Boston Cream Killer: Book 8 in The INNcredibly Sweet Series (10 page)

“What makes you so convinced that this has something to do with what she was working on?” he hedged.

“Maybe because she had no social life, few friends, and lots of enemies who were the victims of her stories?” Izzy folded her arms and waited.

“This one was big,” Binks sighed, giving in. “You ever hear of Beckett Holdings Corp.?”

“No,” Izzy shook her head, playing dumb.

“Well, they’re a huge international conglomerate that is rumored to have ties to several world governments, including ours. Hannah had been trying to dig around for dirt on them for years, and had finally found something which seemed to indicate that the Becketts had gotten themselves mixed up with some less than savory characters, who were planning to use their new association to do some very dangerous things,” he explained.

“What kinds of dangerous things? Arms dealing? Nukes? What?” Izzy asked, trying hard to breathe normally. Missy and Chas were such sweet people; it was nearly impossible to imagine that they were somehow associated with international bad guys.

Binks shrugged. “She didn’t say. She mentioned that the Beckett family seems to employ an army of personal security guards, real James Bond types who just take care of things and make difficult situations disappear. I don’t know how she found any of that out, and I don’t know who else knows what she knows. She went to Florida because Charles Beckett, the board president, lives there. He keeps a low profile apparently, and isn’t involved in the day-to-day operations, but she couldn’t get past security for the rest of the family in New York, so she was going to try to get to the more approachable Beckett.”

“But didn’t he have a security guard?” she asked, her heart in her throat.

“Hard to say. She was going down there to see what she could find out, and with what happened, I gotta think that she may have found out too much,” he stared at his desk and shook his head. “She was one of the best.”

Izzy didn’t know what to say. She certainly didn’t have any love for Hannah Folsom, but she wasn’t so insensitive to think that Binks would be unaffected. He and Hannah had worked together for years, and were the team who had made
NYC Reveal
rise through the ranks in a tough news and sensationalism market.

“Who do you think—?” she couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Well, either someone from Beckett Holdings found out what she was doing and silenced her, because she could’ve ruined their reputation, or the international criminals that she was trying to find got to her.”

Izzy swallowed hard, putting herself in the reporter’s shoes and feeling terrified. The intercom on Binks’s desk buzzed, and Elena’s hesitant voice came through the speaker.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt, Mr. McDermott, but… there are some detectives here to see you,” she announced.

“Hold on just a moment, Elena,” he replied, pressing the mute button and turning to Izzy.

“I’m guessing you’d rather slip out the back way?” he asked, seeming closer to human than she’d ever seen him.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Out this door, go to the end of the hall and down the stairs on the left. You can catch the elevator on the next level,” he advised, as Izzy gathered her purse and headed for the door.

“I’ll find out what I can,” she promised, hurrying out.

“Thanks, kid,” Binks said. He let his finger off of the mute button. “I’ll be up there in a moment,” he told Elena, buying time for Izzy to disappear.

Izzy shook off a serious case of the heebie jeebies by going shopping in the city and indulging in meals unlike anything that she could get in Florida. Her mind felt as though it was zipping around in circles, turning the Beckett mystery and Hannah’s death over and over, trying to figure out her next step.

She trod wearily into her hotel, her brain still spinning a mile a minute and her body craving rest. Her plans for the evening included a bath, room service, and whatever happened to be playing on the movie channel. She was going to shove all thoughts of Hannah Folsom, Spencer, the Becketts, and everything else that was stressing her out, out of her mind and just chill, so that she could be refreshed and renewed for whatever she needed to do the next day.

Stopping at the front desk, she placed a huge order for room service, which included designer peppered parmesan popcorn and two different kinds of candy to eat during the movies. Leaning back against the wall of the elevator while the attendant pushed the button for the penthouse, Izzy closed her eyes until she felt the velvet and marble-lined box glide to a stop. The attendant followed her out, carrying her purchases in white gloved hands, standing behind her while she touched her card to the pad next to the door.

“Just set them over there,” she instructed, pointing to a console in the foyer, while digging in her purse for a tip. “There you are,” she handed a twenty to the man, knowing that a significant portion of his income came from tips.

He took the bill, pocketed it, and, rather than leaving, smiled and moved toward her, his hand stuck out to shake. Thinking it a bit odd, Izzy placed her delicate hand in his and was startled when he pulled her to him in a flash, twisting her arm behind her back and clapping a huge hand over her mouth and nose, making it difficult to breathe. He repositioned the hand, pulling upward on her arm to keep her immobile, and she stomped on his foot, trying to distract him. Her sensible walking shoes had no effect on him, and he effectively clamped her mouth and nose shut.

Chest burning with lack of air, Izzy struggled, despite the pain that ripped through the muscles in her arm. Her vision started greying around the edges, and she fought impotently against the much larger man, eventually succumbing to the darkness.

Spencer Bengal looked incredibly handsome and extremely dangerous, sitting across the desk from Chalmers in the elderly man’s study. The Marine was dressed in a close-fitting black tee shirt and black cargo pants tucked into combat boots. He was heavily armed, and the expression on his face was grim.

“What do we know?” he asked his boss and mentor.

Chalmers clasped his hands together on top of the desk.

“We still haven’t been able to establish precisely who made the attempt on my life a few weeks ago,” the elderly man sighed. “Although we’ve been able to narrow it down a bit. There were a couple of transactions recently that seem to have slipped through without my notice. They were traced to an account in the Cayman Islands, and there was an order placed for delivery to the United Arab Emirates.”

Spencer drew in a deep breath and sighed. “Hackers?” he asked.

“Most likely,” Chalmers nodded, his expression grave.

“Were you able to tie any names to the Cayman account?”

“Not yet, but our source says that it looks like it was established from the UK.”

