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    The Shamrock Killer: Shannon Flynn Mysteries, #4
    The Shamrock Killer: Shannon Flynn Mysteries, #4
    The Shamrock Killer: Shannon Flynn Mysteries, #4
    Ebook393 pages5 hours

    The Shamrock Killer: Shannon Flynn Mysteries, #4

    By charles fisher

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    About this ebook

    Someone is leaving dead bodies on Shannon's private beach, and for the first time in her career, she cannot come to grips with what is happening. The eventual solution astounds her, as does the reason.

    LanguageEnglish
    Publishercharles fisher
    Release dateJan 7, 2016
    ISBN9781519926999
    The Shamrock Killer: Shannon Flynn Mysteries, #4

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      Book preview

      The Shamrock Killer - charles fisher

      Greenwich, Connecticut

      Late June

      "Here, kitty, kitty. Oh, look!

      The nice kitty brought me a dead bird. Good kitty."

      Shannon Flynn woke to the raving bark of her Cocker Spaniel puppy. The dog ran through the collection of candy wrappers, cupcake packages, and comic books that littered the king size bed and leaped off onto the floor. Still barking, he bolted from the room and disappeared down the stairs of Shannon's palatial Greenwich, Connecticut mansion.

      Little bastard, Shannon muttered groggily as she sat up, pushing her long platinum hair away from her face. She tried to focus her clear gray eyes on her clock radio. Jesus, she sighed. Five thirty. That better not be morning.

      Shannon peered past the piles of clothing, magazines, and rough draft manuscripts that cluttered the room and looked out the window toward Greenwich Bay, where the rising sun was turning the placid ocean into a blood red horror scene.

      My God, she muttered, and fell back onto the satin sheets. I feel like shit.

      Shannon had a pounding headache, and her stomach was churning and gurgling from what she had done to it the night before. She was sweating profusely, and her body felt like it had been used for scrimmage practice by the Pittsburgh Steelers. She looked over the mounds of her breasts, which were barely contained by her Victoria's Secret teddy, and stared resentfully at the source of her troubles. She began counting the empty beer cans on her night stand, but gave up at sixteen and turned her head away in disgust.

      After several minutes she decided that she would be better off not going back to sleep and forced her agony wracked body into a sitting position. The dog was downstairs, still barking; at what, she had no idea.

      Crazy fur covered bastard, she mumbled. Cootie Head! she yelled, and the dog stopped yapping. Seconds later, he bolted into the room and jumped onto the bed.

      Thanks a lot, Shannon grumbled. I haven't been out of bed before ten o'clock since Ronald Reagan was president. What the hell is with all the racket? What's her name is going to strangle you.

      Shannon pulled on her pink bunny slippers and padded off toward the bathroom. As she passed the night stand, she looked down at the cooler sitting next to it. The lid was open, and a solitary Coors Light challenged what was left of her sobriety. She stared at it for a minute, then kicked the lid closed.

      Not at this time of day, she sighed, and headed for the shower.

      She turned the water on as hot as she could stand it, and let the thermal beating rejuvenate her muscles. After five minutes she knew what she had to do; she reached out tentatively for the water faucet.

      Here goes nothing, she sighed, and with one quick movement switched from hot to cold. The freezing water hit her like a sledge hammer; it took her breath away and turned her body into a sheet of goose flesh. She forced herself to endure the cold, then went back to the hot. She did this over and over until the headache abated. Finally she turned the water off, gulped a hand full of aspirin, and dried herself.

      Shannon was pulling on penny loafers over white socks when her housekeeper stuck her head in the door, an amazed look on her face.

      Blondie get up early! she exclaimed. House on fire?

      Fuck you, Marla, Shannon grumbled. Go fix me something to eat. Earn your paycheck for a change.

      "Name Marya. Three years I work for you cleaning shit hole house, and you not even know my name."

