Night Hunter

by Carol Davis Luce

  “We’re not the police. We’re following up on a report of animal poisoning. Could you answer a few questions, please?”

  “Don’t look to me. I didn’t do it.” He rose higher, so that his entire head cleared the top of the fence.

  John moved to the fence and looked over. He saw that the man, in bedroom slippers, was standing on a weathered step stool that looked as if it had been in that spot a long time. Around his neck hung a small pair of binoculars. “We’re not accusing anyone. Did the dog bark a lot?”

  “Naw.”

  “The night the dog died, did he bark?” He assumed this neighbor was aware of the all the particulars of the dog’s death. Anyone who used a step stool to see over the fence and carried binoculars knew what was going on around him.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you see anyone out here that night? Possibly right where I’m standing now?”

  “Couldn’t have. When the dog started barking I was in bed. I got up, but I didn’t go outdoors. There’s no window on this side of the house, don’t you know.”

  “Before you went to bed that evening did you see anyone at all?” Regina asked.

  “Nope.”

  John stepped back. “Well, thank you for—”

  “Saw a car though.”

  “A car?”

  “Parked around the side of my place. It was there a long time. Never saw it before in the neighborhood.”

  “What kind of car?”

  He shrugged.

  “Color?”

  “Dark. Blue, black, brown.”

  “New? Old?”

  His mouth went down and his shoulders came up. “Hard to say. It had one of those hood ornaments. They don’t seem to make hood ornaments these days.”

  “What did the ornament look like?”

  “Couldn’t see it good. That’s the night I misplaced my glasses. Mostly I saw the lights, y’know, from the street lamps, reflecting off it.”

  “Did anyone get in or out of the car?”

  “Not while I was looking.”

  “Did you see anything else out of the ordinary? Not just that night but any time in the past week or two?”

  The man shook his head. “Just that weirdo she was seeing that drove that infernal motorcycle. The noise liked to wake the dead, coming and going odd hours of the day and night.”

  John looked to Regina questioningly. She shrugged, shaking her head.

  “What’s become of those two little girls?” the man asked. “The twins?”

  “They’re with their father,” Regina said.

  The head disappeared.

  John watched Regina take a pen and paper from her purse. She spoke aloud as she wrote. “Dark car with hood ornament. Friend with motorcycle. Do you think there are fingerprints on the butcher tape?” she asked.

  “It’s not likely there’ll be a clear one. And again, as with voiceprints, it’s a matter of comparison.”

  “How do you know so much about crime detection?”

  “I write suspense novels. It’s my business to know. Of course it’s a lot easier to solve a crime when you know who the bad guy is.” He put a hand on the small of her back and said, “C’mon, let’s head home. We have follow-up work to do.”

  Back in Regina’s apartment, John sat on the couch scanning the phone book for meat markets while Regina, sipping a Corona, was on the phone calling from the list of Miss Classic contestants. The women from the original list had since married or moved. Two had died, one of cancer, the other from an overdose of barbiturates. More than half of the twenty-eight had disappeared without a trace. She reached Jamie Sue, the contestant who had called in to Saturday’s show with her account of near death from alcohol poisoning. Jamie Sue then went on to tell of several other oddities, contestants plagued by freakish accidents and mysterious illnesses. Regina brought up the food poisoning at the banquet.

  “Amelia lied on the show,” Jamie Sue said. “She said she’d had a touch of food poisoning. She didn’t.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes. She hates shellfish. I do too. We talked about it. I also saw her doing something with a pair of aqua dyed-satin pumps, and that evening Tammy, coming down the stairs, lost the heel on one of her aqua pumps.”

  “God.”

  “Amelia had vodka stashed in a rubbing alcohol bottle in plain sight in the changing room. She offered me a swig and that’s when I told her I was allergic to alcohol.”

  Things were falling into place. Not jinxed, but sabotaged. The two women talked several more minutes, then said good-bye.

  John only nodded when Regina passed on Jamie Sue’s information.

