by Jill Winters
"Sure," Gretchen said, following him.
He held his hand out for her to go first; once he crossed the threshold, he quietly clicked the door closed behind him. She went to take a seat at the chair beside his desk when he said, "No, that won't be necessary."
Curiously, she turned around. There was something different about Abe's expression. It was still a veneer of civility, but it seemed... colder somehow. Calmly, he walked closer to her. "Gretchen, I want you to know that I really like you. You're bright, you're highly capable, and you seem to be the only person who can work well with Susanna, calm her nerves, and give her some" —he paused to choose his word—"stability."
"Thank you," she said, a little tentatively because she didn't understand why he was walking closer and why he'd told her not to sit down. But she didn't want to be all weird about it by backing up. Biting her lip, she said, "Speaking of Susanna, I didn't realize her birthday was coming up..."
"It's not," he said simply. "I just said that to get you here." A lump formed in her throat. Oh, no—was he making a pass at her? No, Abe was too much of a gentleman for that. And what about Ellie?
"I—I don't understand," she said, forcing a pleasant if faint smile.
"Gretchen, I think you're wonderful," he said, his voice flat as though it were filled with resignation. Like he didn't want to feel this way...
Dear God. He'd fallen for her! How awkward. (Yet totally ego boosting—who said she needed to lose ten pounds?)
"Abe... um... what about Ellie?" she said, forming the words delicately, not wanting to presume too much, but not wanting to dance around it, either.
"Ellie?" he repeated, his lips curling slightly and not in a good way. "What about her?"
"Well, don't you and she have something going?"
Abe's lips slanted distastefully in a response that was both automatic and fleeting. Flatly, he said, "Ellie's just another amoral city girl—nothing special there."
"But—"
"Ellie's irrelevant," he interrupted sharply, then murmured, "and that's putting it mildly." Gretchen's mouth dropped. Even though his words were jarring, his tone was bland. It was the first time she'd heard Abe's mild, honeyed Southern accent lose its sweet curvature. Now it flirted with a bitter edge. And she couldn't help thinking, Where is Abe? Considerate and polite—polished and diplomatic? The man standing before her wasn't him.
"The point is, I don't want to do what I'm about to do, but I don't have a choice." He looked up and around as if grappling to find some meaning. "I suppose I feel guilty. I know it will pass, and maybe it doesn't even make a difference, since you're going to die anyway, but—"
Die? I'm going to die? Her pulse raced as he walked closer; now she started to back up. Suddenly she could barely breathe. Her chest was too tight and she had a golf ball in her throat. Thoughtfully, Abe said, "I'd like some way to ease my conscience about this."
"I—I don't understand," Gretchen said again, but this time tried to skirt around him. It didn't work; he grabbed her arm, digging his fingers into it painfully. "W—why—"
"Because you obviously aren't going to let it drop. I heard you talking in your office about the Gabriel mushroom. I don't know why you're intent on getting involved with any of this, but now that the police have been led to believe that Brett is their prime suspect, I can't have some busybody continually butting in and trying to lead them in a different direction. I don't want to give them any reason to dig deeper or look where they wouldn't normally look."
The words took a moment to sink in and then Gretchen realized:
Abe was the one who'd called the police with the "anonymous tip." Abe was the one who'd planted the poisonous mushroom powder in Brett's dressing room.
But why on earth?
"If you want to ease your conscience," she managed, "please... at least tell me why."
A glaze came over his eyes, as though he was suddenly emotional, but he kept it at bay. "It was a terrible, terrible accident. It was meant for Brett, but somehow, through some fluke, Misty ended up eating the sauce that I'd poisoned."
Gretchen struggled to breathe as her heart pounded hard and furiously in her ears. She didn't want to die! Maybe if she kept him talking he'd unconsciously loosen his hold on her arm—but Abe wasn't a fool.
Again Gretchen tried to run, but his grip tightened painfully.
What could she do? Abe was a shrewd man, but running wasn't working. Talking was all Gretchen had. "But why would you want to kill Brett?" she asked, her voice quavering.