      "That's because I don't give a shit what your name is, Shannon giggled. Go back to Mexico if you don't like it here, you border jumper."

      Kentucky, Marya said proudly. No Mexico. That place worse pig sty than this room, she said, looking around at the disaster area where Shannon slept.

      I cleaned it last month, Shannon said defensively. This is all good stuff. I need everything in here.

      Right, Marya said, pointing to an old dish of Cocoa Puffs that had begun to take on a life of its own. You grow penicillin for living, now? No write books any more?

      Hoof it, Pedro, Shannon warned. I want breakfast.

      You go IHOP or Mickey D's, then.

      IHOP threw me out, Shannon sulked. I kicked the shit out of their manager.

      Again? Marya exclaimed.

      He asked for it. What was  Cootie Head barking at, anyway?

      Not know. Dog crazy, like owner. I make pancakes. You eat?

      Let me see if my life insurance is paid up first, Shannon smirked.

      Hah, Marya hooted. You get insurance from beer company. You be dead by thirty five, the way you drink. You be on liver transplant list soon.

      Yeah, Shannon sighed as she pulled on a form fitting tank top. With my luck, I'll get Mickey Mantle's old one. Marya looked at the top and shook her head.

      Tits too big, she sighed. No wonder you single.

      Oh, sure, Shannon laughed. "Men hate big tits, huh? What have you been smoking?"

      Then why you no married?

      A brutal right hook, and a penchant for sex acts involving electrical appliances and dairy products, probably. Never mind my social life. Just go make food.

      Fifteen minutes later, Shannon sat down at her Louis XIV dining room table, tied a Flintstones bib around her neck, and peered suspiciously at the platter of pancakes Marya had prepared.

      What are those? she asked when Marya came back into the room with tea.

      Pancakes, Marya snapped. You never see pancakes before?

      Yeah, but not without all the goop on them. They look like pot holders, she giggled. Hey, watch out.

      For what?

      The dog.

      Cootie Head suddenly appeared from behind Marya, and hit the room at a run. He leaped onto a chair, which he used as a spring board, and jumped onto the table. He seized a pancake in his mouth and dived  for the floor.

      Son of a bitch! Marya screamed. I kill that fucking animal!

      I warned you, Shannon giggled. Don't worry, he only took one. There are plenty left, if you have it in mind to increase the size of that ass of yours.

      Drunken prostitute, Marya grumbled as she sat down.

      I am not, Shannon said defensively. I never charge anybody.

      "You never have anybody, Marya said with a wicked grin. Men in this town too smart to get involved with screwball like you. Maybe your friend Tyler get you into kickboxer movie."

      The dog stuck his head around the corner, looking for another pancake.

      There he is again, Shannon said as she got up to fetch the concoction of things she would use on her breakfast.

      Animal die horrible death soon, Marya hissed. Why you no teach that thing manners?

      I did, Shannon said from the kitchen. Can't you tell? He acts just like me.

      I kill and make into pot roast, Marya mumbled as she heaped her plate high.

      Marya watched as Shannon sat down and emptied half a jar of chocolate syrup onto her pancakes, followed by equal amounts of blueberry, raspberry, and strawberry pancake syrups. She then doused the mess liberally with confectionary sugar, sprinkled it with chocolate shots, and mounded everything over with whipped cream.

      There, she declared. "Now they look like pancakes."

      No wonder IHOP throw you out! Marya hooted.  You make customers sick with mess like that. You die soon, Blondie. Diabetes for sure.

      After she finished her pancakes, Shannon took off her bib, let out a roaring belch, and nodded at Marya.

      Thank you, Merlin. That was delicious.

      Marya peered at Shannon's plate, which was not exactly empty.

      You no eat pancakes, she said triumphantly. All you eat is sugar mess. All time, sugar, sugar, sugar. Why you no eat pancakes?

      "Because I've had your pancakes before, and they suck. They not only look like pot holders, they taste like them as well. Now, if you're through insulting me, Mona, I think I'll go do some work."