  She opened the refrigerator and pulled out two cold Coronas. “Any luck?” she asked, pointing to the open phone book on the table in front of him as she handed him a beer.

  Shaking his head, he stood, stretched, then stepped to a rattan bookcase and began to peruse the titles.

  Seeing him looking at the books reminded Regina she had forgotten to get the novel he’d given her. “I didn’t forget Evil Tidings,” Regina said. “In all the excitement with Kristy and the answering machine ...”

  “I know.”

  “I’d like you to autograph it for me, if you will?”

  “It’s already been done.”

  She smiled, then began to pace. “John, I’ve been thinking. Assuming we’re not dealing with a copycat criminal, who would have the most to gain?”

  “It’s my guess the same person committed the assaults on Corinne, Donna, and Tammy.”

  “Corinne had a motive for Donna and Tammy. Jealousy and hate or, as Donna suspects, sheer dementia. And since she visited Donna in the hospital the same night that Tammy’s dog was poisoned, we know she goes out of her house.”

  “Perhaps only at night. The two other assaults happened in broad daylight.”

  John drew in a deep breath. “There’s something we’re not seeing yet. Something there, but indirect and ...” He went to the counter, opened the file folder, and took out the pink slip on the back of which he had written Regina’s message. “Initially, a sea will lead to the assailant?”

  “A sea. Water ...” Regina began.

  “No, not ‘sea,’” John cut in excitedly “A. C. They’re initials. Initially. A. C. will lead to the assailant?”

  “Amelia Corde,” Regina said quietly. “John, are we grasping ... twisting things to make them fit? I just can’t picture her stalking women and tossing acid in their faces.”

  “What do you know about her?”

  “She’s married, has no children, and recently she started a modeling business with a man--” Regina stopped abruptly. “That man with Amelia ...”

  “What is it?”

  Regina began to pace faster. “Her partner, Fletcher Kincade, was at the station the day Donna was splashed. Tammy overheard them talking about going to the wine country together. She said they sounded like lovers.” She turned to stare at John.

  “What part of the wine country?”

  “I don’t know. Is it important?”

  “It could be.”

  “Maybe I can find out.” Regina picked up the phone and dialed. She got the Corde residence, spoke to a woman with an Asian accent and asked to speak to Amelia. She sipped at the beer while waiting. Amelia came on the line.

  “Regina, I was about to call you,” Amelia said guardedly. “How dreadful to hear about Tammy. The poor girl. Is there word of a funeral date?”

  “No, nothing yet. There’s the inquest still. Amelia,” Regina said carefully, “the peculiar way Tammy died is one of the reasons I’m calling. First Corinne, then Donna, and now Tammy—”

  “Really, Regina, I refuse to listen to any of this doomsayer propaganda. It was obvious the woman was on a rapid course of self-destruction. You saw how she acted at lunch last week.”

  “I had a warning last night. Donna and Tammy also had warnings.”

  “Oh?”

  “A message on my answering machine.”


  “Did you recognize the voice?”

  “No. I’m sure it was disguised. But I intend to have it analyzed,” Regina lied. “Have you had any threats?”

  Another long pause. “They can do that? Analyze a voice?”

  “Yes. They match speech patterns like fingerprints. About the threats ...”

  “No, no one has threatened me.”

  “Where were you when Tammy died?”

  A pause. “Look, I resent this line of questioning. I don’t need an alibi, Regina.”

  “An alibi? According to you, Tammy self-destructed.”

  “Damnit,” Amelia said impatiently, “I wasn’t even in the city when it happened. If you don’t believe me call the Meadowvale Inn in Napa. In fact, at the time of her death I was visiting my parents at their home.”

  “Amelia, I only called to tell you to be careful.”

  “Good night.” A soft click punctuated the line.

  “The Meadowvale Inn in Napa,” Regina said to John, pausing to drink. “She was visiting her parents when Tammy died. She’s had no threats. She seemed rather fascinated about the voice analysis.”

