Watson Falls - A Small Town with a Deadly Secret: Mack Peters Mysteries

By Morgan St. James

Mack Peters enjoys the good life now, but it always wasn't that way. Twelve years before tragedy struck on a lovely Sunday morning as Mack and his father, Beverly Hills Police Chief Bill Watson, finished their breakfast on the patio of a Beverly Hills restaurant.  At the time Mack was a member of the LAPD. In his quest for peace of mind he resigned from the LAPD and backpacked through Europe for an extended time. 
   After Mack returned to the States, the former LA cop struck it rich when he came up with an ingenuous idea that gave him a lot of free time and produced millions of dollars. If asked what he does for a living, he says with a smile, "I go to my mailbox and collect checks."
With a thriving business that practically runs itself, he has the luxury of being able to take off on trips when the spirit moves him. His friends Marcie and Kurt Conklin suggested that he visit a quaint town in Washington State called Leavenworth, and it wasn't hard to persuade him. But they had an ulterior motive—a motive that resulted him agreeing to help one of their friends track down her missing sister. That led him to the remote small town of Watson Falls and a situation and people more deadly than he could have ever imagined.

***

The morning after his latest nightmare, Mack's mind was made up. Instead of putting on his uniform, he dressed carefully in khakis and a cream-colored knit shirt, shaved and ran a brush through his thick sun-streaked hair. He fixed on his image in the mirror above the double sinks. Strong chin—his father's chin—straight nose, a face that could only be described as handsome. However, the hazel eyes that stared back at him had a haunting air of sad determination. They seemed to shout, "I just can't do it anymore!"

When he arrived at the station that morning, he waved aside questions about his lack of uniform and strode directly to Administration, where he requested a Resignation Form 01.50.00. He filled it in, then submitted it to his commanding officer who would, in turn, give it to the Chief of Police for approval. There was no turning back. With that action, Mack walked away from the life he had dreamed of since he was a kid.

The night before he had stared at the ceiling for a few hours while waiting for dawn, unable to go back to sleep. Some people count sheep. He relived early memories of watching his father rise from detective up through the ranks to Chief of Police, dedicated to keeping his city safe. He always pictured himself doing the same thing, but in those black pre-dawn hours he faced the realization that it wasn't going to happen. Not now. Not ever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marina Publishing Group
• Release date: Sep 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393727729

Morgan St. James

Morgan St. James is an award-winning author with fifteen published books to her credit.  In addition to books she has written on her own, Morgan’s funny crime capers in the comical Silver Sisters Mysteries series are co-authored with her real-life sister, Phyllice Bradner. More information about Morgan and all of her books, can be found on the My Books page on her website. St. James has written over 600 published articles related to writing and frequently presents workshops, appears on author’s panels and radio or TV shows. The columns inspired her book Writers Tricks of the Trade as well as a quarterly online magazine of the same name. She lives in Las Vegas NV with her husband and dog Dylan.

Book preview

1

Mack

On a spring morning in 2008 Mack Peters chose a table in a shaded part of the patio at Rick’s Cafe on south Beverly Drive. It was a rare occasion when he could enjoy an early morning breakfast with his father, Beverly Hills Police Chief Bill Peters. He took a bite of his omelet, then leaned his six-foot-three frame back in the metal armchair and stretched his long legs.

Hey, Dad, this is one of those days that just can’t get any better, isn’t it? Beautiful weather, great food, but most of all a chance to spend time together..

A warm breeze ruffled Chief Peters’ unruly head of steel gray hair and he raked his fingers through it in a combing motion. You bet, Son. We have to make time to do it more often. Damn case kept me so tied up, but at last it’s over. With the side of his fork he cut a bite-size portion of a pancake dripping with thick syrup and raised it to his mouth.

I say we quit talking about doing it and just do it, Pop and— Mack stopped mid-sentence and pointed across the street. Holy shit! Look at that.

Chief Peters adjusted his glasses, and focused on a striking woman with her sexy body wrapped in a skintight fluorescent green spandex getup that almost looked painted on. She zoomed along effortlessly on inline skates, pulled by a shaggy white dog the size of a small horse. Her long jet-black hair fanned out behind her, lifted by the breeze.

What the hell is that thing pulling her? Mack said. Wait a minute. Isn’t that Angelina LaPorte? Sure looks just like her.

Bill chuckled. "That, my son, is a Great Pyrenees Mountain Dog. They’re related to St. Bernards, and I think you’re right about that being Angelina. I’m a big fan of hers. Did you see Murder by Design? She was great in it. He laughed again. One thing’s for sure. You’d never see a sight like that in places like Milwaukee or Oklahoma City. No wonder they call this LaLa Land."

