turned around to face the dead woman again. Where’s the murder weapon?

There’s a knife missing from the block downstairs. We figure that’s what the killer used to stab her with. But the knife’s not here.

I paced around the bedroom. So, the perpetrator forced his way in through the back door, grabbed a knife from the kitchen, and came up here to stab Mrs. Dumont, but took the murder weapon with him.

He nodded. It appears so.

Why? It was a rhetorical question. Of course, he didn’t know why. I didn’t know why. It was possible Mrs. Dumont didn’t even know why.

Maybe there’s a nut on the loose, he replied with a bit of a chuckle. Dark humor for a dark moment.

I moved toward the bed and looked down at the body again. The woman’s pale blood-soaked face still sported green eyeshadow and dark eyeliner. Her eyebrows remained drawn in perfect arches. I pictured my own wife applying cold cream to her face as was her nightly ritual. She would never go to bed without removing her makeup. I couldn’t imagine Beverly Dumont would, either.

Still focused on the grisly scene I said to Officer Ramsey, Have your guy downstairs check with the station to find out if there were any other crimes or attempted break-ins in the area.

He nodded and turned to walk away but stopped when I spoke again.

On the other hand, I mumbled with my pen to my mouth. This was a violent crime. Someone wasn’t happy with the deceased.

Ramsey stood half-turned, obviously unsure now what I wanted him to do. I pointed my pen in his direction without looking away from Mrs. Dumont’s mangled torso.

But check anyway, I instructed. And, of course, interview the neighbors. You know, the usual.

He turned again to leave and I listened to his boots thud down the carpeted stairs to the front hall.

I rubbed my aching neck and stared at the poor, lifeless woman. I felt tired. Not just from the day, but from this line of work. Lately, a realization had come over me; detective work just wasn’t my bag, as my son would say. It was tedious, unpredictable hours, and mind-numbing paperwork. I’d taken the promotion from beat cop because I’d thought it would be a piece of cake. Sometimes it was. But it turned out I didn’t like the flavor. I longed for the days of pulling over speeders and simply keeping the peace. Hopefully, this case would be open and shut. The husband almost always did it in these situations, right?

After perusing the scene for a good while I went back down the stairs and out to the front porch where I lit a cigarette. Krause stood from his perch on the steps and looked at me without uttering a word. Sometime while I was in there he’d loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves.

It’s all yours, I announced to him, smoke billowing from my mouth into the atmosphere. Neighbors had begun to gather and murmur questions amongst each other. An officer remained at the edge of the lawn deflecting their meddling. Officer Ramsey came to the porch to talk to me.

Officer Jameson says the kids don’t know anything, he said.

I took a drag of my cigarette and stared at him blankly. He shook his head apologetically.

Officer Jameson, he said. She’s mostly a desk cop, but Sarge sends her out when there’s kids involved. She calmed them down, took them with the grandparents to the station in her car, asked them some questions.

That was a good thing. I wouldn’t have known how to handle the domestic situation.

My stomach growled and I looked at my watch. I should have grabbed a sandwich from the deli on my way over.

So, the kids were gone all night? I asked.

Ramsey nodded. Guess so. The old woman… uh Mrs. Corbyn… uh… he stumbled, says her daughter… the deceased… called her around four o’clock and asked if the kids could sleep over. Beverly dropped them off at the grandparents’ house around five.

How old? I asked.

He blinked and tilted his head. Sorry, Sir?

The kids. How old are they? How many?

Ramsey looked over his shoulder toward the black-and-whites parked at the curb. Three kids, Sir. The oldest is twelve, like I mentioned before. There’s a boy slightly younger and a little girl maybe three or four.

What about the husband?

We haven’t been able to locate him yet. It appears he was gone for the night, too.

Did you try his office?

It’s Saturday, Sir.

I took another drag and let it out slowly, thinking about those kids and what they must have gone through finding her like that.

2

Two Days Earlier

Simone Smith

Don passed his cigarette to me as we lay in my bed listening to the street noise through the open window. A serene moment. Quiet after the carnal exercise that may have sounded louder in my head than it did to the outside world.

That’s what Don Dumont was to me: A storm of passion that broke up the monotony of my everyday life and then moved on.

He looked at his watch and