The Killer Who Kept Me by Davidson King
Summary:Nothing about Em’s life is simple. He’s treated worse than anyone in the house, punished for every minor infraction, and has zero chance of ever escaping his current situation. He dreams that someday he’ll be free of this nightmare and finally find someone who will want to keep him.
That dream may come true sooner than he thinks.
Saros Tancredi is the most dangerous and powerful man in all of Eastbury. The loyalty he has to his family is unparalleled to anything else. When he wants something, he gets it. He rarely worries and lives without fear. All of that changes one night when he’s faced with his own mortality. When it seems like it will all end, out of nowhere, a stranger jumps in and saves his life.
Saros and Em live separate lives in the underworld. Saros is the most compelling man Em has ever known. Em is the savior Saros never knew he needed. When secrets long buried emerge in the midst of a current war, they threaten to tear away any chance the two men have of finding a happy life together.
One thing Saros and Em know for sure—they’re not going down without a fight.
Original Review February Book of the Month 2025:
I can't begin to express how much I needed this book right now. I'm going to take a few minutes to be a bit personal but I think it helps me express my feelings on the story while sticking to my spoil-free zone reviewing. With my mother's passing in January my reading mojo nosedived even worse than in 2020 with the pandemic so when I started Davidson King's The Killer Who Kept Me, I knew it would take longer than my typical timeframe. I'll be honest, I read the first chapter and as much as I was intrigued and excited to find out what level of dangerous, bordering on sadistic, mayhem the author had in store, it took me 36 hours before I got back to chapter 2 and probably another 24 before chapter 3. Now that had nothing to do with the book or the author but all me.
BUT . . .
When I hit chapter 4, I was having a hard day as it was 6 weeks since my mother's passing so everything brought me to tears but there was something about that chapter that kept me reading and before I knew it I was several chapters in. Not only had I read more than one chapter of anything at a time for the first time in over 3 weeks, I realized I hadn't teared up , Davidson King had done the one thing that normally only Star Wars has ever been able to do: distract me enough to completely shut everything out and feel a little stronger coming out the other side. For that I will forever be grateful, Davidson King, thank you.
Now I'll freely admit it still took another 48 hours before I finished the book but oh what a story. Em(short for November which is absolutely lovely name) and Saros are complete opposites both in nature and nurture. Em has been mistreated(to put it mildly) his whole life and Saros has family(both blood and found) that love and support him. First appearances they shouldn't work but they do, it sounds cliche but they complete each other. You just want to wrap Em up in dangerous levels of bubblewrap and then a soul-crushing Mama Bear hug to keep him safe but I think Saros might do a better job😉. The whole cast of characters is just so perfect, from cute and adorable Maeve to nasty and evil Ramsey, each one plays a part to bring this tale together.
I'm going to end here so I don't reveal too much and spoil any of the dangerous and fun mayhem within the covers of The Killer Who Kept Me. Just so you know, you won't be bored. Even if you have a good inkling of what might be down the road for the characters, it's the journey down said road that is deliciously heart-pounding.
This author has a unique talent, she can create such danger, mayhem, retribution, and revenge and still manages to tell a lovely romance full of heart and strength. I've said it before and I'll say it again(and probably many more times for years to come😉) this is an author that is a true storyteller, a Seanachaidh(Scotland & Ireland), a Dastango(India), a Griot(West Africa), a Skald(Vikings of Norway and Iceland) just to name a few titles around the world. If you've never partook in her creative genius then this is a perfect place to start as it has all the elements that will pull you in and keep you hooked.
Original Audiobook Review August 2025:
I debated about jumping in on the audio already. First, I rarely listen to audios that are only 6-7 months after my initial read. Second, 2025 has sucked in our household since the passing of my mother in January, our air is just so thick with heartache. Third, my dad's health hasn't been the best and is getting worse which has increased my stress levels so it's been hard to concentrate at times. BUT, truth is in a way, it was the second reason that told me to go ahead. This is one of the 3 or 4 books I read shortly after my mom passed and the honestly, Davidson King's words helped me a bit by distracting me with her story, at least while I was reading it so I thought, maybe the audio will do the same.
Sure enough it did!
As for the narration, I don't think I've listened to a book by these two before, Alexander Neal and Parker Douglass. They did a wonderful job bringing Em and Saros journey to life. I may not have felt like I was right there in the room as the mayhem was happening but I was definitely pulled in more than just a reader/listener hearing the tale. Definitely ticked the box I title "feel like listening to Suspense". For those who don't know, Suspense is an old radio show out of the 40s and I've been a huge fan/listener/collector of old radio shows since I was 10 so this ticked box may not mean much to many but for me, it's a huge one when listening and reviewing audiobooks. Setting the scene, grabbing my attention, knowing I would be watching the radio even though there is no picture, yep, these are factors that tell me I found a re-listening experience for years to come.
No spoilers, but if you read or listen to The Killer Who Kept Me, I hope you don't need the emotional distraction I did but if you do, this is the story to help you step outside yourself for awhile(that is if you like mayhem and if you're reading this review I'm guessing you are😉). If you don't need the life distraction I did, you'll still be pulled out of your world so be sure you're prepared for that possibility, you won't be disappointed.
Summary:
Nick Williams Mystery #1
May 11, 1953
Nick Williams, a private investigator in San Francisco, receives a late-night call that his sister is dying following a freak car accident.
After rushing over to the hospital with Carter Jones, a fireman and the love of his life, he arrives just in time to say good-bye to the last member of his Nob Hill family he could stand to be around.
Once the cops get a chance to take a look at the car, it becomes obvious this was no accident.
It was murder.
And, with that, Nick is hot on the trail to bring his sister's killer to justice. And it's a trail that reveals plenty of surprising secrets about his sister and their family.
Will Nick be able to find the murderer and stop them before they can strike again?
Find out in the fast-paced adventures of the case of THE UNEXPECTED HEIRESS!
Original Review June 2024:
If you follow my reviews you'll remember that I first found myself introduced to Nick and Carter a couple of years ago in Butterfields' short story series, Nick & Carter Holidays. With each entry the full length tales inched further up my TBR list and this past March I read book #14, The Pitiful Player for my Oscars week theme. Loved it but it was in the middle so I decided what better time than for Pride should I start from the beginning? Seeing as there are currently 39 entries I'm sure there will still be some jumping about to fit different themes but right now I'm back at square one, The Unexpected Heiress.
The author does an amazing job at keeping things very much, or as close as possible, historically accurate. Yes, Nick's wealth leaves him a bit more leeway in his personal life that Joe Blow would not be given in the day but in his public dispute with Hearst, we see there are limits that even Nick may not be able to overcome. But boy does he try.
Due to the wealth and standing I mentioned above, Nick and Carter tend to collect people, well they don't "collect" them as that's just wrong on so many levels😉 but they do tend to find people who could very much need a friend and then through these new found friendships, N&C open them to opportunities they wouldn't otherwise have. You can imagine their found family grows and grows.
The Unexpected Heiress has so many elements that by themselves are great reading but combined all together and Frank W Butterfield has brought the combo of mystery, romance, drama, humor, and historical setting to a whole new level. Whether you love historicals or not, I highly recommend Unexpected Heiress, and though I've not read them all the Nick and Carter universe is amazing storytelling not to be missed.
Blogger Note for 1-3:
I'm glad I went to the beginning because at least for the first 3 I had opportunity to read now, there is a few things that linger from one story to the next. Would you be lost? Not really as the author does a wonderful job keeping the reader in the know but I'm glad I read it this way and not just because I'm typically a series read-in-order gal. The overall feel just meshed so perfectly.
