Sudden fear pierces Rachel. What is she doing? If she gets in the way of rogue policemen, who will ever help her in this town?
She slows, almost turns back. Then she pictures Rosa, desperately waiting for her, and forges ahead.
The upscale residential streets are quiet on this Wednesday night at 10:20. Not one vehicle passes Rachel. She pictures the other homeowners already in bed, preparing to wake early for their jobs as lawyers and doctors and business executives.
She reaches Rosa’s house.
Hurrying up the steps, Rachel is aware of how vulnerable she is should anyone drive up. She jabs the bell twice, her heart picking up speed. The door swings open and Rosa pulls her inside before she can protest.
“Whatever it is, give it to me. I want to get out of here.” The words blurt from Rachel as she takes in the scene — Eddie slouched in the living room doorway, sizing her up; Rosa, pale and trembling, eyes wide and mascara smeared. Rosa clutches a small box-style purse, an art-deco design painted with pink poodles. She thrusts it into Rachel’s hands.
“Here. Go now, out the back door. Did you pass us and turn left to park?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Cut across our neighbors’ yard to hit that street. Come on, I’ll take you through the kitchen.”
She grasps Rachel’s arm, pulling her along as if they are being pursued by some mad monster.
“Better not dip into that!” Eddie throws at Rachel’s back.
Huh?
They reach the kitchen, skitter around the large cooking island.
Rachel can hardly keep up. Rosa’s fear swirls like fog, setting her own heart banging. She has no time to ask what or who or when —
“Rosa!” Eddie’s voice bursts from the living room. “He’s here, getting out of his car!”
“Oh!” Rosa slides to a halt, arms waving. Rachel knocks into her and they both totter for footing. “What do we do?” Rosa’s face etches with panic. “If he has someone with him, watching the house, they might see — ” She whirls in Eddie’s direction and calls, “Anybody with him?” Her nails sink into Rachel’s forearm as they await an answer.
Eddie appears around the corner. “I don’t see anybody. Go, Rachel; he’s on the porch.”
Before Rachel can say a word, Rosa yanks back the sliding kitchen door and shoves her outside. The front doorbell rings. “Eddie, don’t answer yet!” Rosa hisses, then leans over the open threshold, her face taut with fear. “Listen, Rachel.” Her words spill over themselves. “If anything happens to us, remember these names: Ron Hardinger, Bill Veretsky, Roland Newell. Got it?” She repeats them. “They’re the cops who know what’s going on. They’ll be wanting that purse and will probably come to you looking for it. Don’t hold out on them; it’s not worth your life. Just hand it over.”
The doorbell sounds again, followed by pounding.
“Rosa, come on!” Eddie pulls her away and slides the door shut. Rachel hears final words from her mother before it closes completely.
“Rachel, I loved you as much as I could!”
Rachel wheels away, clutching the purse, terror of the unknown driving her across the deck and onto the grass. She has no time to think or question; she simply does what must be done. She hunches over as she reaches the edge of her mother’s lawn, quickly checking the neighbors’ house. No lights. Maybe they’re gone. Her heart clambers up her throat as she ventures across the soft grass, diffused light from a distant streetlamp barely piercing the darkness. She prays that if the neighbors are home, they won’t glance out their windows and spot her shadowed figure in flight.
Pop. A sound from Rosa’s house tumbles through the night.Pop-poppoppop.
Gunshots.
The knowledge streaks through Rachel. She jerks to a halt, muscles rigid. For a moment all reasoning flees, her brain flashing white. Questions and terror follow, swelling her thoughts.
“If something happens to us . . .”
Rosa! She has to go back.
No, Rachel, you want to die?
She turns toward her mother’s house, blood pounding in her ears, then hesitates, telling herself those sounds weren’t gunshots.Just go, get out of here! Her gaze darts to the neighbors’ windows, expecting a light to come on. All is quiet now. She freezes, listening for the sound of a front door closing, a car driving away.
Silence.
She peers toward Rosa’s kitchen window, seeking movement.
Nothing.
