CHAPTER 1
Jocelyn Whittier hadn’t realized the time. With an exaggerated sigh, she pushed her long auburn hair back behind her ear and looked at the oversized watch face on her wrist. It was after seven o’clock and way past her quitting time. Outside the window, she could see large flakes of snow whirling about, rapidly sticking to the window. The wind whistled through gaps in the ill-fitting sash frames, creating an eerie atmosphere. She remembered an earlier forecast for a blizzard and that she’d need to head home soon.
She looked around her office as she sat, her shoulders sagging. Windy Meadows, a small local senior living facility, had been a wonderful employment opportunity for her. She loved the old folks, and that made her workday go quickly and pleasantly. However, now her eyes rested on the stack of invoices, residents’ complaints, and other tasks that had been piling up due to budget cuts and lack of qualified employees.
As with most senior living facilities, lack of staffing was an issue, although she was happy to work the longer hours if it ensured the premises ran smoothly. The sea of senior faces warmed her each time she connected with them, as her long-gone parents and grandparents were fondly remembered. It was hard not to become involved in their lives, but she knew she needed to remain professional and not become too attached, although that was always hard for her. Too many of the old folks here had died, as was expected, but with each person, a little bit of her heart left with them.
She removed her reading glasses and rubbed her overworked eyes. It wasn’t so much the work that had been piling up. Something else deeply troubled her. For the past several weeks, her thoughts had been overtaken by the death of a close friend. She had tried to push her feelings deep inside by working longer hours. But it didn’t always help.
Covering her face with her hands, she felt warm tears begin to run down her face as she surrendered to loud, unabashed sobbing. She reached for a tissue and looked around to see if anyone passing by was watching her.
Two weeks ago, Allison Burke, an administrative assistant like Jocelyn, had been sexually assaulted and brutally murdered. Allison, who had been in her mid-thirties, had worked at East Lake Retirement Community, another assisted living facility. Windy Meadows, a sister community to East Lake, was owned by the same company, Diamond and Associates, located in Baltimore, Maryland. The two women had met years ago while attending functions hosted by the corporation and had immediately become friends, despite the fifteen-year age difference. They had bonded over their mutual love of animals, reading, period-themed movies, and hiking.
Windy Meadows was located in the historic town of Porter Mills, Maryland, about forty-five minutes north of downtown Baltimore. The town was nestled in one of the counties still known for its agricultural settings and its small historic towns.
Wiping away her tears, Jocelyn gathered herself, collected the folders she had been working on, and placed them in a neat stack on her desk. She got up, walked over to a filing cabinet and opened it, removing other folders that would be her tasks for the following day.
Jocelyn had been born and raised in the small town of Porter Mills and had known several of the residents, even before they had come to the Windy Meadows complex. Some lived there independently—still drove and led very active social lives—while others relied on the help provided by the staff.
But now, Allison, her close friend of almost a decade, was gone. So far, the police had no clues as to why Allison had been murdered, and worse yet, who the person was who had committed the heinous crime. All the same, it made Jocelyn fearful, and the thought of never being able to talk to her friend again tugged at her heart.
Allison had called her the night before she was murdered and said she had some interesting information regarding a resident who had once lived at East Lake but was now residing at Windy Meadows. She said she was sending over some files, and Jocelyn would soon learn the secret that had gotten Allison so flustered—and seemingly frightened, thought Jocelyn at the time, as though this information was the most monumental thing Allison had ever discovered.
Glancing again at her watch, Jocelyn closed the filing cabinet drawer. Time to leave before the blizzard got worse. Her work would have to wait until tomorrow.
Her mind returned to Allison’s enigmatic message. All Allison had sent her were some photos of people who had lived at East Lake and had since relocated to Windy Meadows, presumably because Windy Meadows was newer and had larger apartments and more activities available to the seniors. It had made no sense to Jocelyn at the time, but she assumed Allison had planned on sending her additional information on these residents but had been murdered before doing so. What was so important about these people? Jocelyn was familiar with all of them, and they were all very “vanilla.” Nothing sinister about them. Some may have been called a bit odd, but then, anyone who had lived as long as they had deserved to have certain peculiarities, didn’t they?