      How you work? Marya scoffed. You get shit faced again last night. All night, I hear burping and singing.

      Was I on key? Shannon asked eagerly. The singing, not the burping.

      You got napkin for period? Marya snickered. Stick one in mouth tonight so I no have to listen to singing.

      I'm not drinking tonight, Shannon declared. I was bored, because I have nothing to do.

      You be just as bored tonight, and drinking start all over. Beer man buy new truck last week on what he make on you.

      Shannon looked out the window toward the bay, and an unexplainable feeling of uneasiness washed over her much like the early morning breakers washing over the distant sand.

      I don't know, she frowned. I have a feeling something is going to happen.

      Maybe you drop dead, Marya said eagerly. Get ripped and choke on vomit.

      Choke on this, Millie, Shannon sighed, and got up from her chair. She put her plate on the floor for the dog and headed for her writing room.

      She didn't have much to work on; her next novel was due in a couple of months, but it looked like it would be late. In fact, it would be really late; she hadn't even started it yet. She had a basic idea for what would be her tenth murder mystery, but it was still lingering in the unfinished file in her brain.

      She switched on her computer, turned on the stereo, and opened the floor to ceiling French doors that led out onto the terrace facing the bay. Her house, built for Douglas Fairbanks in the thirties, sat on a jutting piece of land that prevented her from seeing the entire beach, which curved around to the rear of the house.

      Hot again, she sighed as the tepid morning breeze lumbered up the incline to her house and pushed her back with its soggy breath. To make it worse, the tide was still coming in and the air smelled like sulphur. Disgusted, she closed the doors and turned on the air conditioning. Nobody will be on the beach today, I'll bet. She was wrong, but so far only the dog knew it.

      Now, Shannon said as she sat down at the computer, her long legs stretched out under the monstrous antique mahogany table that held her equipment. Think, dummy. When nothing of any value came, she peered reflexively toward the refrigerator in the corner, which she just knew had called her name. No way, she said quickly. Not today. Not before noon, anyway, she added. Crazy people talk to themselves, she thought  suddenly. No they don't, she said aloud. They aren't crazy unless they answer.

      Finally, after ten minutes, she called up a half finished novel she had begun as a lark. It was called The Shit Killer, and had as its central theme a madman who worked at a sewage treatment plant. He brought his victims there under the pretense of showing them how all their piss was sanitized and turned into municipal drinking water, and when they leaned far enough over the railing to see what the turd tanks looked like, he pushed them in. She knew nobody would ever buy it, especially with that title, but it was fun to work on. Sometimes good ideas grew out of garbage piles. If she changed a few things and thought up a better title........

      After three chapters, she sat back and reread what she had written. When she finished, she burst out laughing. The dog, who had come in to sit next to her, looked up as if she were crazy.

      Jesus, this sucks, she sighed. It sounds like something Warren Vane would have written.  Don't think about him, someone inside her head warned. Not today. You'll be sorry if you do. She turned around to see if she could find the source of the voice, then turned back around in embarrassment when she realized that she was the source.

      In addition to being in a constant toss-up with Warren’s ex-wife Colleen Vane as the country's best selling female author, Shannon was a former New York City police officer as well as a current licensed private investigator. Warren Vane, who had sold more books than any human being in history, had been her most celebrated case. Now a resident of Creedmoor Hospital in New York, Vane had found out the hard way that Shannon's detective skills were more than equal to overcoming his hobby of killing his adoring fans one by one. Now Vane's wife carried on the family tradition, only she didn't kill people. Not that anybody knew of, anyway.

      Shannon often thought of Vane; he had twisted her mind and soul to the breaking point with his blood lust, plagiarism, and boyish charm. She both hated and adored him; neither emotion gave way to the other. She had even liberated him from his cage a time or two and had him as a party guest. It cost her ten grand every time she did it for the police overtime, but what the hell; her conscience didn't have a price any more.