Light dawned in Spencer’s eyes. “I bet that this happened when Reginald was in Monaco. He was keeping company with an impoverished earl, from England, and had plenty of opportunity to leak confidential information that may have allowed the earl to have someone hack in to our system.”

Chas’s brother Reginald was an international playboy, whom Chalmers had to keep on a tight leash. Their father had made arrangements in his will for his manservant to maintain control over a portion of Reggie’s finances, doling out a generous allowance on a regular basis, but denying the footloose and fancy-free younger Beckett any chance to put the family business or its assets at risk. Reggie had been pushing the elderly man to give him more access to Beckett Holdings information, and might have inadvertently created a dangerous alliance.

“The jet can be fueled up in an hour,” Chalmers said, nodding.

He’d suspected a few weeks ago that Reggie’s antics in Monaco, and his instant friendship with Wendell Shropshire, Earl of Halsbury, might have created the situation which prompted someone to attempt to kill him, and the suspicion had been percolating ever since. Sending Spencer, his top man, to England for a special chat with the earl might just help clear up quite a few things, including the death of the reporter in Calgon. Chalmers had worked too long and too hard to let the Beckett tradition be tarnished by the tomfoolery of scoundrels.

“What’s the status on security for Chas and Missy?” the Marine asked.

“Paddy has been dispatched, as well as a handful of others who will be stationed strategically around the police station and other areas they frequent.”

Spencer nodded his approval. “Paddy is a good guy, and they already know him, so that’s a good choice. How strongly can we trust the others?”

Patrick “Paddy” Wellsley was a flame-haired Irishman who had gone through his initial training shortly after Spencer joined the covert security detail at Beckett Holdings, and the Marine had gotten to know him well. When Spencer had been tasked with accompanying Chas in tracking down his brother, Reggie, in Monaco, he’d assigned Paddy to keep watch over Missy in their absence. The young man had handled some sticky situations when Missy’s life was threatened with swift and decisive maturity, exactly as Spencer had predicted he would.

“I handpicked the others as well. I’m well aware of the potential for danger in Calgon at the moment,” Chalmers replied.

“Of course, I understand. I just…”

“I know,” the elderly man smiled kindly. “You’re family now, it’s different.”

Spencer gave a curt nod, uncomfortable with the way that this strategic meeting was rapidly turning personal. He had a job to do, he couldn’t allow himself to be distracted by emotion. Chas and Missy had accepted the young Marine veteran without question, opening their home to him and trusting him to take care of their inn and anything else that needed it. He had worked for them for several months before Chas found out that he was actually planted there by Chalmers to watch over the Beckett heir. Missy still didn’t know, and they wanted to keep it that way. The couple had become family to the battle-scarred and life-hardened young man, and he’d literally give his life to protect them.

“I’ll check in with Paddy when I can, while I’m out of the country,” he assured Chalmers, rising to go.

“I expected you would,” he replied with a knowing smile. “Safe travels, my boy,” he rose slowly, bracing himself on the arms of the chair as his blue-veined hand was engulfed by Spencer’s younger, brawnier one in a firm handshake.

***

Spencer leaned his head back against the seat in the Beckett jet. It would be a long flight to London, where he’d pick up a car and get settled into the nondescript cottage in the English countryside that would be his home while he investigated the Earl of Halsbury. He and Chas had had a confrontation with the weak and greedy little man after the earl and Reggie had spent a couple of weeks of pure debauchery, drinking and gambling with glorious abandon in Monaco.

The earl was spineless, amoral, and willing to do just about anything to replenish the fortune that he’d lost through gambling and loose living. The family castle was dank and cold because he couldn’t afford to heat it, so Wendell Shropshire spent most of his days drinking in front of the fireplace, and he’d been able to retain only one member of the household staff, his manservant Kosta.

The earl had met Reginald Beckett, a wealthy young lad whose personal habits for recreation were well in keeping with his own, and had seen dollar signs written all over him. He’d convinced Reggie to rent a yacht for a week, where they’d entertained all manner of beautiful young women, and the duo had spent many hours in the casinos of Monaco, Reggie’s money slipping through their fingers like water.

On one particularly scotch-soaked evening, the crafty earl had convinced his partner in crime to sign a contract on behalf of Beckett Holdings Corp. No one quite knew what was in the contract, certainly not Reggie, who had barely been able to see the wording when he signed it, but after a visit from Chas and Spencer, Wendell had reluctantly agreed not to hold the younger Beckett to it. And now Spencer was back again to determine if Shropshire had been behind the questionable transactions and the murder of Hannah Folsom.

After securing his luggage in the very spare English cottage, Spencer climbed into an equally nondescript beige sedan and headed for Shropshire Castle. Since the Marine had been there once already, weeks ago, it was much easier to find the entrance road to the property, despite the fact that it had been overgrown with grasses, young trees, and vines which threatened to overcome it. Apparently Kosta, the earl’s manservant, didn’t do yard work, a concept which the Marine found to be offensive. He kept the grounds around the inn and cupcake shop immaculate.

He parked the car and lifted the heavy iron knocker on the front door, letting it slam loudly back in place several times.

“I swear to you, Kosta, if I hear that knocker one more time,” Spencer heard the earl bellowing at his servant a moment before the door swung open.

The swarthy man standing behind it stared coldly at Spencer, recognizing him, but saying nothing for a moment.

“What you want?” he asked, his accent heavy.

“I need to talk to your boss again,” Spencer said mildly, staring him down, powerful arms crossed over his chest.

“He’s not here,” Kosta lied, starting to shut the door.

“Okay, we do it the hard way, your choice,” Spencer shoved the dense wooden door open, shouldering his way through despite the servant’s efforts to keep him out.