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Chapter Twenty-Seven

DETECTIVE PAIGE WALKER

“What the actual fuck?” I say.

Elijah glances up at me. “What?”

I stare at the information on the computer screen. “Katherine Tate was married before to a man named Brian Grisham. They lived in Rockstead, Maine.”

“So?” He shrugs. “Half of the world has been married more than once.”

“Her husband, Brian, was murdered in their home during a break-in. According to the police report, Katherine was stabbed and left for dead. I bet you can’t guess how many stab wounds were inflicted on her husband.” I stare at him.

“Don’t even say twenty-two.”

I slowly nod.

“So, we’re dealing with the same guy here?”

“I need to go talk to the captain.” I stand from my desk and walk into his office.

“What’s up, Walker?”

“I need to take a trip to Rockstead, Maine.”

“What for? ”

“I just found some interesting information on Katherine Tate. She used to live there with her first husband. One night, someone broke into their home, stabbed her husband twenty-two times, stabbed her, and left her for dead. It was ruled a break-in.”

“Wait a second. You’re telling me that she had two husbands who were murdered the same way? How long ago was this?” he asks.

“A few years ago.”

“So, we’re either dealing with the original Widowmaker or a copycat,” he says. “Go to Rockstead and see what you can find out.”

“Thanks, captain.”

“Make sure you stay at a cheap hotel,” he shouts as I leave his office.

After landing in Maine, I make my way to the rental car counter. With keys in hand, I hop into the compact vehicle and begin the scenic drive toward Rockstead, fifty miles from the airport. The trees on either side of the road are coated with thick snow, their branches drooping under the weight along the winding roads. This is the first time I’ve seen snow this year, for New York City hasn’t been blessed with it yet.

As I pass quaint towns and historical landmarks, I see a sign that says Welcome to Rockstead . I pull into the Rockstead Bed and Breakfast parking lot, a few miles into town.

I stare at the Victorian-style home with the blue clapboard siding and wraparound porch as I climb out of my car and grab my bag from the back seat.

“Welcome to Rockstead Bed and Breakfast. Do you have a reservation?” an older woman with gray hair in a tight bun asks.

“I do. My name is Paige Walker. ”

She types away at the keys on her computer. “Yes. Here you are. You’ll be in room ten.” She grabs the key.

The bed and breakfast is beautiful. Its space is filled with ornate wallpaper featuring intricate floral patterns in shades of gold and burgundy and antique furniture.

I follow her up the stairs as she inserts the key into the lock and pushes the door open. I walk in and look around at the mahogany dresser, velvet armchair, four-poster bed, and lace curtains that hang over the large window.

“You mentioned over the phone that you are a detective for the NYPD. Is this visit in an official matter, or are you just visiting our quiet little town?” she asks.

“I’m here on official business. There was a murder that took place here about four years ago,” I say.

“Oh, yes. It was Brian Grisham. He was a good man and didn’t deserve what happened to him. Why are you here about a murder that happened four years ago?”

“We’ve had similar murders in New York. I’m hoping to find a connection.”

“Well, I hope you catch that horrible person. Enjoy your stay, and keep warm. It’s cold out there.”

“Thank you.” I give a friendly smile.

After I settle in, I hop into my rental car and drive to the Rockstead Police Station.

“Can I help you?” A younger man behind a desk asks when he sees me.

“I’m Detective Paige Walker from the New York Police Department. I’m looking for Sheriff Strange.”

“That would be me.” He smiles and extends his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Detective Walker.”

“You can call me Paige.”

“And you can call me Lucas. Let’s go into my office.” He gestures. “Now, how can I help you?”

“There have been some murders in New York which are similar to the one you had here four years ago.”

“The Grisham case?” he asks.

“Yes. All of the victims’ homes were broken into, jewelry was stolen, and the men were murdered via twenty-two stab wounds.”

“Interesting.” He rubs his chin.

“Including Katherine Tate’s husband, Oliver. But you knew her as Katherine Grisham.”

“Katherine? She remarried?”

“She did, and her second husband was killed the same way as her first. We call the killer The Widowmaker because all of the victims have one common connection: they were all cheating on their wives.”

His brows furrow in confusion. “You think it’s the same person doing these killings?”

“I do. Do you know if Katherine’s husband, Brian, was unfaithful to her?”

“He was.” He looked down. “I just found that out a few weeks ago when I met Mark at the bar after work for a drink.”

“Mark?”

“Cindy’s husband. Mark recently found out she was having an affair with Brian. It’s been the gossip all over town.”

“You never had a suspect for Brian’s murder?” I ask.

“No. The crime scene was meticulous. The jewelry that was stolen was never pawned, either. Four years later, we still have nothing. I’ll never forget that night when I walked into that home and saw Brian lying on the floor with all those stab wounds, then when I went into the kitchen and found poor Katherine bleeding out. That girl is lucky she’s alive. ”

“Did she see or hear anything?”

“She said she couldn’t remember a thing, but that’s because of the traces of Rohypnol that were found in her blood.”

“She had Rohypnol in her system?” I furrow my brows.

“Yeah. She did. But it was strange because Brian was injected with M99. I guess the killer got spooked by something and ran out of the house before he could finish Katherine off. That poor woman.” He shakes his head. “Tragedy seems to follow her wherever she goes.”

“Where can I find this Mark guy?”

Sheriff Strange glances at his watch. “It’s after five. I’m sure he’s drinking at Rutger’s Bar up the road. It’s been his thing since he found out about Cindy’s affair.”

“Thanks. I’ll go see if he’s there.” I stand up and extend my hand. “It was nice talking to you, Lucas.”

“Same, Paige. You know where to find me if you have any more questions.”

I climb into my car and drive up the road until I see the bright flashing sign that displays Rutger’s Bar & Tavern. I walk into the dimly lit bar with faded wooden floors and walls decorated with vintage signs advertising local lobster and beer. A long, polished bar stretches across one side of the room, lined with stools and shelves of liquor bottles. Only one man is sitting at the bar, and I bet his name is Mark.

I take a seat on the stool next to him.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks.

“Whiskey. Straight. Top shelf.”

“Here you go, pretty lady.” He sets a glass down and pours some whiskey into it.

“Thanks. Excuse me? Is your name Mark?” I ask the man sitting beside me .

He turns his head and holds my gaze. “Yeah. Who’s asking?”

“Detective Paige Walker with the NYPD.” I extend my hand.

He stares at my hand momentarily, lifts his, and places it in mine. “Mark Rutkowski.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mark. You know Katherine Tate, I mean Grisham, correct?”

“Yeah. I know Katherine. Why?”

“When was the last time you spoke to her?”

“A few weeks ago, when I flew to New York.”

“You spoke to her recently?” My brows furrowed.

“Yeah. I needed to tell her about Brian’s affair with my wife.” He tips his glass to his lips and sucks down the last of his bourbon. “Greer, pour me another.”

“How did she act when you told her?”

“I guess like anyone who finds out their husband was cheating on them. She was upset, shaken.”

“So, she didn’t know about the affair before the murder took place?”

“Nope.” He shook his head.

“Would you mind if I talk to your wife?”

“Almost ex-wife.” The hurt in his eyes is undeniable. “I don’t give a shit if you talk to her. In fact, I don’t give a shit about anything to do with her anymore.”

I pull some cash from my wallet and toss it on the bar. “This is for his drinks and mine,” I tell the bartender.

“You don’t have to do that, detective,” Mark says.

“I know. I want to.” I place my hand on his shoulder. “Anyway, can I get your home address?”

He rattles it off, and I type it into my notes.

“Thank you, Mr. Rutkowski. Take care.”