A noise startled her, and she jerked her head around abruptly to see what had made her jump. It sounded like something—or someone—tapping on the glass walls of her office, which looked out into the large media room of the complex.
As she turned to see what had made the noise, she laughed at her silliness. It was Sonja Fortes, one of the residents, passing by. They waved to each other, and the elderly woman walked off, her long, ill-fitting skirt dragging behind her. Residents often stopped by to chat with the staff, but this time, a dark feeling came over Jocelyn. Fear had once again enveloped her. Her stomach roiled, and her mouth went dry. She shook her head, allowed herself a small laugh, and chastised herself for being so silly. It was likely the lateness of the evening and a stomach that was screaming out for food that was getting to her. But then, she thought, why had Sonja been craning her neck as if she were trying to sneak a peek at what was on Jocelyn’s computer screen? It was an odd thing for a resident to do.
Shaking her head again to clear it, she laughed, sure it was Allison’s murder that was fogging her mind. It was late and she needed to get home to her cats. They wouldn’t be pleased if dinner was late.
Grabbing her coat, lunch tote, and a few other items she had brought in that morning, she flicked off the light and closed the door, ensuring it was locked. Just then she remembered something. Unlocking the office door again, she put her belongings on a chair and went to the coat rack. She looked fondly at the item she had almost forgotten. A white woolen scarf with crazy red and green Christmas-themed designs on it, and hemmed in fringe, was draped over one of the rack’s hooks.
Jocelyn lovingly removed it from the rack, brought it up to her nose, and inhaled deeply, the familiar smell bringing her solace. Balling the scarf into her hands she decided she’d put it on before she walked out into the storm. Allison had given her the scarf as a gag gift at the recent Diamond and Associates Christmas party. They had laughed at the silly item and planned to start an “ugly scarf party” the following year. She closed her eyes as thoughts of her friend drew a wan smile across her face.
Jocelyn fingered the material and began tearing up again, thinking of her dead friend. Probably her only real friend, she thought.
“Enough,” she said out loud, rebuking herself. Tired and wanting to get home to her cats, she picked up her belongings and exited the office, locking the door again.
She headed for the main exit, but as an afterthought, walked to the media room. In the spirit of the Christmas season, she decided to stop by there, where she knew a group had planned to congregate and watch a DVD. She would say goodnight to the seniors and maybe spend a few minutes with them. With Allison gone, these were pretty much her only friends now. And it was almost Christmas—many of these folks had children who seldom visited, so she understood their anguish.
Windy Meadows boasted a state-of-the-art media room with shelves crammed with a variety of DVDs. As it was December, the room had been ornately decorated by the residents. Santas of all shapes and sizes were placed on previously empty flat surfaces—benches, end tables, work counters, and so on. Silver tinsel shimmered as it hung from every framed picture, curtain rod, and lampshade. Four artificial Christmas trees dotted the room, all decorated differently, according to whom the tree belonged. A large menorah had been set up on one table with a dreidel lying next to it.
Jocelyn, though tired, forced a warm smile as she approached the group.
Sitting close together and holding hands were the Goldmans. Avigail Goldman leaned into her husband Herschel, her head resting on his shoulder. As they laughed at the last scene of the movie, she turned her head to look with loving eyes at Hershel. The Goldmans, a delightful couple in their mid-seventies, had been married for fifty-six years and had produced six successful children, twenty-two grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren. Jocelyn, dangerously close to fifty, had never been married, never experienced love.
Herschel was the first to see Jocelyn. “Hey, Ms. Whittier. You’re working late. Better get home before this storm gets any worse.”
A faint smile crossed Jocelyn’s lips as the group mumbled their agreement. “You’re right, Herschel,” she said, “but I just wanted to stop by and say good night to all of you. Enjoy the movie.” She began to walk away.
Sitting next to them was Elmer Yablonski. Elmer was a ladies’ man—mostly in his mind. Of course, it depended on whether the ladies found him charming or obnoxious. It usually went either way. Elmer was in his late sixties, quite a bit on the paunchy side with a thick, white mass of hair, but he did have a good sense of humor and was always jovial.