"Brett's always been a cocky man, but I never had a problem with him—until I found out that Misty was sleeping with him while she was involved with me."
"Ohh... and that's why you broke up with her?" Gretchen asked.
He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "No, I didn't figure out about her and Brett until after she dumped me."
"But I thought..."
"You thought what I led everyone to think—that I'd broken up with her. Obviously Misty never made it a point to correct it. Besides, with the exception of Susanna, Misty and I didn't travel in the same social circles anyway. Ellie knew, but it didn't matter. She'd always had a crush on me when I was dating Misty; I could tell. After Misty dumped me, I tried to get her to change her mind. I even reduced myself to begging—I hated myself for it—and it only made her recoil more."
"So you never really liked Ellie?" Gretchen asked curiously, though she must have sounded thick in the head; he'd pretty much said that a few times by now.
Again, Abe grimaced. "Dating her was the only way I could think of to keep tabs on Misty and what she was doing." So he wasn't over Misty after all, Gretchen thought, scrambling to learn more. And he'd been fixated on her enough to use her assistant to spy on her! "Ellie told me that Misty was sleeping with Brett," Abe continued. "I'm sure she thought it would put Misty in a bad light—Ellie was always so damn intimidated by her—but all it did was infuriate me. Just the idea that Misty would prefer him over me?" He physically shuddered at the thought. "The man's a cartoon—a parody of himself! Big muscles, tight shirts, the 'old neighborhood' act. Why do people like him?"
Haplessly, Gretchen shrugged. "Got me. I can't stand him." Abe must've known she was telling the truth because he laughed.
A genuine, quiet chuckle that reminded her of his charming facade, the one she'd come to know and like so much. He obviously found it refreshing that when it came to Brett, they were of like minds. And Gretchen deftly took advantage of the moment of solidarity.
"Abe..." she said gently, calmly. "Can I just ask you one question?" She tilted her head at him so sincerely, so pensively, and Abe raised his eyebrows, poised for the question.
Suddenly, in a split second, she kicked him hard, right in the kneecap. Her heels were sharp, and instantly, his leg buckled and he let out a cry of pain. His hand dropped off her arm and she pushed past him. When she yanked on the handle, his door flew open so hard it hit the wall, and she sprinted out, running down the hall with her adrenaline propelling her forward.
* * *
Rick arrived at TCN only to find out that at this hour he couldn't get in without a pass. He called Gretchen's cell a few times, but for some reason she wasn't answering. She'd left him some crazy message about that guy Ray and now Rick just wanted to make sure she was okay. Ever since she'd told him about the "accidents" at work, he'd felt more possessive of her than ever—more than he had a right to feel, but, screw it. She was his. Fiercely protective of her, Rick didn't bother to analyze why he felt such an intense level of emotion for her already—he just did. Gretchen was important to him.
Back in Maine, when Alice had asked if Gretchen was Rick's girlfriend, it hadn't occurred to him for one second to say no. He wanted her all to himself—and most of all, he wanted her safe.
After trying her phone again, he cursed softly and stuck his phone back in his pocket. If only she'd answer, he could ask her to come downstairs and let him in. If she was done working, he'd see her home; if not, he'd
wait until she was done. He didn't want to leave her alone. But then again, maybe she'd left work already. She'd told him that morning that she'd call him when she finished, but so far he'd gotten the Ray call and that was it.
Pulling out his cell again, he checked the time. It was after eight o' clock. Why would she be working this late? She must've left. Maybe he'd be able to track her down at her apartment—and on his way, he'd try her cell again.
* * *
Gretchen kept running. She knew Abe was following her, but she didn't dare look back to see how close behind he was. If you look back, he'll be right there. Just keep going.
Frenzied and scared, she couldn't chance waiting for the elevator, so she cut down the hallway and body slammed the door to the stairwell. As she ran down the steps, she heard her own ragged breath, as fear choked her, made her gasp for air. Vaguely she felt the cool metal of the railing beneath her clammy palm as she gripped it in spurts and told herself, Faster, faster. It was only two flights—
The door on the level above her flew open. Shit! She panicked; she'd been so close to an escape but now it seemed impossible.