With a strangled cry Rachel stumbles back to her mother’s house.
FIFTY
From the corner of his eye Black Mamba watched the chief escort Paige Williams up the sidewalk across the street. His lips curled with impatience. Certainly took these small-town cops long enough. What had they been doing since his phone call?
Mamba stood near the window of Read Ones, a campy little used bookstore decorated in the color that punned its name. Red walls, red-lettered signs upon the shelves. An ancient cash register in gilded gold and red. A charming place to browse as he waited for the next tile in his mosaic to fall into place.
And fall it had.
Of course Paige Williams had allowed the police’s request, never guessing the choice morsel to be discovered in her hot tub. Oh, the sudden bustle that would soon occur at her house.
He must hurry to witness it.
Mamba ran a finger over the book in his hand, calculating. He’d spent too much time in this place to leave without a purchase. The owner would not be happy. He didn’t mind. He found this Biography of Vlad the Impaler quite fascinating.
At the counter he paid for the book and complimented the proprietor on his delightful shop.
Two minutes later he was headed west out of town in his car, making sure the police vehicle somewhere ahead of him was nowhere in sight.
FIFTY-ONE
Bailey stepped back inside Java Joint, feeling sick to her stomach. Something was very, very wrong. She’d been relieved to see Paige Williams return to Simple Pleasures over an hour ago. Whatever the chief had wanted with her, it must not have proved that important. Now the girl was being escorted out of Simple Pleasures again. She and the chief walked up the street and disappeared around the corner. Where were they going?
Oh, Lord, please help her. She looks so scared.
Bailey sank onto a stool at the counter, focusing without seeing on the walls of her café. Suddenly the place didn’t seem so cheery. It was empty of customers except for S-Man, who still typed away on his laptop. Hours ago he’d plugged the computer into an outlet when the battery began to die. Bailey wondered how he could sit in one position for so long.
S-Man glanced up, his eyebrows knit with intense concentration. He caught her staring and his features relaxed. He sat back from the keyboard. “Shak.”
Hi in Saurian. She managed a smile. “Shak.”
He inhaled deeply, looking around as if he’d just stepped from a time machine. “Man, it’s quiet in here. What happened to everybody?”
“They left a while ago, Ted. It’s three thirty, that lull time of day.”
“Oh.” He scratched his head, then looked at her askance.“What’s wrong?”
What’s wrong. This guy was amazing. “Edna’s still missing. And Paige Williams — you know the gal who came in here before lunch? Works at Simple Pleasures?”
Ted regarded her blankly, then shrugged.
Bailey gestured toward the window. “Chief Edwards has been over there twice to talk to her. He just took her out of the store for the second time.”
S-Man’s eyebrows rose as he mulled over the information.“Doesn’t sound good for her. Not good at all.”
He pushed back from the table and struggled to his feet, his casted leg sticking out at an angle. “Oh.” He winced, moving his neck from side to side. “Been sitting too long.”
Bailey watched him stretch. “You never had lunch. Want your sandwich now?”
“Yeah. The regular.” Ted clumped his way toward the end of the counter and pulled
the bathroom key from its mug. “You call Leslie? She probably knows what’s going on with that Paige person. If she doesn’t, she’ll want to.” He turned and headed with awkward gait toward the bathroom.
Leslie. Not wanting to gossip, Bailey hadn’t mentioned anything about Paige when she’d talked to Leslie earlier. Especially since she’d seen the young woman return to Simple Pleasures with the chief. But now curiosity — and some indefinable, unsettled feeling — sunk its claws into her. Something — maybe God? — was prompting her to make the call.
But duty first. Bailey returned to her place behind the counter and began pulling out the ingredients for Ted’s sandwich. Sourdough roll. Roast beef and ham — a strange combination, but that was S-Man’s choice. Jack cheese, mayonnaise, mustard, and pickles. No onion. She made the sandwich on automatic, her mind elsewhere. Ted returned with the bathroom key and paid for his lunch. The minute he turned away and thumped back to the table with his food, Bailey picked up the phone and dialed Leslie’s cell number.
