Free The Scum of All Fears: Squeaky Clean Mysteries, Book 5 by Christy Barritt Page A

Ramona.”
    “You’re going to want to turn on your radio right now. Bill told me to call you. Said it was urgent. I think you’ll agree.”
    I mumbled thanks and then turned on my radio. What I heard on the airwaves made my blood pressure rise.
    “So, you’re saying you are Milton Jones, the deranged serial killer who escaped from prison?” Bill’s voice was full of disbelief.
    “That’s right. I’ve got a message I’d like for you to share.” The man claiming to be Jones had a scratchy voice. Yet there was an underlying confidence there that made nausea roil in my stomach. This was a man with a plan.
    “What’s that? You want everyone to listen to my show?” Bill obviously wasn’t taking this call too seriously. His voice lilted. Was he amused? Entertained? Maybe he just didn’t believe this was Jones.
    “I want you to tell your friends that I’m coming. I’m coming,” Jones repeated, his voice low and raspy. “You know who you are.”
    On second thought, maybe giving in to my fears and hiding away at some remote location was a good idea.
    Too bad it wasn’t an option, though.

CHAPTER 9
    Five, Six
    Getting my kicks
    As if the phone call from Milton Jones hadn’t been bad enough, the officer had found a message for me inside the crime scene. The police had come . . . again.
    We’d stayed around for the usual questioning, and then Clarice and I had made it to another crime scene. This one had no messages waiting for us. Maybe one a day was this killer’s quota.
    We’d finished that job, I’d dropped off Clarice, and I’d made it back just in time for the cookout.
    Right now, a s I stood on the lawn, I couldn’t help but put all the rhymes together in my head.
    One, Two
    I’m coming for you
    Three, Four
    I’m hungry for more
    Gabby St. Claire
    Are you ready for gore?
    Five, Six
    Getting my kicks
    How sick was this guy? What I didn’t understand was why he was leaving these messages. He’d never done something like this before. What had changed? Had he nothing better to do in prison than plot ways to torture Riley? Or was this truly a different crime? What were the odds that two killers were taunting me?
    “You okay?”
    Riley’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts. I snapped back to the present. “I’m as okay as possible, I suppose.”
    I soaked in the cookout. A ratty picnic table that had seen better days had been covered with a mauve and blue flowered tablecloth. Rose had even bought some balloons that she’d tied to the branch of a live oak, to the handle of the grill (uh, yeah, that one had to come off), and a parking meter.
    “ The police been able to trace that phone call yet?”
    Riley shook his head and flipped another burger on the grill. “Nope. It was too short. They have some equipment hooked up to Bill’s phone in case he calls again.”
    “Milton Jones will probably know that and not call back.”
    “The man could be brazen at times. He just might.”
    I turned from Riley and looked at everyone around me.
    Bill was here, of course. He was in radio talk show heaven. Suddenly, reporters from all over the country were calling him and wanting the inside scoop. This would definitely boost his show’s ratings and maybe even make people forget about that bad thing he’d said about a state senator.
    Adding to Bill’s delight was the fact that Rose was here, and she giggled at his every word. Bill was eating it up. His chest seemed more puffed up than usual.
    Mrs. Mystery had joined us, all 75 pounds of her. She sat at the wooden picnic table with her laptop, tip-tapping away at her new book. This was her idea of being social—writing with other people around her.
    I wished Sierra was here , and I couldn’t wait for her honeymoon to end so we could talk. She was a great sounding board for me. Besides, I had some questions for her about her spur-of-the-moment wedding.
    Then there was Riley and I. Riley had agreed to man the grill. Waves of heat poured from it, and the 90