Then, in a flash, she hit the ground floor and reached out for the door handle. Slamming it open, she bolted out into the carpeted hallway and kept running. She raced through the reception area toward the main entrance. With her blood ringing in her ears, she could barely hear the footsteps behind her, but they were there, and she was almost running blindly when finally she looked back. Just as her body shoved on the glass doors and careened through, Gretchen flew right into a huge hard monstrosity—one that grabbed her by the arms and held her up before she landed on the floor in a bruised, defeated heap.
"Gretchen!"
Dear God, it was Rick! He was here, he was right here. How could he be? Breathing hard, she tried to explain, but she could barely speak, her throat ached or maybe she was still too shaken to form the words, but she finally managed to say something.
"He's after me," she croaked just as Abe charged to the entrance.
Abruptly, he froze when he saw Rick—but Rick didn't hesitate. He lurched forward and dropped Abe to the floor with one hard punch that cracked like lightning—or maybe a jaw.
Chapter 31
A week later, Rick and Gretchen were soaking in his tub, and he had his arms wrapped tightly around her. She'd been dreaming of a long, hot bubble bath since she'd moved to New York, but so far, she hadn't been able to find the time. Had she mentioned that to him? How else could he have known?
"One thing we need to do is get you a new cell phone."
"I know. My cell service is shitty," Rick admitted, and that was putting it mildly. The going-straight-to-voice-mail-without-ringing thing had been more than a nuisance—it had nearly been a matter of life and death. It had been only a week, but it seemed like longer since Gretchen's whole showdown with Abe, when Rick had saved her life. Thank goodness he'd checked his voice mail and discovered her message—and thank God he'd come to see her at work and hadn't left by the time she'd found him.
But in the week since it all happened, she'd managed to clear up a few important questions. She'd found out why Ray Jarian had been lurking around the third floor of Brett's house the day Misty had arrived. Her initial conclusion had been half right: He'd left on Saturday morning, but when he'd seen Misty driving up, he'd turned around and decided to come back. But it wasn't to kill her. It was to talk to her, to beg her to represent him again, to give him more time to get his career back on track. She wouldn't return his calls, she wouldn't make lunch dates or take meetings with him; cornering her at Brett's became his last chance to reason with her, and he couldn't pass it up. When he'd heard she'd gone upstairs to her guest room, he'd been creeping around to figure out which one was hers. If it hadn't been for him dropping his keys, Gretchen wouldn't have even heard him or realized he was there. Apparently, though, when he knocked on Misty's door, there was no answer. And when he'd cracked it to take a peek, she was sleeping. He couldn't just enter and wake her up—even a good-ol'-boy like Ray knew that would be an invasion and way too weird, so he'd simply left.
Interestingly, Gretchen learned all this from Ray himself, when she'd spotted him at the network this week, saying a final good-bye to various crew members and employees, and gathering the last of his personal belongings. He'd been forthcoming, too, apparently ready to put the dark period of his desperation behind him and looking forward to getting back to "Tennessee," where life was simpler. Hey, it was hard to find a flaw in that.
There were things she'd probably never know. She'd never officially figured out why Cady had been eavesdropping that day at Susanna's dressing room door, but she'd subsequently spotted her eavesdropping in a stall in the ladies' room when the receptionist had been talking on her cell phone while peeing. When Gretchen had walked in on that, she'd decided to chalk up Cady's eavesdropping to a habit, at best—and a deviant pathology, at worst. Either way, for the moment it seemed harmless.
She'd also never know what Misty was annoyed with Ellie about the morning she arrived at Brett's. It could've been anything, but it wasn't likely to have involved Abe. As far as anyone knew, Misty had no idea that Ellie was involved with Abe, and even if she did, she wouldn't have had much reason to be angry, since she'd dumped him.