FIFTY-TWO
Parked outside the police station, Leslie tapped a long pink nail on her steering wheel, cell phone in her left hand. Her brain spun thoughts like a lottery wheel. Paige Williams with the chief — again. Apparently, the police weren’t so sure after all that the death threat never happened.
Or maybe they’d found something else.
Drat. Leslie made a face at the station. If only she’d gotten Bailey’s call before she sailed in there to pump Frank for more information. The guy had been zip, zero, zilch help just five minutes ago. If she went back in now, he’d probably bar the door. Have her arrested for trespassing.
Well. Where there was a will, there was a way.
Tossing down her cell phone, Leslie put her VW in gear and backed out of her spot.
She saw no parking places on Main near Simple Pleasures. At the top of the block she turned right onto Second Street, looking until she found one yet another block up. She parked the car, then picked up her cell phone and flung herself out on the sidewalk, pushing the phone into her jeans pocket. Trotting around the corner, she prayed the store would be empty of customers.
She found Sarah Wray by herself, hovering behind her counter, tugging furiously at her hair.
“Sarah!” Leslie had no time for preamble. “Why is Paige back with Chief Edwards?”
The woman brought a hand to her cheek, her roaming gaze seeking a place to land. Leslie had never seen her look so perturbed. “I don’t know what to make of it, Leslie. He wanted to look around her house.”
Leslie’s chin dropped. “Her house ? Sarah, that’s not good. They’re looking for something.”
“Well,” — Sarah’s eyes found Leslie’s face — “I wondered. But what could they possibly be looking for? I told them Paige never threatened to kill Edna San.”
Leslie bit her cheek, thinking. “It has to be something tangible. Like maybe they think she wrote something or has an item that belongs to Edna.”
“She doesn’t know Edna!” Sarah hugged her arms to her chest. Her eyes glistened. “What’s happening in this town? Whatever is going on?”
Leslie put a hand on her arm. Poor Sarah. She could be so naïve sometimes. “It’ll be okay. The chief’s a fair man; you know that.”
Her mouth said the words, but her thoughts flew elsewhere. Paige Williams, snookered into letting the police into her house without a warrant. And talking to them all they wanted. Probably answering every question — without a lawyer.
“Sarah, did the chief take her in his own vehicle?”
“I don’t know. I think so.” She put both palms to her cheeks.“Do you — ”
“Wait.” Leslie held up a hand. “Let me think a minute.”
Leslie wandered over to a table of bracelets and rings, absentmindedly fingered stones of sparkling blue. Sarah’s earlier words replayed in her head: You should call Paige sometime, Leslie. She needs a friend.
What if she called Arthur Gretz? If the defense attorney heard he had the chance of picking up a client caught in the Edna San case, he’d come running like a coyote on speed. Gretz knew publicity when he saw it.
And Leslie’s helpful gesture would jump-start that friendship with Paige. A friendship that could reap a harvest of inside information . . .
She drew back from the bracelet table. On the other hand, if Chief Edwards ever heard about what she’d done, he’d be royally ticked. Forget wheedling information out of him ever again.
Leslie narrowed her eyes at the floor, thinking. Weighing the choices.
She drew a deep breath and turned back to Sarah. “I’m going to help Paige big-time. But you have to promise not to tell a soul.Okay?”
Sarah nodded.
“Good.” She whipped her cell from her pocket. “While I make this call, go write down Paige’s phone number for me.”
FIFTY-THREE
Déjà vu, thought Vince. Paige Williams in the passenger seat of his car, staring out the window.
They drove without speaking. Vince had asked for directions to her house, not wanting her to know he’d already been there. Then he tried to make small talk, remarking on the weather, the number of folks at the beach. Paige’s one-syllable responses hardly made for easy conversation. With his own whirling thoughts and aching head, Vince soon gave up.
Three miles from Paige’s house his cell phone rang. He flipped it open without checking the ID, shoved it to his ear.“Chief Edwards.”
“Hi, it’s C. B. Just talked to Frank. He’s at your destination, waiting for you. And I got another piece of information on Paige Williams.”