Jamie by RJ Scott
Summary:Redcars #2
Burning is control. Craving Killian’s touch is surrender.
Jamie has never claimed to be good. He’s a former hacker, a convicted arsonist, and an ex-con who’s killed just to survive—but he’s found a home at Redcars. The men there aren’t just friends—they’re his brothers. And when the man who held Robbie gives up a name before dying in flames, Jamie uncovers a network of monsters. Rich. Protected. Untouchable. For the people he calls family—for Robbie, who was broken and caged—Jamie would burn the world down and watch it turn to ash to keep them safe.
Only Killian—a lawyer with secrets in his blood and a war room built on vengeance—wants him to wait.
Killian unsettles Jamie in ways he can’t explain. His presence is a spark too close to fuel. The fear, the pull, the heat—it all blurs into something dangerously close to want. Killian doesn’t try to fix Jamie’s broken pieces. And when his steady hands quiet the fire in Jamie’s chest, Jamie doesn’t know whether he wants to fight him… or fall apart in his arms.
Bound by revenge, addicted to control, and drawn to each other in all the wrong ways, Jamie and Killian are on a collision course of pain and need.
The monsters they’re hunting won’t go quietly.
But neither will they.
Jamie is a dark, obsessive MM romantic suspense featuring a man who found silence in fire, and hope in an unexpected touch, combustible attraction, found family, a lawyer with a secret identity who hunts monsters from the shadows—and two men who refuse to let each other self-destruct.
Trigger warnings for past abuse, murder by fire, intense obsession, and dark revenge.
Original Review August Book of the Month 2025:
I'm going to start off by saying this is slightly outside my comfort zone. Some might think that was a bad thing or that I didn't care for the story. No. I loved it! Stepping outside my comfort zone is not something I do often but when I do, I always do it with an open mind because if we don't challenge ourselves we don't learn, and life is always learning. What is it that puts this outside that comfort zone? The fire, Jamie's pull towards the flame, his need to watch it, to control it, to use it as his brand of justice. I don't personally understand that kind of pull toward something that is so dangerous, that holds the potential to get out of control and because of that I can't speak to how accurate the author got it. What I can be sure of is that RJ Scott did her homework, not just to get it right but because she respects life's differences, one's needs and desires.
Now for the book.
Jamie has it's own story but it is part of a four book story arc and Jamie is the middle so you need to start with Enzo. Is there a beginning and an end here? Yes and no. Yes, there is a more specific guilty party Jamie and Killian are focused on which does have a conclusion but there is more to come so again, this is a series best read in order. Because it is a read in order series, I won't delve into the plot so I don't spoil the series as a whole. I will say, it is dark, it is disturbing, it can be hard on your heart to read but because of the respect the author shows that I mentioned above, it is also deliciously satisfying.
I talked about Jamie's love of the flame and his own past that got him to Redcars but he is only part of the story, we also have Killian. Killian is a lawyer we met in Enzo and though he comes across as commanding, he too has a past that brought him to where and how he is. On the surface, you can't imagine two people more opposite and not right for each other but then you see inside and realize they are actually perfectly matched. They complete each other but they also understand the need to let the other be who and what they need to be.
As it is an ongoing story arc, we get to see Enzo and Robbie again and to see more of Robbie's healing. Robbie's scenes might actually be short in wordage and page time but it is another example of the author's respect for healing, that it can be an ongoing and never-ending journey. It also shows that found families are just as strong, actually stronger for some, as those stemmed in blood.
As I started with, I may not understand Jamie's pull toward the flame making it a bit harder to connect to him, it did not take away from loving the story or the characters. Frankly, the fact that I do love everything about Jamie, while not understanding the character's flame pull, speaks louder volumes to how brilliantly and emotionally told this story is. A winner on all sides.
One last mention, we originally met Redcars in the author's Single Dads 6th entry, Pride which tells(in part) Logan's story. We don't see Logan a lot in the Redcars first two entries but he is mentioned and because of that, I highly recommend reading Pride before you start Redcars, though it is not a must because it is not the same story arc but it does introduce the series and characters.
The Voluptuous Vixen by Frank W Butterfield
Summary:Nick Williams Mystery #9
Wednesday, August 11, 1954
Nick and Carter are sailing across the sea to Honolulu on an impromptu holiday.
For the sake of propriety and decorum, the ship's captain pairs them off with a "lady couple" who turn out to be much more than they appear at first glance.
When one of them turns up dead in Nick and Carter's cabin, the hunt is on to find the other one before it's too late.
Original Review July 2025:
I had intended to read this last month for part of my Pride postings but time had other plans. I'm just glad I took the time now. So good!!! Once again Nick and Carter find themselves in the middle of yet another crime. Nick's secretary and step-sister, Marnie was supposed to be on the cruise with her new husband for their honeymoon, but as fate often does with this group, the newlyweds had to stay home so it's only natural that the lads take their reservation. Let's face it, there probably isn't another duo that deserves a vacation more.
The mystery had me guessing up until nearly the reveal. We've seen the pair do their sleuthing without their found family and colleagues before but not often. They aren't completely without assistance from their gang as there are a few ship to shore communications for information but most of it falls on the lads' shoulders. Of course, they do find a few helpful partners on board too, which may just lead to additions to their group of sleuths back home, they do seem to stumble across at least one person looking for a change during their shenanigans😉. As good as the mystery was, I honestly think my favorite part is learning how Nick and Carter first met Rosalind Russell and her husband, who has popped in a few times in future entries. I should have known their meeting wouldn't be as mundane as through a Hollywood studio😉. When I think of Rosalind Russell, or Roz as her friends call her, her films His Girl Friday and Auntie Mame always come to mind, which are both characters that make for a perfect Nick and Carter friendship.
An all around great addition to the Nick Williams Mystery and the Nick and Carter Universe.
RATING:
What's Left of Me by Davidson King
Summary:Saint Brothers #4
Phoenix
My once carefree life—dancing, smiling, and never looking over my shoulder—ended the day I was kidnapped and held by a serial killer for three months. A part of me was certain I was never getting out of there alive…and then when I thought my end was near, I was rescued.
But the killer is still out there, and he wants me back.
The police and FBI are bound by red tape and procedures and because of that, my sister believes they can’t protect me…not like the Saint brothers can. Soon, I’m in a house filled with gorgeous, brilliant, dangerous men, and yet I feel safer than I ever have. Most of that has to do with a certain sunglass-wearing tech genius named Noel. For the first time since being rescued, I feel something toward someone, and I want to explore that.
Noel
I thought my brothers were idiots as I watched them each fall in love. I don’t want to be held down—I love my computers, freedom, and not having to answer to anyone. Then we take on a protection case and Phoenix Briar walks into my life. With a blink of his hazel eyes and barely there smile, I find myself willing to not just protect him but to do it at the cost of my life.
With the Broken Doll Killer on the loose and determined to get his perfect doll back, my brothers and I are in a race against time to keep Phoenix safe and to find his monster before he shatters whatever is left of Phoenix. I’m determined to give Phoenix the love he deserves…and the revenge he needs.
What’s Left of Me is book four in my Saint Brothers series. While it could be read as a standalone it is highly recommended you read Slay Ride, Kill Me Sweetly, and Mine to Keep first since characters from those books play a part in this story.
Original Review June Book of the Month 2025:
What can I say about Saint Brothers #4, What's Left of Me, that could even come close to what I'm feeling? Those who follow me on SM or my reviews know that my life was turned upside down with the passing of my mother back in January. Some days are better than others, but to be perfectly honest, my stress levels and anxiety grow with every day as I try to navigate a new path forward as I attempt finding a job that allows me time to still care for my dad. This admission has nothing to do with Davidson King's book other than the story has given me an outlet for moments of relief and yet the stress makes my reviewing brain more clouded. So I want to put that out there in my hope this review comes out clear. The fact that it does give me moments of relief speaks the loudest to my enjoyment of this story.