      She found herself staring out toward the beach again, and for the slightest instant swore she could smell something in the room that didn't belong there. Something died. It's there. It's calling for you. Impulsively, she got up and threw one of the doors open, walked out onto the terrace, and looked around. There isn't anything there. See? You're going insane. Your liver isn't the only thing on the critical list, lady.

      Jesus, Shannon muttered as she closed the door and locked it. I really have to dry out.

      She glanced at the clock; it was eleven forty five.

      My, my, she said. How time flies when you're wasting it. She turned off the computer, shut off the stereo, and went downstairs

      Greenwich, Connecticut

      Late June

      ––––––––

      Well, what do we do now?

      Greenwich PD Detective Lieutenant Richard Stone shook his head in dismay.

      I don't know, Al. This is weird. He turned away from Sergeant Allan Hastings and looked up to his right, to where she lived. You think she saw anything?

      Who?

      The devil woman. She lives in that big house up there on the bluff.

      I don't know, Hastings said. He brushed his thick blond hair away from his forehead, wiped the sweat from his face with a silk handkerchief, and kicked absentmindedly at a sea shell near his Gucci loafer. But I suppose we'll have to ask her, he sighed as he pulled at his tie. It's too damn hot out here. What is it, a hundred?

      Ninety three, Stone said, pulling at his own tie. It's all that stupid hair, he grinned. I told you to get a crew cut like me.

      No way, Hastings scoffed. "Women like my hair. They say I look like Robert Redford. Do we have to talk to her? She has a bad reputation."

      Yeah, we have to talk to her, Stone sighed. And bad does not begin to describe what that woman is capable of. You're lucky you just came on the job, or you'd know what I'm talking about.

      "Well, let's get it over, then. I want to go to the club this afternoon, and that........thing over there could take all day to clear up."

      I'll get her number from HQ, Stone said. Don't let anybody near it.

      "Who'd want to go near that," Hastings said in disgust. I certainly don't. He glanced quickly toward the yellow police barrier tape, and looked away just as quickly.

      Stone went to the cruiser and called in to get Shannon's number, which was prominently displayed next to a domestic violence poster in the squad room. He returned to the beach and nodded to his partner.

      Give me the cell phone.

      Shannon was in the kitchen when the phone rang. She grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, then put it back and answered the call.

      Miss Flynn? Detective Richard Stone, Greenwich PD. Are you busy?

      No, I'm not. Why? You want to go to the movies or something?

      No, he laughed. Maybe another time. Could you come down to the beach?

      Sure, she shrugged. Which one?

      Yours, Stone said. Behind your house.

      All right, Shannon said, her eyes riveted upon the refrigerator door. When?

      Now, Stone said.

      Okay, Shannon said, and hung up.

      Stone turned to Hastings and nodded.

      She'll be right down. Make sure you take notes. She's a pretty good private detective, and she may see something we missed.

      Shannon appeared ten minutes later; Hastings was the first to see her bouncing down the stairs that led to the beach, and nearly swallowed his tongue from shock.

      Jesus, look at that, he whispered. Stone turned around and let out a low whistle.

      Shannon was wearing a skimpy lemon yellow silk bikini with matching high heels. She was carrying a bottle of suntan lotion, a blanket, and a cooler. She jiggled over to them and smiled.

      Hi, guys. Where's the party?

      "Uh, there is no party, Stone stammered, his eyes glued to her breasts. This is an official matter, Miss Flynn. I'm detective Stone. This is detective Hastings."

      No party? Shit. Do you know how hard it is to walk in sand in high heels?

      No, but thanks for the effort, Stone grinned. He looked behind him, and nodded toward the police tape twenty feet away. It's over there. Shannon peered over the tops of her sun glasses.

      What is?

      The reason for our official visit, Miss Flynn. It's a dead body.