From Whitsung? Vince could only hope. “Okay, shoot.”
“Apparently, various folks on Main have seen you taking Miss Williams out of Simple Pleasures, and you know how news travels in this town. Just received a tip from Rex Walloughby, who lives at 3766 Lakeshore. You know him?”
Rex — twenty-eight years old and single, a hard-partying guy. Managed a liquor store down in Spirit Lake. “Yeah.”
“Walloughby says he was driving home late last night from some shindig at a friend’s house at the south end of the lake. Best he remembers, he got home a little before four a.m. Says he passed a car — a dark-colored SUV — going around a hairpin turn on Lakeshore a few miles from his house. He thinks it could’ve been Paige Williams.”
Vince resisted a glance at Paige. The gal may be sitting like stone, but no doubt she registered his every word. “Why?”
“His headlights shone into the car as he came to the turn. Said he saw a flash of a woman with short, dark hair. He doesn’t know Paige Williams but heard her described that way, and he heard she lives not far from him on Lakeshore. So it’s somewhat conjecture. But I checked what kind of car she drives. It’s a dark-blue Ford Explorer.”
A dark-colored SUV. A little too much coincidence for Vince, given how many times this gal’s name had already popped up.“Right.” He kept his voice neutral. “Thanks.”
He closed the phone, wishing he could have a good look at Paige’s car. But they’d left it back in town.
“Miss Williams, let me know when we get near your house, okay?”
“Okay.” Her voice was flat.
A minute later she told him her driveway was up ahead on the left.
“All right. I’ve asked another officer to meet us there. He’s a young guy; you’ll like him. Name’s Frank West.” Officer policy —Vince would not enter a house alone with a woman if he could help it. Especially not when she was a suspect in a possible homicide.
He glanced at Paige. Her gaze cut to his eyes and hung there, registering recognition at Frank’s name.
Vince turned into the driveway and eased up behind Frank’s vehicle. Frank stepped out of the doorway to the edge of the porch and raised a hand in greeting. Paige climbed from Vince’s car, house keys in hand, as if she wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. Vince introduced her to Frank. Paige’s green-blue eyes barely met the young officer’s, but Frank’s gaze
lingered upon her face. When he pulled his eyes from her, he caught Vince watching him. Frank gave a little sniff and looked away.
Paige unlocked the door. Stood back stiffly, allowing them to enter.
They walked into a small linoleumed entry. Straight ahead lay the kitchen. Vince could see the sliding glass door that led onto the back deck. A living room was to their left, a hall, evidently to bedrooms, to their right.
Paige closed the door and leaned against it. Vince caught a mixture of emotions on her face — fear, suspicion, and a vague defiance. She gazed back at him and swallowed, looking like a trapped animal. Vince had the clear impression that the presence of two men alone with her in the house frightened her as much as the fact that they were police officers.
He gestured toward the living room. “Mind if we look in here?”
She tipped her head.
Vince entered the living room, Frank behind him. The most striking feature was the fireplace. Small but surrounded by river rock up to the ceiling. Furniture was sparse and in neutral colors. Brown couch with a couple of throw pillows, one matching armchair. An end table with reading lamp. An eighteen-inch TV. Inexpensive white curtains at the front window. No knickknacks, no plants. The place looked as sterile as a motel room.
No pictures.
The realization struck Vince. No photos of family, no prints or posters on the wall. Nothing that spoke of memories, a life lived and cherished. His thoughts flashed to his own living room, decorated by Nancy — to its cheeriness of blue and yellow, scattered family photos spanning the years.
I need you, Vince. And it doesn’t feel like I have you anymore . . .
Vince pushed his wife’s words away.
From the living room he and Frank wandered into the kitchen.Paige followed at a distance. Vince’s gaze made a quick scope of the room. Beige walls. A wooden table with four chairs. Clean. No dishes in the sink. He studied the linoleum floor, looking for dirty footprints or any sign that something had been dragged across it, but saw neither.
Violet Dawn Page 19