Though I am part of the author's FB group, I always try to stay clear of her teaser Tuesday posts when I can, sometimes you just have to have a peak but in general, I like to be completely taken off guard when reading. Boy was I ever! I knew there was a serial killer element to the story waybackwhen, but I had no idea just what that would entail. I won't go into specifics, having been so unaware heightened the fear factor for me and I would never want to rob any reader of that same "WOW!" moments.
Before I talk about Noel and Phoenix, I want to mention that, even though What's Left of Me, is laden with dark moments, violence, and fear, I personally think the author's #3 Mine to Keep, is still the darkest and most soul-crushing entry as it dealt with both the subtlety and in your face effects of stalking. Having said that, just as I'm writing this review, I realized that the entire Saint Brothers series plays heavily into the psychological side and after effects of the crimes. Not sure how I missed that before this moment, because it's so clear to me now. Hindsight can be our biggest moment of clarity.
So, on to the men at the center of this amazing and disturbing story.
Phoenix. I loved how the author dealt with his fears. Through his inner monologue we have a fuller picture of what the serial killer did to him, or more significantly, what impact the vitriol he hammered into Phoenix has left on his psyche. Through his interactions with his sister, Hazel and gradually the Saint brothers, we see how it has affected his day to day emotions. As drawn to Noel Saint, Phoenix is, I think it's actually the interactions he has with the brothers' partners that begin to ground him and see that healing and overcoming trauma is doable. Don't get me wrong, this is a Phoenix and Noel story, but the author's use of the partners, though small in page-time, is huge in healing.
Noel. Him and his brother, Nick(the Saint star in Mine to Keep) are the computer nerds of the operation and the frustration with the non-tech family members are front and center of the humorous scenes of the story. Won't lie, there are not many comedic moments but these family funnies help balance the darkness and left a calming effect on me. I really love how he relies on Dr.Aziza when it comes to making sure Phoenix is protected and the best ways to approach certain factors. This is not something you often see in stories about revenge and physical protection, generally those who are doing the protecting are all about the do-now-think-later but not the Saint brothers, they get the importance of the survivor's mental health(I said "survivor", I don't like "victim"). Again, don't get me wrong, they are all about the doing but not without the thinking, for the most part😉.
Put these men together and you have a very powerful and rewarding love story that rounds out this psychological suspense thriller, creating a whole package of entertainment. What's Left of Me is oh so disturbingly yummy.
One last thing, for those wondering about reading order, I highly recommend reading Saint Brothers in order of release. Yes, each book is about a new brother and a separate crime but because the past entry's relationships play a huge found family part of each new story, everything just falls into place more realistically when read chronologically.
The Killer Who Kept Me by Davidson King
CHAPTER ONE
“Power doesn’t corrupt people; people corrupt power.”
~ William Gaddis
Saros
It was a beautiful November morning. The sun was out, the air was crisp, my coffee was perfect, and most of all, I was enjoying it in silence. That was, until a door slamming from somewhere in my estate echoed off the walls, followed by stomping feet…That must be Cosmo.
I sighed and readied myself.
Three, two, one.
“Were you even going to tell me you were meeting Frazee tonight at The Sky?”
“Good morning, Cosmo. How are you this morning?”
He rolled his eyes and shot me a strained smile. “Morning, Boss. I’m actually irritated this fine fucking morning, if you must know.”
In this situation, if someone were to walk in on us, they’d likely think it was Cosmo who was the head of this family, feared by many, more powerful than anyone that sat behind the desk in a house made of white. But they’d be wrong. Cosmo was my second in command and my brother-in-law. The fact that he was married to my sister was why he wasn’t choking on his own tongue right about now…and he knew it.
“I’m sorry you’re upset—do sit and have some coffee.” I narrowed my gaze and sneered. “I insist.”
Cosmo sat across from me and poured himself coffee from the carafe. I let him have a moment to collect himself before I spoke once more.
“When you married my sister, you became my brother. It gives you more leeway than anyone else, but if you storm into my house like that again, making a scene, you’ll be walking with a limp for the rest of your life. Do I make myself clear?”
Cosmo swallowed loudly and placed the mug on the table. “My apologies; you’re right.”
“I know I’m right. What if I had someone here? I’d have had to explain to Dafni why you had two black eyes and then when she found out the reason, she’d break your nose.”
Dafni wasn’t violent, but she was tough. She understood this life and how everything we said and did mattered. I loved Cosmo, trusted him like no other, and I knew Dafni did too. So if he forced my hand, she’d know her husband had fucked up.
“It won’t happen again.”
“I know.”
We sat in silence for a beat, and after a breath, Cosmo started over. “Are you going to The Sky tonight to meet Frazee?”
“I am.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I huffed. “Because you have to be at your daughter’s recital tonight. Marco is going with me.”
“This is Frazee, Saros. You can’t just take Marco. He’s a snake.”
I rose from my seat and buttoned my jacket. “We’re all snakes, Cosmo. Frazee isn’t going to try anything seven hundred feet from the ground, in a public place. Marco will be just fine.”
“I’m going.”
I pointed my finger at him. “You’re in more danger if you miss Maeve’s recital.”
“Saros, she’s three. It’s not even going to be dancing—more like little piglets jumping in a circle, smashing into each other. She won’t remember if I’m there or not.”
“Idiot.” I grinned. “Dafni will know, and she’ll serve your balls to you if you’re not there. I’ll be fine. Video the dance for me…but only my niece. I don’t give a shit about all the other little fucklings.”
“Fine, but I’m talking to Marco before you go.”
I waved him away. “Whatever you want.”
He mumbled something under his breath, but I was already out of the room and on my way to the study for a phone call.
The Sky was one of the most luxurious, expensive, and elite restaurants in all of Eastbury. The owner was a friend…well, maybe friend was pushing it. He was a man who’d had a dream and zero money. He’d pitched the idea of The Sky to me, and I’d loved it, loaned him the money, and because of that I was able to eat there whenever I wanted at no cost. Something Fernando wasn’t completely on board with. As the years went by, he’d become quite rich and the bright-eyed man full of hope and wonder had become a pretentious snob. Not to me, never to me, but it was sad to see someone go from beautiful to ugly.
“Mr. Tancredi.” I peered up and saw a grinning Frazee. Technically Barrett Frazee, but for as long as anyone had known the man, he’d simply gone by his last name.
“Frazee, good to see you.” I stood, we embraced, and we settled in.
Marco was near the bar, and I could see one of Frazee’s men close by.
“Shall we get to the business portion of this meeting, or order first?”
I gestured toward the server. “Let’s get food squared away.”
I ordered beef Wellington, lightly seasoned vegetables, and mashed potatoes. I regarded Frazee as he placed his order.
He was forty; his blond hair reached his shoulders and was streaked with gray. He kept himself fit, but the lines on his face weren’t because he smiled a lot. His blue eyes were dim, and the hard life he’d led made many believe he was older than he appeared. He dressed in expensive suits but I knew what he had in the bank didn’t even come close to my fortune.
Frazee and I couldn’t look more different. I was thirty-two, I didn’t have many lines on my face, and the ones I did were definitely from smiling. My hair was black, cut, and styled at all times. My blues eyes were bright because I saw a future that would always bend to my will, and I didn’t let anything enfeeble me.
The server nodded and left us to our beverages. “Let’s cut to the chase, Frazee. You want more territory, money, and power.”
Frazee snorted into his whiskey. “Don’t we all?”