"Yeah, this is the land of wackos and strange sights. She’s mild, though. Now that I’m out on Metro patrol, I see some pretty weird stuff. Still, I have to admit she’s a winner with those skates, that body and that monster of a dog."

His father nodded. Yep, a body most women would give a fortune for, and probably do if they can afford the nips and tucks and implants. I’ll bet between LA and Beverly Hills, we have the wealthiest plastic surgeons in the nation.

Yeah, that, too. Damn. I should have grabbed my cell phone and taken a video or stills. I could have been like a paparazzo and sold it to a tabloid for the big bucks.

The police chief let out a loud guffaw. Of course you couldn’t have used your own name, you know—after all, you are a police chief’s son.

Mack took another sip of coffee, delighted to be able to spend Sunday morning with his father. It had been a long time since they’d been able to steal a few hours together to just yak about guy things. Reluctant to say goodbye, they lingered over the last remnants of breakfast. Bill had been tied up for months on the case of the Beverly Hills Strangler. The serial killer had terrorized the affluent community in his town, but on that perfect Sunday morning in early spring it was just the two of them sitting there having breakfast and trading stories.

Determined to follow in his father’s footsteps in law enforcement, Mack had been on the LAPD a little more than two years. Originally he thought he would become a lawyer, but in his third year of college he had announced his intent to drop out and take the exam for the LAPD. Bill tried to dissuade him from leaving school, but when he saw his son’s mind was made up, he suggested that Mack apply to Beverly Hills. Determined to rise in the ranks using his own talents—not his father’s name—Mack applied to the LAPD instead.

So, the Chief said as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the polished gray concrete table, when the verdict came back guilty at that scumbag’s trial, I felt like standing up and applauding. I don’t have to tell you that you never know which way it will go, but this time justice was done. My God, they found him guilty in less time than it takes to bar-b-que a steak. My city is safe again, at least from him.

Mack grinned at his father, near hero worship lighting his face. Don’t be so modest, Pop. Your insistence about keeping the chain of evidence clean played a big part in him getting the death penalty. No O.J. fiasco for you. And that District Attorney. Wow, what a powerful case he presented. Frankly, I don’t think the jury could have ruled any other way in good conscience.

They high fived each other.

More coffee, Chief? The lively auburn-haired waitress made her way to their table, holding a carafe aloft.

Bill put his hand over his cup. Not for me, Betsy or I’ll float out of here. How about you, Son?

Mack’s answer was wiped out by heavy metal music blasting from a BMW convertible as it cruised Beverly Drive with its top down. The vibrations were so intense, the front windows of the restaurant actually seemed to rattle.

Bill’s eyes flashed. Damn those idiots. Do they think they’re the only people around? If I was still a street cop, I’d have ticketed them.

Less than a heartbeat later, a black Hummer with blacked-out windows raced down the street. A window on the passenger side lowered, and a hail of bullets peppered the patio. It sped past before anyone could react or even catch a license plate number. Stunned diners watched in disbelief as the Beverly Hills Police Chief fell off his chair and lay on the ground in a pool of blood. Part of his head was missing. Betsy sprawled across him. She wasn’t going to be pouring any more coffee.

One of the bullets grazed Mack’s shoulder, but other than that he was unscathed.

2

Nightmares

Mack’s screams filled the dark room just as they had for the past two years. He sprang up in bed, heart pounding, his body slicked with a cold sweat. Time is supposed to be a great healer, but as time went by, the nightmares only got more intense. That vision of his father falling to the ground as his head exploded always happened in slow motion. In the nightmare, Betsy staggered, then fell on top of Bill with the pool of blood beneath them expanding to cover the whole patio. It always ended with him screaming, then realizing it was a dream.

Upon learning her husband was dead, his mother suffered a stroke on that awful day, and collapsed in Mack’s arms. She never recovered. Following an agonizing year on life support, Melinda Peters was laid to rest beside her husband. Mack, an only child, was left without family, missing his parents more every day and reliving the horror of his father’s murder every night.

He had resisted seeing a psychiatrist and didn’t tell anyone about the torture his nights had become. Every day he put on his uniform and reported for duty as though he was coping with it. But enough is enough. The morning after his latest nightmare, his mind was made up. Instead of putting on his uniform, he dressed carefully in khakis and a cream-colored knit shirt, shaved and ran a brush through his thick sun-streaked hair. He fixed on his image in the mirror above the double sinks. Strong chin—his father’s chin—straight nose, a face that could only be described as handsome. However, the hazel eyes that stared back at him had a haunting air of sad determination. They seemed to shout, I just can’t do it anymore!

When he arrived at the station that morning, he waved aside questions about his lack of uniform and strode directly to Administration, where he requested a Resignation Form 01.50.00. He filled it in, then submitted it to his commanding officer who would, in turn, give it to the Chief of Police for approval. There was no turning back. With that action, Mack walked away from the life he had dreamed of since he was a kid.