Which brought Gretchen to the final piece of the puzzle: Abe, of course. It was still such an incredible disappointment to accept the menace that belied his charming civility, his wholly likable persona. It almost made a girl question if anyone who seemed simply polite could be taken at face value. Clearly the answer was no. But at least he'd made a confession. Apparently, he'd placed the threatening calls and sent the e-mail to Brett just to torment him, never thinking of killing him until he was home in North Carolina visiting relatives and got the idea. With the Destroying Angel local to the area maybe all it took was a passing comment or an item in the paper for Abe to learn of the mushroom and its highly toxic nature.
Gretchen could perfectly recall the conversation at the staff meeting weeks back, the day she'd first met Abe, when he'd mentioned recently returning from a vacation to North Carolina. Yet, even when she'd been researching the Destroying Angel online and come across North Carolina as its origin, she still hadn't made the connection. If she had, she might have also realized that if the Destroying Angel grew in North Carolina, it stood to reason that its hybridized variety, the Gabriel mushroom, would grow there, too—and Abe would have access to both.
Apparently, when he'd set about to find the Destroying Angel, he'd unwittingly found its "cousin," the Gabriel. After having it very discreetly—and expensively—analyzed, and discovering what it was and how closely it mirrored the fatal effects of the Destroying Angel, he knew it would serve his purpose equally well. Then he headed back to New York City and set his plan in motion.
All he needed was the opportunity to slip it to Brett; the poison would be undetectable, death would be torturous and inevitable.
He'd planned to leave the party early to make himself an even more unlikely suspect if Brett's death were ever traced to the night of his party. Abe had no way of knowing what item he'd slip the poison into or when Brett would eat it; he planned to figure it out when he got there. Before he'd left Brett's house that night to drive back to the city, he'd tried to find an opportunity to plant the poison in something in Brett's private kitchen. He'd known about the private kitchen from the tours of the house Brett had given partygoers in past years. But there never seemed to be a time when he could slip away from Ellie long enough to accomplish his goal. So he'd driven Marjorie and that cameraman back to the city, and then later, he'd driven back to the Catskills. When Gretchen heard a noise in the middle of the night, it had been Abe sneaking back into Brett's house to plant the poison in the sauce. Apparently—and this was genius—he'd improvised before he'd left that night, sticking a wad of chewed gum on the inside of the lock on a side entrance to the house. That way, he was able to block the lock from clicking into place when the doo
r was closed, which had made it easy for him to sneak back in and accomplish his mission. The sad twist was that Misty—the woman he'd convinced himself he was in love with, obsessed with, couldn't live without—had ended up consuming the poison.
When Abe had realized the mistake that had been made, he'd been too shocked and appalled to do anything else. He wasn't about to make another attempt on Brett's life when he'd already wasted the perfect murder on the wrong person. He couldn't very well do it again without drawing attention. One person's mysterious fatal illness was one thing, two was something else. The police would never let that go. It would be too risky. And yet, any other murder plot against Brett was simply too risky.
So then he'd finally figured out what he wanted to do. He would get his revenge on Brett another way—by framing him for Misty's murder.
"So how is it?" Rick asked now as he kissed her shoulder.
"Nice, "she breathed and sank her back deeper into his chest. She hadn't had a bubble bath since she'd worked at Deluxe Resort, and that hadn't been too great because it'd been in the same tub that the spa used for mud baths and avocado soaks. Remarkably hard to get out the residue with those... and speaking of mud and residue...
"How did you get your tub so clean?" she asked.
"I scrubbed for two hours while you were sleeping. What are you saying? I'm a pig or something?" he said, reaching for their drink. Earlier, he'd poured a tall glass of ice-cold Sam Adams for them to share, and set it down on the bath mat beside the tub.
"No, but... well, you are a little messy, you have to admit," she said, grinning up at him, tilting her head back. "You're pretty messy."
"You didn't seem to mind the last time you were over," he said with a smug quirk of his lips.
"Well, you were distracting me..."
"I'll distract you again. Don't worry," he assured her and began massaging the back of her neck with one hand. With a blissful sigh, she snuggled in, savoring the hard strength of his chest... and some other hardness that was thickening against her bottom. "Besides, think of my good points," he murmured. "Like my killer personality. My ability to move furniture—" She laughed at that. "How I always pull you out of trouble. And of course, let's not forget how we burn up the sheets together."