“No. I have all those things already. I don’t call meetings asking for more.”
The other man sat back, the briefest glare crossing his face before he righted it. “You just go and take it.”
I lifted a shoulder. “If I have to. Otherwise, I like to negotiate.”
“Which demands a meeting.”
I snickered ominously and swallowed the rest of my bourbon. “Negotiations happen when the other party wants something from me, and I only agree if they have something I want.”
“And what do I have that you want, Saros?”
Using my first name would be seen as disrespectful if Frazee’s opinion mattered, but it didn’t. He couldn’t bother me because I wouldn’t let him.
“I want accessibility to PTA.”
Frazee’s brows furrowed. “Pell Tennor Airport? But you have other airports.”
I did. But PTA was important. “PTA is a smaller airport, less eyes on it, and as of three months ago started letting flights in from Brazil. A destination I do a lot of business with.”
“I thought you used the ports as well.”
I nodded. “I do.”
Frazee huffed. “PTA is the only area you don’t own, and you want it.”
“I won’t take it from you, Frazee, I just want access to it whenever I require it.”
“I suspected there was something you wanted, otherwise you’d have never agreed to this meeting.”
I beamed at the man. “Now you’re getting it.”
The server arrived and placed our food in front of us and asked if we needed refills, which we accepted. Once she left to get our drinks, Frazee continued.
“There are three abandoned warehouses in Eastbury. You aren’t using them—no one is. I want them.”
“Warehouses are clichéd, Frazee. Not to mention, suspicious as fuck. It’s why no one uses them. They’re watched.”
“If you don’t want them, it shouldn’t be an issue.”
I thought about it as the server brought our beverages. I didn’t answer right away, savoring my delicious meal. Frazee didn’t push me to answer, either.
“What are you using them for?”
He wiped his mouth and met my gaze. “We don’t ask about each other’s businesses.”
I shrugged. “It’s in my territory, and there are certain things I don’t allow.”
“I know what you allow and don’t in your territory; it’s nothing like that. But sharing my business dealings with you isn’t happening.”
I could just tell him no, but I wanted access to PTA and didn’t feel much like going to war over the use of it.
“I’ll give the buildings to you, but if I find out you’re breaking my territory rules, this won’t end well for you, Frazee.”
“And you’ll have access to PTA whenever you need.”
“Deal.”
We finished our meals and spent the rest of the time being cordial, asking about our families…you know, normal things.
One of the reasons I liked doing business at The Sky was that there were no wiretaps. The restaurant was swept every hour. If Fernando got word they’d tapped the place with a warrant, he’d tell me. It was also too high for anyone to listen in unless they hovered with a helicopter, and that would be very noticeable. I had a deal with Fernando: I wouldn’t take a cut after the loan was paid off and he’d keep The Sky however he wanted, and I’d never interfere with the stipulation that my words were safe here.
“Thanks for dinner.” Frazee shook my hand as we stood from the table.
“My pleasure. I’ll get those papers over to you by the end of the week.”
“Good doing business with you, Mr. Tancredi.”
Now I was Mr. Tancredi again. “Same.”
I waited until Frazee had taken the elevator down before approaching Marco. “Tell Benny to bring the car around.”
Marco texted, and we took the elevator to the bottom. Once we got out, I went the opposite direction from the main entrance. I didn’t like being seen unless there was a reason. So, I used the back exit.
Marco and I stepped outside, and the door had just closed when a shot rang out. A second later, Marco fell to the pavement.
The Unexpected Heiress by Frank W Butterfield
Chapter 1
777 Bush Street, Third Floor
San Francisco, Cal.
Monday, May 11, 1953
Half past 10 in the morning
She walked through the door of my private office like she was gliding on air. Her curves were definitely in all the right places. The dress she wore made sure I knew it.
She removed the veil from her face and pinned it back on her hat, which was perched precariously on her upswept hair.
She sat down and leaned in, making sure I could see all the way down her ample cleavage.
As she sat there, I asked, "Would you like a cigarette?"
She smiled and nodded. I offered her one and she took it. I leaned over and lit it for her.
She pulled on it like she was finally getting a drink of water after a forced march in the desert. When she exhaled, she smiled at me and asked, "You work alone?"
I nodded. "How can I help?"
She looked down demurely as if there was one very specific way I could help.
I waited.
Finally, she looked up and said, "It's over between me and Johnny and I need some proof."
I took out a pad and pencil and began to make some notes. We went through the usual questions: her name, his name, how long they'd been married, her address, the hotel she thought he had been habituating of late, and, most importantly, the name of the other woman.
"Oh, but Mr. Williams, it ain't some dame, it's a guy." She spit out the last words like she'd just bit down on a sour pickle and couldn't wait to be rid of it.
I looked up and said, "Yeah?"
She nodded. "If I'd known Johnny was a fairy when I married him..." She looked up and shrugged.
"What? What would you have done?" I asked, keeping my voice level.
"You know. I would have told my pops and he would have had some of the guys down at his bar do a number on Johnny and let him know what's what."
I stood up and put on my coat.
She made an "O" with her mouth. I guessed that was her way of expressing shock or maybe astonishment.
"Wait. How much do I owe you?"
"Not a thin dime, miss."
"Really? You work for free?"
"Oh no," I said as I put on my hat and extended my hand to help her stand up. "I don't work for free."
"I'm confused."
"No, you're not. You're just angry. You thought he loved you but you knew all along he wasn't the right man. Why did you even marry him?"
Now she was angry. She refused my hand and stayed planted in the chair.
"I had to get out of Pop's house, didn't I?"
"Well, they have wonderful residential hotels for women these days. Or so I'm told. You get three squares, a comfortable bed, and bath down the hall all at an affordable price. Daily, weekly or monthly rates offered."
She giggled. "You're funny."
"No miss. What I am is a homosexual and I don't work for clients who aren't polite and can't even talk about their soon-to-be ex-husbands without calling them words like 'fairy' or 'fruit'."
She stood up haughtily. "I should have known you was one of them. There oughta be a law."
"There is one in most states of our great nation. Now, can I walk you to the elevator while I give you a couple of names to call on? These are gentlemen who will be happy to help you. And they won't care what you call your husband as long as you pay up front and cover their daily incidentals."
She stopped at the door and turned on me. "So, what you're sayin' is that since I called Johnny a fairy, you ain't gonna help me?"
"That's right, miss."
"Well, I never!"
"Well, now you have."
We walked into the front office. I saw Marnie shaking her head as I opened the door.
I walked her down the dark, little hallway to the ancient, creaky elevator and gave her the names of some of the cheaper, but still good enough, private detectives I knew who would gladly help her out.
As the door closed, I lifted my hat and heard her giggle.
I walked back to my office and looked at the letters that had been recently been painted on the frosted glass:
Nicholas Williams
Private Detective
Licensed and Bonded
PR-7777
10 a.m. - 4:30 p.m.
And By Appointment
I sighed and thought about all the money I'd spent to get this office, hire Marnie, get that particular phone number, and even have the glass painted.
Not that it really mattered. I didn't need to work. I had what my friend and attorney Jeffery Klein called, "An unbreakable trust." It was left to me by a venerable great-uncle who, from all accounts, put the word "gay" in the "Gay Nineties" that San Francisco was infamous for.
He was a rake of the worst sort and, apparently, saw the tendency in me, and so skipped everyone else and their outstretched hands and landed the whole pile in my lap at the tender age of 21.
I was surprised and shocked by the bequest. I'd only met old Uncle Paul once, but, as I later learned, he'd been keeping a watchful eye on me through the stormy years of my misspent youth before I'd enlisted in the Navy and gone off to fight for freedom, democracy, and the American Way.