      "Oh. Don't you just hate it when somebody dumps a dead body on your beach? Shannon sighed as she started for the crime scene. I guess this is what the dog has been barking at all morning."

      Hastings elbowed Stone as Shannon shed her heels and approached the corpse.

      I hope she bends down, he grinned. That's some bikini.

      You take it then, Stone sighed. I'll take what's in it.

      Shannon looked back at Stone, an irritated look on her face.

      Go take a cold shower, Stone, she warned. Would one of you like to explain what this stiff is doing on my beach?

      We don't know, Stone said. We were hoping that someone saw something.

      Like who?

      Like you.

      I didn't, she said as she knelt down with her back to the two detectives.

      The deceased was a male, approximately forty years of age. He had nondescript features, dull brown hair going gray at the temples, and a whitish skin tone that said he spent most of his time indoors. The only feature that gave any indication  as to what his favorite indoor activity might be was a huge florid nose.

      He was naked, and he had been cut open from below the sternum to his genitals. The killer had used pinking shears. Intestines and internal organs hung grotesquely from the opening, but there was no blood to speak of. A tattoo of a shamrock stared up at her from his right forearm.

      He's Irish. Just like you.

      Any ideas? Stone called out.

      Yeah, Shannon smirked. This was no boating accident. Are you two hot shots too chicken to come over here and look at this mess, or what?

      We already looked, Hastings said. Who do you think put up the tape?

      Whose foot prints are these? Shannon asked as she stood up.

      Ours, Stone said.

      Got any ID on this guy?

      Yeah, driver's license and credit cards. Name is Mike Shaughnessy.

      Where is he from? Shannon asked disinterestedly as she looked around.

      Greenwich. He lived over by Avon Cosmetics. No family.

      No family. Warren Vane only killed people who had no families. No, it can't be. Don't even bother to ask.

      Well, she sighed as she walked back over to them, you were right. He's dead. What do you want me to do about it?

      Stone looked at Hastings, then back at Shannon.

      Well, we were hoping you could add something to the investigation. It is your beach, you know. This happened right under your nose.

      So? All I can tell you is that I didn't do it. I have my own graveyard in the front yard, she smirked.That's where I bury all my ex-boyfriends.

      Do you have a boyfriend now? Hastings asked eagerly.

      Don't get your hopes up, Preppie, Shannon said. I never date cops.

      Who else has a good view of this beach? Stone asked, looking around.

      See any other houses, Stone? Shannon asked sarcastically.

      No.

      There's your answer, then. The only other person who lives on this street is Tyler Brooks, and he can't see this beach.

      Do you live alone? Hastings asked quickly.

      I have a housekeeper. If she saw this, she would have told me. The only one who seems to have noticed anything was my dog. He went crazy about five thirty this morning. Who called this in, anyway?

      Anonymous, Stone shrugged. Why?

      Hellooooooo, Shannon said. Nobody can see the beach, so nobody can see the corpse. But somebody called you to tell you it was here. Comprende?

      Oh, Stone grunted. Yeah, you're right. We hadn't figured that out yet.

      The only thing you've probably been able to figure out so far is that one of my tits is slightly bigger than the other, Shannon said.

      It is? Hastings blurted out. Which one?

      You're pathetic, she sighed as she started for the house. Good luck.

      Hey! Stone called out at her retreating form. What are we supposed to do?

      Fuck it up, Shannon shrugged. "As always. This is Greenwich, isn't it?"

      Do you have a security video going? Hastings called out.

      No, Shannon said as she started up the stairs. I'm a good shot. I don't need one. And get that shit off my beach, before it starts to stink up the place.

      We have to wait for the Coroner, Stone yelled as Shannon opened her back door. That could take a while.