He called out to Jocelyn as she was leaving. “Ms. Whittier, come on back. We have more than enough snacks to go around.” He winked at her. “And if you get snowed in, you can always stay at my place.”
Next to Elmer was a short woman named Alivia Johnson. Alivia had lived at Windy Meadows for several years. She was as wide as she was tall and looked like a small square cube when she walked down the hallway. Currently, her entire body jiggled as she laughed at Elmer’s sad display of flirtatiousness. Her “Queen B” T-shirt clung tightly to her ample chest. The beaded braids in her hair swayed every which way, along with gold hoop earrings that dangled well past her shoulders. One hand was in a large bucket of popcorn and the other was bringing a plastic cup of soda to her lips.
Spewing popcorn from her mouth as she laughed, she leaned over to the woman sitting next to her to say something. “That man thinks he’s Romeo on steroids. Ms. Whittier’s got to be smarter than to give that man the time of day, don’t you think, Martha?” And once again, braids flying around her face, more of the popcorn flew out of her mouth.
Martha Tinsdale was a tall, elegant-looking older woman in her late seventies. Victorian in appearance, she wore a bun atop her thinning platinum hair and a lace collar around her neck. Her pale green sweater clung to a pencil-thin body. She leaned away from Alivia, as she picked up an errant kernel of uncooked yellow corn from her sweater and flicked it away. Giving Elmer a disapproving look, she hissed, “That man is an abomination. I wish he’d go live at another facility.” She readjusted herself in her chair and looked straight at the screen, ignoring Elmer’s comment.
Rufus Taylor, a very distinguished-looking man, sat comfortably in his chair, legs crossed, scratching the top of his head. Today he sported his usual attire—Dockers with a neatly pressed baby blue button-down shirt and a paisley bow tie. Jocelyn waved to the man and thought how dapper he always looked, even when playing Bingo. Rufus exhibited that gentlemanly appearance—balding head, salt and pepper mustache that made his dark, burnished-colored skin pop, and thick round glasses with no frames. And of course, always a pleasant word or two for staff and residents.
He removed his glasses, putting them neatly inside their case, and leaned back, closing his eyes. “Some of us would like to watch the movie,” said Rufus, his voice singing his words as he chided the group.
“Hey, you all started it,” said Elmer, still looking at Jocelyn, wriggling his eyebrows up and down.
Sitting by herself was Sonja Fortes. To Jocelyn, Sonja was that one person in the group who would never truly be figured out. Talk about odd, Jocelyn mused. Sonja was the poster child for odd. She was pleasant enough but kept mostly to herself and was always dressed like a bag lady. Jocelyn wanted everyone to be happy at Windy Meadows, but since most all social groups had that one peculiar member, Windy Meadows was no exception, and Jocelyn had given that moniker to Sonja.
It was not only her personality that Jocelyn found strange, but the woman dressed in such an unusual manner—skirts too long, oversized blouses, military-type shoes—and to Jocelyn, Sonja’s hair almost looked as if it were a wig instead of her own hair. But, she thought, older people did exhibit some strange proclivities in their golden years, so Sonja was just considered one of the round pegs in a square hole at Windy Meadows. Strange but harmless.
Jocelyn gave a tired smile. “I do have to get out of here,” she opined. “I just wanted to wish you all a pleasant evening and to assure you, that some of those dietary requests you submitted would be looked into.”
Positive assents followed.
Martha eyed Jocelyn up and down, and when she noticed the scarf held tightly in her hand, she leaned over to Alivia and whispered, “There’s that ugly scarf Ms. Whittier’s friend gave her. I can’t believe she’s even thinking of wearing that out in public.” She gave an imperious sniff. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in that ugly thing.”
When she looked up, Martha was irritated to see that Alivia hadn’t even been listening to her. The woman was digging deep into her popcorn, stuffing handfuls of it into her mouth.
The last person in the room was a slip of a woman. Or as Jocelyn called her behind her back, “that devil woman.” Eabha O’Clery, all the way from County Mayo, Ireland. When she had come to Windy Meadows several years ago, no one could pronounce her name when they saw it in print. That’s when Jocelyn learned that Eabha had a true Irish temper. She swore (at least Jocelyn suspected it was swearing) in Irish at anyone who couldn’t pronounce her name.