My shock turned to unsurprised disgust when every relative, near and far, decided to sue. The California dockets were cluttered for about five years with the details of Uncle Paul's sordid life and the injustice of handing untold millions over to a kid of 21.
Learned judges rebuked Uncle Paul in writing, and at great length, for his lascivious ways. They lectured me about squandering my inheritance in similar fashion. But, in the end, they had all thrown up their hands and declared the trust was valid and the inheritance was mine to do with as I wanted.
When the whole gang of relatives got together and appealed to the California State Supreme Court, the case was thrown back at them, with a vengeance, and they were told to go home and nurse their wounds.
And they did. None of them, my own father included, would now talk to me and, from what I'd heard, my name was never mentioned on Nob Hill or even down in Hillsborough where some of the younger family members were relocating to build their mansions on vast, two-acre spreads.
I opened the door and saw Marnie standing there, hands on her hips. "So, you threw another one out, didn't you?"
I took off my hat and said, "Don't harass me, Marnie. You know I don't need the work."
"Yeah, I know. You don't need the work. But you go a little stir when you ain't got the work and I love working here.
"Oh! The characters that come through that door give Mother and me a chuckle. It's better than anything on the radio or the TV.
"But, lord! I can't sit here, knitting my hands till they bleed, and watch you slowly go crazy."
I smiled at her and said, "You're a real friend, Marnie."
"Well, I ain't the only one you got. That Klein, he wants to talk to you. Seems like he's got a case for you. And it's the Polk Street kind."
I put my hat back on my head, gave Marnie a quick kiss on the cheek, and said, "Thanks doll. See you later."
Jamie by RJ Scott
ONE
Jamie
The fire started in the kitchen.
Just like the last one.
The flames licked up the drapes, each faded flower vanishing in white sparks. I stood there, still holding the used match, and watched the edge of the fabric curl inwards, blackening, then opening with a hiss of release. The smoke thickened fast—it always did. Greedy. Hungry.
I didn’t run.
I waited until the heat reached the hallway, caught the old linoleum, the newspaper bundles, and the cracked, piss-yellow chair, until the air turned hostile, burning my throat.
Then, I walked out of the front door.
It was early. The street was quiet but not peaceful. Rows of tired brick apartments lined the block, tagged with graffiti and sagging with disrepair. Trash rustled in the gutters, and a broken streetlamp still flickered behind me, casting everything in a sick, pale glow. A busted bike frame leaned beside the stop sign as if even it had given up.
Shitty neighborhood. The kind no one cared about. The kind no one came looking in unless they wanted something worse than answers.
But quiet.
Not like the house.
The house was screaming now.
Wood groaning. Glass cracking. That beautiful, chaotic roar meant nothing could be saved.
I sat on the curb across the street staring at the fire. No shoes. Smoke on my clothes. My uncle was still inside. Passed out on the couch, maybe. Maybe, he woke up trapped and terrified. Didn’t fucking matter. I knew he hadn’t gotten out. That was the point.
By the time the sirens came, I was calm but didn’t know what to do with the silence. No belt snapping through the air, no fists, and no lock sliding into place behind me.
I was free.
When the fire crew arrived, I clutched my laptop close and didn’t move. One firefighter tried to grab me, shouting something I didn’t catch. His gloves smeared soot across my bare arms. He looked scared. Or maybe confused.
They always are.
The ambulance came next. Someone wrapped a blanket around me. I let them. A woman crouched beside me, her voice gentle, as though I was fragile.
“What happened?” she asked.
I looked past her to the smoke billowing into the sky. “It burned,” I said.
She blinked. “How did it start?”
I shrugged. “Match, I guess.”
Her expression changed. Not fear, exactly. Just the beginning of understanding. The moment when people realize I’m not the victim they thought I was.
“What’s your name?”
“Jamie Maddox.”
Then, the cops came with their questions, and when they searched my name and the other fire was flagged, the inevitable happened.
There’s a body, trapped, couldn’t get out, burned.
“…you’re under arrest for suspicion of arson and homicide.”
I didn’t fight them. I didn’t cry. I didn’t ask why. They took my laptop away from me, but that was okay. I’d hidden everything in the cloud, and no one would find it. All my tools and things I used to steal were gone. I walked to the cruiser barefoot, fingers twitching for another match I didn’t have. My skin itched for the flick of sulfur, the sharp tang of smoke. I could still taste the fire on the back of my tongue, feel the way heat had kissed my face. It wasn’t only the burn I missed—it was the control, the silence it gave me, the way everything else fell away when flames were dancing. If I could watch something fall apart correctly, the world could be wiped clean and made simple. The cuffs were too tight, but I didn’t complain. The pain felt real. Felt deserved.
I remember watching the dark smoke and the firefighters from the back seat. The house collapsed in on itself as if it had been waiting to die.
I knew that feeling.
They took me to a white room with plastic chairs and a table bolted to the floor. I waited. Eventually, someone came in and read me my rights. I asked for a cold soda, but they didn’t give me one, handing me water in a plastic bottle with no lid.
They called it an accident at first. They suggested it could have been faulty wiring, an electrical short in the kitchen, or maybe the old microwave gave out. One neighbor swore they heard a pop. Another said they smelled gas.
But I was too calm.
Too clean at first glance.
No soot on my face. No burns. Just a folded blanket around my shoulders and hands that didn’t shake. I hadn’t asked questions. I hadn’t cried then, and I hadn’t cried when I watched the smoke curl upward as if it was writing my name across the sky.
And when they’d checked me for injuries and found the marks on my back and thighs, the cigarette burns and the cuts, and they asked me what happened, all I said was that I’d been in the kitchen. I heard them talking about abuse, and they handed me pity in one hand and accusation in the other. It didn’t matter how badly someone hurt me. That wasn’t justification for burning them to death, and hell, no one walks out of a house fire that began in the kitchen without a mark on them. Not unless they’d set the fire.
They started looking closer.
And when they asked how the fire spread so fast, I said, “Accelerant helps.”
Eventually, they stopped calling it an accident.
They sent me to a facility outside Los Angeles. Not jail. Not at first. Psychiatric observation, they called it. I played the game—quiet, cooperative, unreadable. The diagnosis was difficult when pretending to be someone else was so easy. They looked for remorse, for cracks in the story, but I gave them blank calm and vague sadness. I could mimic empathy, mirror fear, and drip trauma in rehearsed doses until they believed what I needed them to. The doctors said I didn’t appear to understand guilt the way others did. I agreed with them. I didn’t feel guilty. I felt nothing.
Eighteen months of docs poking and prodding, of white padded rooms and meds.
After that, it was prison—two more years. I was under minimum security once the court accepted the diminished capacity argument, which I sold like a motherfucker. I kept my head down, memorized the schedules, worked in the auto shop they had there, and didn’t light a match in all that time.
It didn’t mean I’d stopped wanting to. I’d dream of it—heat curling under my skin, flames reaching for the sky. Sometimes, I’d close my eyes and imagine it: the sharp snap of a match, the whoosh of ignition, the way light flickered against the walls as if it were alive. Fire never judged. It didn’t ask questions. It simply consumed. It gave me power when everything else made me powerless. It took things away, but only the things I never wanted to keep.
Fire made sense in a way nothing else did. It was simple. Pure. I didn’t need to justify why I liked how it moved or why watching something burn down to its bones gave me a kind of peace nothing else ever did. Not even Tudor at Redcars, with all his calm and second chances, ever really saw the craving underneath—how it wasn’t just about destruction. It was about clarity and silence.
I didn’t understand either. I only knew that when things burned, my brain was quiet.