  John had the phone directory draped over his knees. “Too bad it was erased. It’d be interesting to compare it to Mr. Kincade’s voice. Hey, look at this, Regina.” He rose quickly, bringing the book with him.

  “You’ve found something?”

  “Blue Ribbon Meats. Where’s the butcher tape?”

  Regina got it and handed it to him. John inspected it. “It could be ... yes, it could be.” He handed it back. “Does that resemble a blue ribbon?”

  Regina studied it. Only half the emblem was there, but yes, she agreed silently, it could be a ribbon. She looked up and nodded.

  “First thing tomorrow we buy us some meat.”

  “Speaking of meat,” Regina said, sipping her Corona, “I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since this morning. If I don’t get something in my stomach soon, I’m going to get drunk. Drunker.” She held up the empty bottle.

  “Come down to my place. I’ll fix you something.”

  Regina looked at her watch. 8:28. Kristy would be home in half an hour. “Let’s eat here.”

  Regina opened the freezer and pulled out a large plastic container. “I don’t cook often, but when I do, I make enough for an army. Spaghetti sauce.” She moved to the cupboard and took down a package of pasta. The container of frozen sauce went into the microwave and she started a pot of water to boil.

  “What can I do?”

  “Just sit and watch.” She pointed to a rattan stool at the breakfast counter.

  “It’ll be my pleasure.”

  Regina glanced at him. Their eyes met and held. That feeling of longing that she hadn’t experienced in ever so long, surfaced again, making her breath come out shallow and tight. Regina broke eye contact first.

  Quickly opening the refrigerator, she pulled out lettuce, tomatoes, feta cheese and black olives for a salad.

  As she cut up the vegetables, she felt his eyes on her. She avoided looking at him. In her tipsy state she feared she might expose the passion that had lain so long under the thin veneer of her being.

  The water began to boil, huge bubbles erupting lethargically at various points on the surface. She lifted the pasta and held it in her hand in front of the pot, waiting for the water to come to a full boil. While waiting she unconsciously ran her palm up and down the material of her pants where her hip and thigh joined. She watched the bubbles, her eyes staring trancelike, powerless to move. The bubbles became smaller, breaking the surface with an urgency that she found mesmerizing and very pleasant. I’m getting drunk, she thought, and felt herself smile.

  With her face tipped to one side, her gaze swept sideways to look at the man sitting on the rattan stool. He was watching her with a somber expression, his eyes intense, almost brooding. He smiled, slow and easy, and she realized he was smiling back at her. Then he was standing and moving, as in slow motion, toward her. The pasta was taken from her hands. Out of the corner of her eye she watched as he laid it on the countertop. Her hands were still poised before her, holding nothing, with nowhere to go.

  He stood before her, his eyes asking a thousand questions as they took in her face, one feature at a time, until they found her eyes and became locked. His hands lightly cupped hers. She turned, feeling the cool solid surface of the refrigerator at her back, her palms pressed flat to the smooth enamel. He moved in, his body melding lightly against her breasts and stomach. His lips touched her temple, then her eyelid, then the corner of her mouth. She twisted her head and his mouth brushed across hers. She came forward into the kiss, her lips parting. She tasted him. Found him wonderfully delectable. As they kissed, boiling water from the pot skipped across the stove top and pricked her skin.

  She heard the hissing, sizzling sound of water boiling over on the electric coils. It might have been coming from the radio or television for all she cared.

  John reached over and turn off the burner. She leaned her head back on the refrigerator, eyes still closed.

  The buzzer on the microwave oven went off. Regina opened her eyes and glanced at the clock above the sink. It was nine o’clock. Kristy would be home soon.

  John reached for her again, but she stiffened.

  He looked at her questioningly.

  “Kristy. She’ll be walking in any minute.” She turned the burner on again and moved around him to finish the salad. “I’m sorry,” she said, sounding flustered and breathless and on the verge of tears, “I’m sorry.”

  He stood behind her, his fingertips drawing hair from her face, caressing the back of her neck.

  “Sorry for what?”