      Shannon put her beach towel and lotion away and changed back into her tank top and jeans. An hour later, she opened the sliders and walked out onto the deck off the kitchen. It was still hot, but the air had dried out. She leaned against the railing and looked down at the beach. The body was still there, but the two detectives were not. She looked over to her street, which curved along the bluff, and spotted the cruiser. The two men were inside, the windows rolled up.

      Jesus, what a couple of useless pussies, she snickered. Hey, that reminds me. Speaking of useless pussies, I wonder if Ann would like some pictures of this.

      The National Informant

      Bridgeport, Connecticut

      Ann Coleman finished her coffee, swept her long raven hair away from her face, and leaned back in her new chair. She propped her gorgeous legs up on her desk, yawned mightily, and closed her eyes. She was just about to doze off when the intercom buzzed.

      Miss Coleman? You have a call on line three. It's a woman, but she won't tell me who she is.

      Tell her to go fuck herself, then, Ann said, and closed her eyes again.

      One minute, please. There was a brief silence, then the secretary came back.

      She said to tell you to remove the cucumber  and  answer the phone, Miss Coleman. She called you........camel butt.

      Okay, Ann yawned, and picked up the phone. Hello, Shann-o. This better be good, because you interrupted my nap.

      "It is good. Are you busy?"

      Not particularly. We just put the paper to bed. What's up?

      There's a dead guy on my beach.

      Dating again, huh? What happened, wouldn't he go for the peach sauce and trampoline thing?

      This isn't one of mine, Shannon said. Somebody dumped him here at dawn. Why don't you come down and take some pictures for that shitty rag of yours?

      Of what, a simple dead body? Like we don't have a bunch of those already.

      This guy was cut open with pinking shears, and all his guts are hanging out. He's naked, too.

      I'll be right down, Ann said quickly, and hung up.

      Where is he? Ann asked excitedly. She had a five thousand dollar camera and tripod slung over her shoulder, and a powerful pair of binoculars.

      Shannon pointed toward the kitchen.

      Out back, on the beach. The Greenwich pigs left him there to rot in the sun until the Coroner comes.

      Where did he come from? Ann asked as they headed for the deck.

      How the hell should I know? Shannon said. I was asleep. He lived here in town.

      Oh, Ann sighed as she swept the beach with the binoculars. Rich guy, huh? Maybe some socialite caught him dipping his wick in the French maid.

      No, Shannon said, I don't think so. He lived over by Avon. You know, the regular part of town.

      Uh huh, Ann mumbled. "Here we go. Here he ........whoa, baby!  He has a woody, she giggled. Not very big, but man, is it hard."

      "He's dead, Coleman. Everything he has is hard. As for the size, he's Irish."

      Oh, that explains it. Hey, do you think they'd mind if I went down there and uh, you know, see if it will go down?

      "Oh, please," Shannon gagged. "You can't be serious. I thought all of your guys wound up dead after you fucked them, not before."

      Well, it's just that it would be a shame to waste that, is all, Ann pouted.

      You're sicker than I am, Shannon laughed.

      How do you know he's Irish? Ann asked as she set up the camera.

      The shamrock forearm tattoo, the small Mr. Dinky, the exploded capillaries in his nose, and the fact that his name is Shaughnessy.

      An Irishman who drinks? I'm shocked, Ann said as she clicked away.

      Yeah, imagine that, Shannon said, eyeing the fridge. I did pretty good myself last night. I thought my head was going to explode when I woke up.

      Why, Shannon Flynn, Ann said in mock horror. Do you mean to tell me you have a drinking problem?

      Yeah, two hands and only one mouth. Maybe I should become a professional victim and sue the beer industry.

      They'd just wiggle out of it somehow, Ann shrugged as she zoomed in on the corpse for a series of close-ups. They'd come into court and play all their public service announcements for the jury. You know, the ones where they tell you to drink responsibly.

      Yeah, right, Shannon scoffed. "The beer companies want you to drink responsibly. Like anybody believes that. They want you to regain consciousness in a parking lot at dawn in a pool of your

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