And for a moment, I could breathe.
I’d worked in the auto shop inside. Learned just enough not to look stupid and lied about the rest. Said the right things, kept my head down, let them think I was trying.
I wasn’t.
The plan was simple—stay long enough to get off the radar, then vanish. Tudor came to my room, told me about Redcars, said it was the kind of place that gave second chances to the worst of us. I didn’t believe in second chances. I believed in escape.
Tudor opened the garage door that first morning with oil on his hands and a don’t-fuck-with-me stare. He looked me over like I was a car wreck—twisted metal, something he couldn’t walk past. Then he gripped my chin, hard enough that I felt it in my jaw.
“You’re faking this shit,” he said. “I see the fire in your eyes. That thing that wants to burn it all down just to feel something. You so much as fuck up on my doorstep, you’re gone. You understand?”I didn’t answer. I stared back, let him see it—the fury, the heat, the part of me that didn’t give a damn.
But he didn’t flinch.
“Fuck kid, you’re trouble.” He sighed.
“Whatever,” I snapped. Fuck this bullshit.
“I’m not here to fix you,” he said. “I’m here to give you the tools to fix yourself. You learn to control the fire, or it’ll eat you alive. Your choice.”
Then he turned his back on me and disappeared into the shadows of the garage, like he already knew I’d follow.
And I did.
Not because I believed a word he said.
Because I figured he’d be easy to play—just another bleeding-heart idiot with a savior complex.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
The Voluptuous Vixen by Frank W Butterfield
Prologue
1198 Sacramento Street
San Francisco, Cal.
Saturday, August 7, 1954
About a quarter until noon
I knocked on the door of my old bedroom. We'd only been living in my family home for a few weeks, so it still seemed odd to me to see that familiar door behind which I'd spent many lonely, frustrated, and angry hours.
My father opened the door and smiled. "Come in, boys." Carter, my handsome ex-fireman of a husband, pushed me forward and we walked inside.
Alex LeBeau, the groom, was looking handsome in his wedding suit. As part of our gift to the happy couple, we'd arranged for him to get outfitted for not only the day of his wedding to my stepsister, Marnie Wilson, but also for their honeymoon. According to Marnie, he'd balked at the idea. The notion of two men giving another man a bunch of clothes to wear was just too strange for him. But, when she'd shown him her new outfits for their honeymoon, a gift from her mother, he'd finally given in and let us help.
Alex's father, one Mr. Victor LeBeau, was standing next to his son. They were speaking softly in French. Mr. LeBeau, and his wife Sophie, had immigrated from France back in the 20s. Alex, born Alexandre, was only four years old at the time and had grown up in the City. He might have been born French, but he was definitely an all-American kid. He even played baseball every Saturday afternoon in a beer league. He was a year older than me, but he was still a kid in my eyes.
Both his father and his mother worked for the City of Paris, the department store down at Union Square. They lived in a small apartment at the corner of Vallejo and Stockton, and took the cable car down Powell Street to work each morning.
When Alex had proposed to Marnie about a month earlier, she'd readily agreed and we were all happy for her. I had been worried that she might want to quit working as my indispensable secretary but, a few days earlier, she'd sat down with us over dinner and explained that she and Alex were in agreement that she would work after they got married. Marnie even told us they weren't sure about having children, which was somehow unsettling in a way that was confusing.
In the meantime, they were getting married at our house, a big pile of rocks on Nob Hill at the corner of Sacramento and Taylor. Her own mother had married my father back in April over at Grace Cathedral. That event had turned into a big brouhaha, so she'd asked us if they could get married here.
We'd happily agreed and now the big day had arrived. Once they were married, they were driving down to the new house that my father had just bought on the coast south of Carmel and then, on Wednesday, they were sailing on the S.S. Hilo to Honolulu. Once they arrived the following Sunday, they would be spending two weeks at the "Pink Palace," also known as the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, on the beaches of Waikiki. The trip had been part of our gift as well. We even managed to get them the best rooms on the ship and in the hotel, courtesy of the efforts of Ralph, my intrepid travel agent.
I walked over to Alex and his father. They looked up and his father smiled. Alex, on the other hand, looked nervous. "Well?" I asked.
Rubbing his hands together, Alex sighed. "If this is supposed to be the happiest day of my life, then why am I so danged nervous?"
I laughed and said, "Can't help you there but I bet my father can since he just got hitched himself."
My father harrumphed behind me and said, "Leticia and I did not get 'hitched,' Nicholas. We were betrothed. And, Alex, my boy, I was just as nervous as you even though I'm a good thirty years older."
Mr. LeBeau nodded. "Alors, this is what I tell you, mon fils. It is normal. If you were not nervous, then I would be concerned."
Alex nodded and said, "Thank you, Papa." He quickly hugged his father and then stepped back. Looking around the room, he asked me, "Isn't it weird to be in your old bedroom like this?"
I laughed and said, "You have no idea."
My father cleared his throat and asked, "Where is that Charlie Woodmore?" He was Alex's best friend and his best man for the ceremony. They had been swimmers at St. Ignatius Preparatory School, which I had attended as well. Although "attend" was stretching things a bit. I had a faint memory of the two of them but mostly what I remembered were the many days that I played hooky, particularly at the end.
Carter said, "He should be here in a minute or two. He was taking care of some last minute things."
Alex sighed dramatically. "Did you help him?"
Carter crossed his massive arms and replied, "I'll have to take the fifth, Your Honor."
Charlie and a handful of their friends had been decorating Alex's 1949 Ford Coupe by stringing up tin cans to the rear fender. Carter had lent a hand. I'd decided to be Switzerland, and remain neutral on the matter.
Right at that moment, Charlie burst in the door, and said, "Come on Al. Time to get a move on, boy."
Charlie had the same build as Alex. Both were long and lean. Alex had dark brown hair with brown eyes while Charlie had dusty blond hair that tended to fly around in the wind no matter how much pomade he rubbed in. His blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight. He was attractive, that was for sure. They both still swam as much as they could, even down in the chilly waters at Ocean Beach.
Charlie's wife, Eva, was one of the gals standing up with Marnie, along with her cousin from down in Burlingame, a sweet girl of 20 or so by the name of Hilda. Marnie's matron of honor was another cousin, a woman of about 35, who lived in Hercules, a small town across the bay. Theresa was busty and, I had noticed, had picked a dress a little too small for her figure. Her husband, Jake, seemed to like it. Marnie had once called him a horn-dog and after spending some time with him the night before during the rehearsal dinner, I could understand why. He couldn't stop talking about Theresa's rack. Even to Carter and me.
Besides Charlie, two of Alex's friends, Ron and Jeff, were standing with him. Ron was a real estate agent, something he'd reminded me about forty times in the last twenty-four hours. Jeff was a police sergeant who worked at the Mission Station and had, so far, kept his distance from Carter and me.
After Charlie combed his hair back in place, Carter and I headed out along the hall and down the stairs to the great room where everyone was waiting. My father and Mr. LeBeau were behind us. Alex and Charlie brought up the rear.
We hadn't set up chairs. Instead, everyone was standing. There was a buffet spread already laid out by our amazing cook, Mrs. Strakova. Drinks were being served by our butler, Gustav, and his boyfriend (and our gardener and occasional chauffeur), Ferdinand. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Kopek, was assisting the kitchen along with a couple of girls hired for the day.
The room was packed with guests from both families. In keeping with tradition, the groom's family and friends were generally on the right, behind his parents. Marnie's crowd was standing behind her mother, and my stepmother, the redoubtable Lettie.