The night before he had stared at the ceiling for a few hours while waiting for dawn, unable to go back to sleep. Some people count sheep. He relived early memories of watching his father rise from detective up through the ranks to Chief of Police, dedicated to keeping his city safe. He always pictured himself doing the same thing, but in those black pre-dawn hours he faced the realization that it wasn’t going to happen. Not now. Not ever. Not with two parents in the grave and him helpless to do anything to catch the person or people responsible.

There had been little progress in finding the killers to date, despite an intense investigation. It was as though the Hummer had vanished into thin air along with the animals who pulled the trigger.

Two years passed without anything that qualified as a solid lead. Only recently it had finally been confirmed that it was not a random drive-by. Bill was the target as surely as if a red bullseye had been painted on his forehead. New evidence surfaced confirming the Strangler hadn’t worked alone. Speculation was that his partner was the one who killed the Chief in a fit of revenge. That was as far as it went. There wasn’t one clue to lead them to the mysterious possible partner. Not one.

Over the next few weeks Mack applied for a passport and drained his personal savings account, careful not to touch the investments he had made with his father’s insurance money. After sorting through everything he owned, he put whatever possessions he decided to keep in a public storage unit on Olympic Boulevard. Boxes stacked shoulder high against the gray concrete walls plus a few pieces of furniture in the middle completely filled the space. He paid for a year in advance. The week before, he had given notice on the townhouse he leased in Westwood.

Not only did he know he had to get out of the police department—he needed to get out of California—out of the country if he was ever to begin healing.

The urge to get away from everything grew stronger and stronger after Melinda Peters followed her husband in death. That loss, compounded by the failure to find those responsible for his father’s murder, meant the time had come.

A WEEK AFTER RECEIVING his passport, Mack booked a flight to London—the starting point of an extended backpacking trip through Europe. Maybe by traveling around by himself with nothing but his thoughts for company, he would finally be able to get his head together. He carried what little he needed in his pack. All he wanted was the peace he couldn’t seem to find.

Over the next several months, having rejected any thoughts of a fixed schedule, Mack spent time in France, Spain and Portugal wandering from city to city, staying only until he got bored, then he moved on to the next destination. About six months after leaving the United States he arrived in Amsterdam. Although the inner anger still ate away at him, it was nowhere near as intense as it had been.

Everywhere he went—whether city, town or village—it seemed shops sold tee shirts and souvenirs with the saying The World’s Greatest Little City, plus the name of the city.

His second morning in Amsterdam he wandered through Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum on Dam Square, then walked around the area until he ventured into a souvenir shop. It didn’t surprise him to see that one of the displays was yet another array of tee shirts, this time with the phrase Amsterdam—The World’s Greatest Little City.

While he browsed through stacks of shirts, a young salesman approached him.

You wish me to show you one of these shirts? he asked in almost perfect English.

Mack pointed to a light blue t-shirt. Do you have that in a large? By the way, is every city in Europe the world’s greatest little city? I’ve seen these everywhere, even in big cities.

Handing him the shirt, the young man laughed. Not only the tee shirts, but everything else. He pointed to displays of baseball caps, hoodies, decorative plates and more, all bearing the same phrase. Did you not notice it is the same in your country? I was making a trip to New York, Boston and Philadelphia last year. For every one of those cities, I have such a shirt.

What the hell, he thought, and bought the one with Amsterdam—The World’s Greatest Little City emblazoned in bold print over the image of a windmill.

He paid with a credit card and the young man put his purchase in a bag bearing the name of the shop. By the way, Mack said, I guess it’s obvious that I’m a tourist. I just arrived in Amsterdam this morning. I wonder if you can suggest some sights I shouldn’t miss?

The young man tapped his chin with his index finger. Let me see. It is a bit commercial, but do take the tour to the windmills at Zaanse Schans. I think it is like, how do you say—an open-air museum. The various windmills they have moved there actually work. You will see a sawmill, paint mill, oil mill and mustard mill. You will find many photos to be had.

That sounds interesting. How do I get there?

Um, if you do not have an auto, I suggest the tour bureau around the corner. They are good and honest.

He thanked the young man and walked to the corner then turned up the side street. The sign above the second shop read  Holland’s Best Tours. After he booked the tour to Zaanse Schans, the agent added, You must see Keukenhoff Gardens, as well. It is the right season and you will truly find it one of the most beautiful spots in the world.

Images of the acres of unparalleled floral displays he had seen on calendars flashed in his mind. Yes, Keukenhoff was a must.