“It’s pronounced A-vah, you eejits,” she’d spat, “can’t you read?” and then would turn and stomp off.
Probably weighing less than ninety pounds altogether and a mere five feet—and a half…she always added that measurement—Eabha was a force to be reckoned with. But under it all, the eighty-year-old had a heart of gold and was generous to a fault—when she chose to be. Eabha wore no makeup but had her graying hair dyed a ferocious shade of blaze red on the first of each month, her only concession to her appearance.
Jocelyn inhaled bravely as she passed Eabha. “And good night to you, Mrs. O’Clery. I hope you sleep well.”
Jocelyn was aware of the tiny woman’s off-putting personality and did not feel insulted by either her words or actions. She plastered a smile on her face as the woman gave her a sharp nod and turned back to the screen.
The movie’s credits had ended, and Jocelyn thought it was the perfect time to leave. She waved goodnight. All of the residents reciprocated the gesture.
Before Jocelyn turned to go, Rufus went over to the DVD shelf to select the next movie. Martha excused herself from the group and went to retrieve a sweater. Herschel and Avi announced they were going to their apartment to get some more snacks. The group had hungrily demolished the cookies Avi had baked earlier. Alivia extricated herself from her chair and headed to the restroom.
Elmer offered to escort Jocelyn to the front door, and after attempting to extricate herself from Elmer’s advances, she grudgingly acquiesced.
Eabha was disgusted with the group who had talked incessantly during the entire movie, according to her. She decided to go back to her apartment. Grumbling to herself in Irish, she threw a shawl around her bony shoulders and walked away from the group.
Sonja eased herself out of her chair and decided to walk with Jocelyn and Elmer down the hall to check out the following day’s activities on the main bulletin board. Stopping at the board, she watched Elmer follow Jocelyn like an adoring puppy, down the hallway to the front entrance. She shook her head in disgust.
At the main exit, Jocelyn put her coat on and, seeing flakes of snow falling heavier now, buttoned it from top to bottom. She wrapped the gaudy Christmas scarf around her neck and stood at the door, looking out into a dark and windy night.
Elmer stopped at the entranceway.
“I’d be more than happy to walk you out to your car,” said Elmer, his eyes roaming over Jocelyn’s body.
“That’s okay, Elmer. I’ll be fine,” Jocelyn snapped.
“You sure?” Elmer put a hand on her shoulder.
Jocelyn gave Elmer a hard look and he removed it quickly. “I said I’ll be fine. Now let me go. I’ve got to make it home before the snow gets any deeper in this parking lot.” She flung open the door and rushed out.
“Okay, okay,” said Elmer to no one in particular, raising his hands.
Jocelyn turned to watch him walk back to the media room, passing by Sonja as she continued to study the board.
***
Once outside in the frigid cold, Jocelyn scurried to her car, head down, shielding her face from the snow. Fumbling around in her purse for the car keys, angry she hadn’t thought to take them out earlier, she heard footsteps approaching. She looked up with apprehension, knowing it would be the persistent Elmer.
“Oh, it’s you. You scared me for a moment there.”
The face returned a vacuous stare.
“Are you okay?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, wondering why this person she knew so well was just standing there, staring at her with dull, dark eyes, holding something metal with a wooden handle—a snow shovel, she thought.
Jocelyn looked at the object and then at the person holding it. In an instant, it came to her. This person was there to harm her!
But before she could let out a scream, she watched in horror as the object was drawn high over her head. Her eyes followed the movement in slow motion. She raised her hands in an attempt to shield herself. It was almost as though she could feel the pain before the object even hit her head.
There was a cracking sound, like a rock being split in two, and then a whooshing inside her skull, followed by blinding pain.
Stunned into silence, she collapsed to the ground into a lifeless heap.
She found herself slipping toward unconsciousness, but not before she felt the buttons being ripped from her coat, each one making a loud, popping sound, exposing her body to the frigid weather. She felt her dress being yanked above her waist and a heavy body pressing down on her, cold hands running up and down a thigh.