My father walked back into our office, where Marnie had been stashed away for the duration. Since her father was nowhere to be found, Dr. Parnell Williams would be doing the honor as her stepfather. Once the rest of us were all in place, the minister motioned to a string quartet seated by the garden door who stopped playing Mozart and began to play the Wedding March from Lohengrin.
We all turned and watched as Marnie stepped slowly out of the office on my father's arm and began to make her way down the aisle marked by ribbons tied on small wooden posts. She was dressed in white. Her dress was plain and had a long train and she was gorgeous in it. She'd had what Carter's mother had called, "a full morning of beauty," and looked amazing. She'd always been cute. But as she walked down the aisle she looked, well, radiant.
. . .
Once the ceremony was over, Paul Verdier, the President of the City of Paris company and a strikingly handsome man in his early 70s, announced his gift for the couple. It was a very large bottle of French champagne without a label. The bottle rested on a cart and was secured in such a way that allowed it to be tilted for pouring. It had been bottled a few years earlier in France and brought over and added to Mr. Verdier's personal cellar. He supervised one of his employees, a young man of about 25, who carefully opened the large bottle. After everyone had a glass, Mr. Verdier made the first toast to the happy couple. It was all in French and, by the way that Alex's parents both laughed long and hard while Alex turned bright red, it must have been a doozy.
We'd planned four initial toasts, and I was up next. I hadn't thought too hard about what I wanted to say because most of it was too sappy and sloppy. Once the cheering was over, Mr. Verdier said, "Now it's time for Nick, the bride's brother, to toast the bride and groom."
I stepped in front of the fireplace and lifted my glass to Marnie and Alex, who were standing right next to me. "To the best darn stepsister a guy could ever want." I looked around the room and could suddenly hear my own sister's laughter drifting down from upstairs. Janet had been gone for over year, but now living there, in the house we'd grown up in, made me think of her more than I had in all the years after I'd left.
I caught Carter looking at me with a crease of concern on his forehead. He winked at me and smiled. I nodded and continued, "And to Alex, her new husband and my new brother. May you both have years and years of joy and happiness together. To Marnie and Alex!"
Everyone in the room repeated, "To Marnie and Alex!" Marnie stepped next to me and gave me a hug. "Thanks, Nick. I love you."
"I love you, too, doll."
She giggled and stepped back as Alex came forward and shook my hand. "Thanks, Nick."
"Welcome to the family, Alex. We're all a little crazy, but don't worry. I'm sure you'll do just fine."
Alex and Marnie both laughed at that. I turned back to the room and said, "And now it's time for Mr. LeBeau to give his toast."
. . .
Carter and I were walking through the crowd to make it over to the buffet. He wanted more of the puffed pastry with beef in it. And I wanted more caviar. An elegant woman in her 50s, who was holding a small plate of the puffed pastry, stopped us and asked, "You are Mr. Williams, oui?"
I nodded and said, "I am." Motioning to my husband, I said, "And this is Carter Jones." She smiled and nodded. I said, "Thank you for being here. Are you a friend of Alex's parents?"
"Oui. I am Mrs. Anne-Marie Boudier. I work for Mr. Veladier. Are you familiar with the Normandy Lane?"
Carter said, "We first discovered it at Christmas, as a matter of fact." This was an area in the basement of the store that had little shops that, I'd heard, were like the stores in France. There was a cigarette counter, a place to buy bread and pastries, and a little restaurant where they turned meat on a spit.
"I work in the patisserie, the bakery." She picked up one of the pastries. "Who is the person that is cooking these delights? Surely you must have someone from France who works for you?"
I shook my head. "Our cook is from Czechoslovakia. The east part, near Poland."
The woman shook her head. "Non. That is not possible. This has the flavor of Paris. I can taste the time before the war in these foods."
I shrugged. "Maybe Mrs. Strakova lived in Paris before the war. I know she owned her own restaurant at one time. Would you like to meet her?"
Mrs. Boudier nodded.
Carter, who had been stretching his neck to see if any of those pastries were left, put his hand on my shoulder, and said to the woman, "But, only if you promise to not try to hire her."
Mrs. Boudier laughed and nodded her head. "Yes, of course." She put her hand on her heart and said, "I promise."
I said, "Stay right here and let me see what's happening in the kitchen." Without waiting for a reply, and knowing that Carter wouldn't abandon his post, I strode across the dining room and into the kitchen.
Mrs. Strakova was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a sandwich, while the two girls were putting out new plates. As always, the cook was calm and placid will everyone else was running around. Seeing me, she quickly stood up. "Mr. Nick? Is anything wrong?"
I shook my head. "Not at all. The food is amazing, as always. There is a woman outside who used to live in Paris and claims you must be French." I noticed that Mrs. Strakova looked down when I said that. "She'd like to meet you, if you're not too busy."
The older woman took a deep breath and sighed. "Oh, yes, that is fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Oh, yes." She didn't look happy.
"I can ask her to come by the house some other time, if you'd like."
"No, no. Let's get this over with."
"What?" I asked.
"It is nothing. Now would be a good time, Mr. Nick. Not so busy."
I nodded and asked, "Can I take a plate of those puff pastries with beef to Carter?"
Mrs. Strakova's eyes widened in delight, and she smiled. "Oh, yes! Does he like? I made them for him."
I nodded enthusiastically. "He likes them a lot."
. . .
With plate in hand, I made my way over to where Carter and Mrs. Boudier were standing. Carter broke into a huge grin when he saw what I was carrying. I handed him the plate, offered my arm to Mrs. Boudier, and away we went.
When I opened the kitchen door, I saw that Mrs. Strakova was standing by the table as though she was ready for the firing squad. As Mrs. Boudier walked in and looked around, she suddenly stopped and said loudly, "La ZaZa!! Non! This cannot be!"
Mrs. Strakova looked downward. The French woman said, "Mr. Williams! How can you hide this from the rest of San Francisco?"
"Hide what?"
"She." She nodded at Mrs. Strakova. "You have the most famous woman chef of the 1930s working for you!" Walking over to where Mrs. Strakova was standing, Mrs. Boudier reached out and offered the cook a kiss on both cheeks and began to speak rapidly in French. Mrs. Strakova nodded and replied in the same language.
Meanwhile, behind me, I heard the kitchen door open and a gasp. I turned and saw Mr. Veladier coming through with Mr. LeBeau behind him. Mr. Veladier grabbed my hand enthusiastically. "So! It is true! La ZaZa works for you, Mr. Williams!"
I just shrugged. As Mr. Veladier walked over to join the two ladies, Mr. LeBeau stood by me and quietly said, "She was in the resistance, and it was said that she died before the liberation. And, then, poof! Now she is working in your kitchen."
By this time, there was a steady flow of people streaming in, all exclaiming in French. I looked around and said, "Let me find Mrs. Kopek before this gets out of hand." Before I could get through the crowd, Mrs. Kopek herself came in and managed to squeeze her way over to me.
Looking at her, I asked, "Did you know Mrs. Strakova was a famous chef in Paris before the war?" The two of them had grown up together in what had become Czechoslovakia. But Mrs. Kopek had been in San Francisco since 1935, so she might not have known about any of this.
She looked up at me in wonder and shook her head. "No. I know none of this. So strange she no tell me. But, then again, we no talk about the war much. Too many bad memories."
Mr. LeBeau nodded and said to Mrs. Kopek, "She was in the resistance. It is said that she murdered several German officers through her cooking. She could make it look like a heart attack.
Mrs. Kopek smiled wanly. "Now this." She wagged her finger. "This does not surprise me."
. . .
Once the uproar in the kitchen had settled down, I found my way over to Carter. He was still munching on his personal set of pastries while talking with Jeff, the groomsman who was a police sergeant at Mission Station.