The agent continued his sales pitch while handing Mack the tour tickets and instructions of where and when to board the bus. Also, I think you will find interesting the miniature cities of Madurodam, a tourist attraction in the Scheveningen district of The Hague. There you will see scale model replicas of famous Dutch landmarks, historical cities and large developments so perfect they look like the real ones, but the buildings only come up to here. He indicated his upper thigh.

It is not that far from here. You can rent an auto or take a tour. It is good for the little children, but it is a fascination for the big children also. Smiling at his attempt at a joke, he looked the tall, handsome man up and down. I do not think you have a problem with ladies, but still, you must also visit what is called the Red-Light District.

Mack said he would think about those suggestions, took his tour packet and thanked the agent. Back on the Square, he was almost run over by bicycles. They owned the streets and he was sure he had never seen so many people using two-wheeled transportation anywhere else. His spirit was beginning to awaken. He actually felt a stir of emotion as he walked from the Square to the Pulitzer Hotel on Prinsengracht Canal. It was comprised of twenty-five connected houses dating back to the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. This city was arousing something in him that he thought had died.

Mack loved being in Amsterdam with everything from houseboats on canals to brothels, sex shops, museums and a thriving diamond industry. When he ventured into the famous Amsterdam Red Light District that night, women of all nationalities, ages and body shapes displayed their wares in red-fringed parlor windows, some partially dressed—some completely nude. They posed in the windows like dolls for sale in a toy store, but these dolls were ready to offer far more than a schoolboy peepshow in their private rooms. He wasn’t in the mood to buy.

3

Mack

By the beginning of October, Mack decided it was time to move on. He took a train from Amsterdam Centraal to Oberhausen Hauptbahnhof, where he boarded the train to Prague and splurged on a deluxe sleeper compartment that even had a private toilet and shower, which he utilized the next morning. He arrived in Prague completely refreshed. After finding a reasonable hotel, he decided to walk around the city.

He had not expected the mornings and evenings to be so chilly. Autumn breezes added to the pre-winter nip in the air, and there was sunshine only about four hours every day. It was time to add a warm jacket to his sparse wardrobe.

Stopping at the desk on his way out of the hotel, he said, Excuse me. It is so much colder than I expected. I need to buy a warm jacket. Can you make a suggestion?

The clerk thought for a moment, then said, It is the Palladium, I think you must visit. A large shopping mall in the center of Prague. With more than one hundred-fifty shops, it is certain you will find what you are looking for. He reached below the desk and withdrew a map and a marker. Here. I shall mark the route for you. It is not a long walk.

After checking out a few of the shops, Mack selected a stylish tan waterproof parka. On a whim he also bought a white hooded sweatshirt with Prague—The World’s Greatest Little City splashed across the front.

While ringing up his purchases, the shop girl joked in English, So, it looks like you are making a collection. Where will you next buy one of these greatest city garments?

He realized he was wearing the blue Amsterdam t-shirt.

Smiling, he said, Yes, that’s what I’m doing—starting a collection. It seems they have these in every city, but I’m not sure which city is the greatest. Is it Prague?

She was a beautiful girl with sleek blonde hair and seductive china blue eyes. Her face lit with a suggestive smile. I am Anika. It is possible I could show you around when I am not working tomorrow. You are a tourist, no? So you can decide for yourself.

Mack hadn’t hesitated. She was tall, about five foot ten, with a very shapely figure and that long blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders in shiny waves. She was definitely sexy.

She held his gaze with those clear china blue eyes.

You are taking me up on my offer? she said, giving him a flirtatious smile. He figured her to be in her early twenties. 

He nodded and gave her the name of his hotel. If you are able to come as early as nine o’clock, I will treat you to breakfast. I’m not sure how long I’ll stay in Prague, and it sounds like you have a lot to show me.

She met him right at nine the next morning and they spent an entire day sightseeing. First they walked across the Charles Bridge famous for its many fine old statues, followed by a visit to Old Town, home to the wonderful 15th-century Astronomical Clock.

Anika said, Each hour, this clock springs to life. The twelve Apostles and other figures appear and they parade in procession across the clock face. It is quite wonderful to watch. She glanced at her watch. Be prepared, the next one is in only seven minutes.

As Mack admired the impressive and beautifully ornate astronomical dial, Anika added, What you see are representations of, um—how do you say it? Oh yes, the position of the sun and moon in the sky and other astronomical details. It is truly one of our treasures, and it’s over six-hundred years old.

She showed him the Gothic doorway leading to the Old Town Hall’s splendid interior with its art exhibits and displays. They even climbed the stairs to the top of the Old Town Hall Tower to admire its fine views over Prague. Before lunch, they visited a chapel built in 1381, as well as an old prison.

For the first time in a long time, he felt light and carefree. Her laughter was like a bubbling fountain, her delight in her city