  Sorry because she wanted him. Sorry because there wasn’t time. Sorry because she felt herself caring for him. She shivered.

  “Sorry for what, Regina?” he repeated.

  “I don’t have any red wine to go with the spaghetti,” she replied morosely, as though it was something to grieve for.

  He took hold of her arms and forced her to look at him. “Hey, what’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” she answered without conviction, staring at the cleft in his chin. “Nothing.”

  But everything was wrong. Leo was dead only six months and she wanted this man more than she had ever wanted any man, including, she thought grimly, her own husband. How could this happen? She’d only known him a few weeks. She didn’t know anything about him. Of course what she was feeling for him was purely physical. It had been so long. And the last few times with Leo, before he had gone into the hospital, it had been unpleasant. Unpleasant? It had been bad. Very bad.

  “There’s half a bottle of wine downstairs,” John said, kissing her mouth lightly. “I’ll run down and get it.”

  John opened the door of his apartment and immediately heard someone inside. Water running. Soft humming. Puzzled, he followed the sound toward the bathroom.

  The bedroom was dark, but light from the open bathroom door cut a pattern across the threshold. He bent down, pulled out the drawer in his nightstand and reached in for his .38.

  “Johnnie?” a woman’s voice called out.

  Ilona. He’d recognize that accent anywhere. Christ, why now? he asked himself.

  “Ilona? What are you doing in my—” The sound of the floor creaking behind him interrupted his sentence. He started to turn, saw a flash of black, then a brightness so intense it was like an explosion behind his eyes. He went down on his knees, his head ringing and ringing.

  John heard his name. The room spun and he flailed out, searching for a solid hold. He pulled himself up on the side of his bed. His knees buckled, but he managed to stay upright. He heard someone retreating down the hallway. Groaning, he looked around. Who the hell had hit him? And with what?

  “Johnnie!” the voice cried again. He pulled himself back to consciousness just before he could succumb to the blessed darkness. He touched his head at his brow and felt skin growing taut over a throbbing knot. His fingers came away
wet and sticky.

  “Please, Johnnie, answer me.”

  He moved in ungainly steps to the bathroom. At the doorway, the light pierced his brain, intensifying the pain above his eye.

  He found her in the tub, bubbles clinging like a white feather boa to her naked breasts.

  With confusion and dismay clouding his brain, he went to her. What was she doing here? Was he dreaming, hallucinating? He had come downstairs from Regina’s to get the red wine, and now here he was standing in his bathroom, his head pounding, about to black out any second, gaping stupidly at a naked girl in his tub.

  “What ... ?” he asked, seeing blood, his own, drop on the linoleum at his feet.

  “Johnnie, your head. You’re bleeding.”

  “Ilona.” He leaned against the door frame. “What are you doing here? What ... what the hell ... ?”

  Swiping at the blood that was working into his eye, he reached back, pulled down two towels, handed one to her and pressed the other one to his brow.

  “Please ...” He turned, leaving the room. “Come out of there.”

  “I wanted to surprise you,” she called out. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, to make you hurt your head. What happened?”

  He fought a wave of nausea, unable to answer.

  “You ran into something. It’s my fault,” she said sadly, coming into the bedroom, the towel wrapped around her. “I surprised you too much. Johnnie, I’m sorry.”

  It was obvious she had no idea what had taken place here. Not that he was too sure either. But someone else had been in this room and Ilona hadn’t been aware of it. There was no point in scaring her, he decided. Ignorance was bliss.

  “Ilona, you don’t just walk into people’s apartments and take a bubble bath.” He picked up her clothes and handed them to her.

  She stuck out her bottom lip in a pout.

  John looked around. Except for Ilona’s clothes scattered about, nothing else seemed out of place. What had his attacker wanted in his apartment? Could he have been looking for a way to get to Regina? It hurt his head to think.

  Ilona straightened up and let the towel drop to expose two high, pointed breasts.

  John stared long enough to show appreciation before he turned his back and went to the doorway. “Ilona, please get dressed.”