"Where you there the night he came in?" That was Carter.
Jeff nodded. "No. But I heard about it after he was murdered. You two were the ones who caught the men who did it, right?"
Carter said, "Along with our friend Mike Robertson, who used to be a lieutenant at North Station."
I looked around for Mike but couldn't see him. I wondered if he'd taken his date upstairs for a "tour of the house."
Jeff took a drink of champagne and nodded thoughtfully. "I never heard what the whole story was."
Carter said, "These two brothers were trying to be mobsters. One of them had done a job for us back a few years ago when we put a safe in our basement."
"That was over in Eureka Valley," I added.
Jeff took another sip.
Carter continued, "So, one of them was working for the construction company that's building Nick's new office building."
Looking at me, Jeff asked, "And you own that construction company, now, right?"
I nodded. "Yeah. The second brother, the one who worked for them, murdered the President of the company. The board wanted to sell out and it looked like a good deal."
Carter shook his head. "Don't let him fool you. Nick isn't a businessman. He just wanted to put one of our friends in her own company. And, of course, he was right. She's already got more work than she can deal with."
"She?"
I nodded. "One of the gals who lived next door to us over on Hartford Street."
Jeff's eyes boggled for a moment when he realized I was talking about a "lady couple." That was a term that Carter liked to use.
Picking the story back up, Carter said, "So, these two clowns end up burning down our house to cover for the fact that they looted our safe. And then they try to get the playwright next door to us to admit he did it. That part is still fuzzy to me."
I looked up at Carter. "They threatened to burn down his house."
"Oh yeah, I forgot about that."
Jeff shook his head. "And then I heard the lieutenant at North Station, who was in charge of the case, resigned as soon as it was over."
I nodded but didn't explain that he had done so before he was exposed in a blackmail scheme. And that he now worked for us. And was that he was Mike's date and was probably upstairs involved in some highly unnatural relations. I figured Jeff would find all that out later from Alex. Or most of it, anyway.
. . .
The time had come for the happy couple to get on the road. By the stretched smile on Marnie's face, I could tell she was ready. They had both changed into more comfortable clothes. Marnie was wearing a pale green skirt under a coat of the same color and a frilly white blouse. Alex was in light brown trousers and a checked coat with big shoulders and a wide lapel. They both looked worn out and happy, all at the same time.
The party moved out onto the sidewalk on Sacramento Street. Alex's Ford was running and ready for them to jump in and go. But Marnie still needed to throw the bouquet. Standing on the edge of the top step of the stairs leading to the front door of the house, Marnie called all the unmarried gals to gather around. There weren't that many, but they made a show of it. She reached back and threw the flowers up in the air.
Since I was standing by the car, I didn't see what happened next, but apparently, in tossing the flowers, Marnie's right foot slipped down the edge of the step and, in an attempt to catch herself, she twisted her left ankle, which then crumbled underneath her. As she fell, she managed to collapse onto her cousin Charlene who then fell onto one of the gals from the department store. She tried not to fall too hard on anyone and stuck out her left hand. In doing so, she broke her arm as it hit the marble step below.
As Lettie said later at the hospital, "If this is the worst that happens, they'll do just fine."
What's Left of Me by Davidson King
PROLOGUE
BNN News Outlet: “The body of a woman appearing to be in her early twenties was found today in Reisling Field at around seven this morning. Sources are saying she was dressed as what they can only assume was a doll. Dead flowers surrounded her body, and moving her has been difficult. More information on this story as it comes to light.”
One month later
BNN News Outlet: “A startling discovery came this morning when the body of a young man was found beside Franklin Fountain. Much like Kimberly Henning, who was found last month in Reisling Field, he was dressed to look like a doll—or puppet. Dead flowers surrounded his body. As we found out after Kimberly’s autopsy a few weeks ago, the bones in her body were broken and it’s assumed the same here and that whoever killed her is likely behind this death as well. More to come.”
One month later
BNN News Outlet: “It was a frightening morning as yet another body was found, killed the same way as Kimberly Henning and Richard Bells: dressed as a doll or puppet, posed on the ground, with dead flowers surrounding his body. A woman jogging in Billings Park came upon the man a little after six a.m. The mayor and police commissioner are holding a press conference this afternoon at Town Hall. This is the third victim of what the media is referring to as The Broken-Doll Killer, while others are calling them the Marionette Maker. What we’ve uncovered is that before their discoveries, Kimberly Henning and Richard Bells had been missing for six months to the day, and every bone in their bodies had been broken postmortem. What did these victims suffer through in their months of captivity? And will the authorities catch this serial killer before they strike again?”
Two Months Later
BNN News Outlet: “This morning, at about seven thirty, the body of Rochelle Hammer was detected, displayed just as Kimberly Henning, Richard Bells, and Henry Miller were. After no bodies were uncovered last month, we all held on to hope that the brutal murders had ended. Sadly, that’s not the case. Rochelle Hammer’s body was found by a staff member outside the main entrance of Mayfield Children’s Museum. She was dressed as a puppet and was surrounded by dead flowers. What we know so far about The Broken-Doll Killer is that they take their victims, hold them for six months to the day, and then display them publicly in a haunting manner, bones broken, yet made to look perfect. Authorities have no leads, and the only connection anyone seems to have found regarding these victims is that they were all in their early twenties, in very good shape, and they were what many are referring to as beautiful people. Who is killing these young, beautiful, vibrant people? The mayor will speak tonight at Town Hall at six p.m.”
Three weeks Later
BNN News Outlet: “A remarkable rescue happened this afternoon. Two hikers came across a shack in the mountains, where they’d hurried in to escape a sudden rainstorm. Inside, they stumbled upon a man who’d been reported missing a little over three months ago. That is all the information being released at this time; for his safety, the man’s name won’t be announced. And what are they protecting him from? Sources say this young man was kidnapped by The Broken-Doll Killer. This is the biggest break in the case, and authorities hope this young man can help them finally put an end to these heinous murders.”
Davidson King, always had a hope that someday her daydreams would become real-life stories. As a child, you would often find her in her own world, thinking up the most insane situations. It may have taken her awhile, but she made her dream come true with her first published work, Snow Falling.
She managed to wrangle herself a husband who matched her crazy and they hatched three wonderful children.
If you were to ask her what gave her the courage to finally publish, she’d tell you it was her amazing family and friends. Support is vital in all things and when you’re afraid of your dreams, it will be your cheering section that will lift you up.
Frank W Butterfield
Frank W. Butterfield is the Amazon best-selling author of 89 (and counting) self-published novels, novellas, and short stories. Born and raised in Lubbock, Texas, he has traveled all over the US and Canada and now makes his home in Daytona Beach, Florida. His first attempt at writing at the age of nine with a ball-point pen and a notepad was a failure. Forty years later, he tried again and hasn't stopped since.
RJ ScottWriting love stories with a happy ever after – cowboys, heroes, family, hockey, single dads, bodyguards
USA Today bestselling author RJ Scott has written over one hundred romance books. Emotional stories of complicated characters, cowboys, single dads, hockey players, millionaires, princes, bodyguards, Navy SEALs, soldiers, doctors, paramedics, firefighters, cops, and the men who get mixed up in their lives, always with a happy ever after.
She lives just outside London and spends every waking minute she isn’t with family either reading or writing. The last time she had a week’s break from writing, she didn’t like it one little bit, and she has yet to meet a box of chocolates she couldn’t defeat.
Davidson King
Frank W Butterfield
The Killer Who Kept Me by Davidson King
The Unexpected Heiress by Frank W Butterfield
Jamie by RJ Scott
The Voluptuous Vixen by Frank W Butterfield
What's Left of Me by Davidson King