After what seemed like hours, hands roughly pulled her dress back down over her legs. Jocelyn thought the attack was now over, and she’d be left there in the snow, damaged, but alive.
How wrong she was.
Dazed, unconsciousness becoming more and more appealing, Jocelyn thought she might be able to make another attempt at a plea for help, but her eyes followed hands that were now gripping the Christmas scarf wrapped around her neck. Her attacker fingered the scarf for a moment and then yanked it roughly from around her, causing the rough wool to chafe her skin.
She saw the person wipe their hands on the scarf, and she knew they were cleaning up after—
She blocked that thought from her mind completely.
Fear stifled any attempts at a scream. Suddenly, she froze. The attacker reached into a jacket pocket with a gloved hand and pulled out a spool of fishing line. Again, she tried to scream, but all that came out was a weak croak.
She felt the fishing line being wrapped around her bare neck and knew there was now no chance of survival. The pain intensified as the line was tightened slowly around her neck, tighter and tighter until, finally, she slipped into blissful stupefaction, snowflakes falling faster onto eyes that were now open and staring silently into the night.
The line was loosened a bit, and her eyelids flickered. She gasped for air, thankful for the ability to breathe again. The attacker’s head tilted, like a dog, and stared down at Jocelyn, almost with pity. She saw the person she had known so well peering back at her, teeth yellowed and disgusting, pulled into a sardonic leer.
Fully aware now of her impending death, she let out a gurgled noise and rallied long enough to attempt scratching at the face that was inches from hers, fetid breath assailing her nostrils: however, she was unable to make the reach. The fishing line continued to tighten ever so slowly once again, and the gurgling sound stopped as Jocelyn frantically tried to grab at the hands working hard to end her.
The pressure around her neck tightened. She made one last weak attempt to claw at the figure huddled over her but to no avail.
She stared at the face that was slowly taking her life, her eyes rolling back in her head, her tongue lolling out of her mouth.
She expired right there in the parking lot of Windy Meadows Retirement Community. Her last thought was wondering who would feed her cats.
***
The man stood up, eyes tightly pressed together in pleasure, inhaling deeply, satisfied the woman was now dead. Reaching into the jacket again and pulling out a pocketknife, the murderer cut the fishing line from around Jocelyn’s neck. How he had loved using fishing line. He had used it before, and it had always come through for him. The line was hard to cut, and the more he cut the more the knife dug into Jocelyn’s neck, causing drops of blood to fall onto the snow-covered sidewalk.
The killer took what he could of the fishing line—no evidence to be left here—then stood, straddling the limp body. He had done his best to keep the woman from scratching him, so the cops wouldn’t be able to get anything from under her fingernails. As an afterthought, he bent down and picked up the loose buttons from the woman’s coat and shoved them into a pocket.
Panting hard, he looked down at a pair of shaking hands and saw they were smeared in the woman’s blood. Thinking fast, he grabbed the Christmas scarf that had been cast aside, and Jocelyn’s blood was cleaned off the murderous hands.
Hearing voices coming from somewhere around the parking lot, the killer threw the shovel into some nearby bushes and quickly dragged the body in between two parked cars. He ran in a panic toward the front entranceway and ducked inside for cover, sliding over icy patches, spooked. There had been nowhere else he could have gone without being discovered.
He waited several minutes, hoping the voices, muffled by the silence of the snow, had come from further away and no one would be close enough to stumble across the dead woman.
Still panting, he put his hand over his heart, as if to slow the beating down. His body heat was so intense he had to unbutton his heavy jacket to let the cool air in, never noticing that the scarf had slipped to the floor as he flapped the sides of the coat to create a welcoming breeze.
Closing his eyes, his mind raced with the deliciousness of the act he had just committed. His adrenaline surged from the fear of getting caught, making him feel alive.
His heart was still pounding but at a slower pace. He opened the glass door several inches and strained to hear if the voices were as close by as he had thought. He could hear nothing but the deadening sound of silence and some cars off in the distance. The voices hadn’t come from the facility’s parking lot after all. Rubbing his eyes, his heart continued to slow. Opening the door wider, he ran out into the stormy night.
