Were these small-town cops just too stupid to look in the hot tub?
He couldn’t imagine that either, not with the clues he’d given them through his anonymous tip. Besides, by this time, in all this heat, wouldn’t the smell alone lead them once they stepped out on the deck?
What then?
Paige was obviously still in the house. Without her car. At least he assumed she’d been driven here by the chief. Were the police leaving her here, without a vehicle, intent on returning to arrest her?
No way. One of them would have stayed to keep an eye on her.
Mamba pressed his fingers against the binoculars, anger coiling up his spine. He was not accustomed to altering his plans. Paige would pay for this.
Face hard, muscles tense, he slunk through the woods at a northerly diagonal toward the road, aiming well beyond Paige’s house. As he neared the road, he laid the binoculars on the ground. He would retrieve them later. Checking right and left, he crossed Lakeshore and slid into the forest on the other side, snaking around trees, hurrying for a position from which to view Paige’s backyard. At the first glimpse of her deck in the distance, he pulled to a halt, breathing hard.
He crouched low and eased his way toward the house. At the edge of the clearing he saw no one. What was Paige doing inside those walls?
Little matter. She would not be doing it for long.
Bent over, he ran for the side of the garage. Flattened himself against its wall and peered into the window.
No car.
His lip curled.
He slid toward the back corner, peeked around it. Still clear.
His eyes snapped to the deck. The hot tub lay covered. He sniffed the air. Nothing.
An insane thought hit him. He pulled back, mind reeling. Surely this young woman, this stupid nobody, hadn’t outwitted him. No one did that to Mamba.
Propelled by the mere idea, he darted around the corner and toward the deck, uncaring now if he was seen. At the edge of the steps, he leaned over to reach with both hands for the thick brown cover of the hot tub. He lifted it and peered underneath.
Empty.
Rage shot through him. Mamba hissed through his teeth. As the realization settled over him, taunting irony stared him in the face. He’d conjured an anonymous tip about a body being dragged — and apparently it had happened.
Seething, he dropped the cover. Did this young woman really believe she could outsmart him? How utterly laughable. She’d succeeded in nothing but cutting her worthless life even shorter. Never mind his original plans to slither through darkness into the Kanner Lake jail. Guilt-ridden Paige Williams need not take her own life tonight in a holding cell. She could die right here, right now, just as well.
Mamba slipped up the two stairs and across the deck.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Not a sound from the house.
Rachel bends low, making her way through Rosa’s dark backyard. Her fingers grip the boxy purse so hard, they ache. She will not let go of it now, not for anything. Whatever lies inside it has cost her, will somehow keep costing her. She doesn’t even know how yet, or why. All she knows is the pounding of her heart, and the gut-churning silence.
She reaches the deck. Shuffles toward the sliding door. Pressing herself against the side of the house, she slowly leans forward, peering into the kitchen.
No movement.
She leans further, her eyes traveling over the table, the cooking island, to a door leading to the hallway.
She sees no one.
Her hand grasps the metal door handle. Holding her breath, she eases back the door a few inches. Cocks her head, listening.
All is quiet.
The silence is so thick, so loud, it fills her head. The urge to run shrieks, and she snatches her hand from the door only to grasp it again, push back a few more inches. Another and another, until there is room to squeeze through.
She sticks her left fist through the short purse handle, pushes it up her arm to leave both hands free. Steps fully in front of the door. If anyone is watching from inside, he will surely see her now.
Breathing a prayer, she eases into the house.
Rachel freezes, listening. Hearing nothing but the faint tick of Rosa’s grandfather clock in the living room.
Pulse grinding, she manages two cautious steps, halts, then two more.
If only she could see through a front room window. Is the man’s car — whoever he may be — still out on the street? She tells herself it is long gone, driven away as she hesitated in the neighbors’ yard. She simply couldn’t hear it over the banging of her heart.
She reaches the cooking island. Grips the cool tile for support. Quietly shuffles around it. She fastens her eyes upon the threshold of the hallway, watching the hardwood floor slide into view. Still no sound, no movement.
Where’s Rosa?
From deep within Rachel a voice whispers that her mother is dead. The mother she never had, and helplessly hoped someday to have, and now never will.
Rachel can’t listen. She can’t bear to.
At the hall she presses her palm against the doorway, steadying her trembling limbs. Six feet ahead on the right is the wide entrance to Rosa’s formal living room. Rachel can’t yet see the front door, around the corner of the stairwell to the left.
She forces herself forward, hugging the wall.
Her lips part, seeking oxygen. Her mouth has gone so dry that each breath snags on the walls of her throat. She covers about two feet, stops, pricks her ears for the tiniest whisper of sound.
The clock ticks.
Rachel holds her left arm against her stomach, pressing the purse against her so it won’t dangle and knock against something. Whatever is inside does not rattle.
She is two feet from the living room entrance. Fear clutches her with strangling hands. Not a second longer can she wait to see the fate that has found her mother. Her feet cross the distance. She strains her neck to search around the corner.
On the floor crumpled legs stick out from the end of the couch. Rosa’s. One foot is missing a shoe.
Rachel’s chest ices over. She flings herself across the white carpet.
In front of the sofa Rosa lies on her side. Eddie is close by, one of his arms thrown across her shoulders. His eyes are wide open, two red-black holes in his forehead. A handgun lies inches from his right hand. Across the room, near the front window, lies a third body. A man on his back, arms twisted, a gun trapped in his motionless fingers. Blood oozes from a wound in his chest. Rachel stares at him.
Blake.
“You want me to come over there, knowing Blake is on his way?”
“No, no, it’s not him!”
Like melting wax, Rachel’s limbs shrivel her down to the floor.
Freeing her arm from the purse handle, she crawls toward her mother’s head. Rosa’s face is covered by her strawlike hair. Rachel sweeps it back, seeking her mother’s eyes. Just look at me one more time, Mom; don’t die. Just see me.
Rosa’s eyes are closed. Her mouth sags open. Rachel feels for breath with her palm.
Nothing.
Why did this happen, Mom? Why did you lie to me when you knew Blake was coming?
The questions pinch off. The answers don’t matter; all that matters is her mother is dead, shot mere minutes after Rachel slunk away in the night. Didn’t she know something like this would happen? What if she had stayed? Could she have saved Rosa?
No. Even Eddie couldn’t save Rosa. He and Blake must have shot each other in the same second . . .
Rachel kneels by her mother and time melts away. She finds herself rocking, rocking, head in her hands. Grief floods her brain, pools behind her eyes, but she can’t remember how to cry, because tears were beat out of her long ago. She thinks of her mother over all the years, and suddenly the only memories that surface are the few good ones. Rosa’s laugh — before it turned raucous. Rosa’s blue eyes — before they grew cold. A hug when Rachel was a child, many years ago . . .
How long Rachel lingers, she doesn’t know. She can’t even think what to do, who to call, how to explain her presence in a house with three dead bodies. She raises her head, looking toward the heavens for some answer, for Someone to help —
Headlights sweep the street outside. Rachel stills, her eyes piercing the sheer curtains of the window.
The sound of a car driving up.
Instinct rockets Rachel into action. Before her brain can register her choice, she has snatched up the purse and is dragging it across the carpet, scuttling on all fours toward the entryway. On some distant plane knowledge screams in her head that whoever is coming will kill her, take the purse. Whatever lies inside is valuable enough to have caused the deaths of three people. Rachel will let no one else have it — ever. Whatever it may be, it is the one and only thing Rosa entrusted to her, the one remaining piece she has of her mother.
Rachel hits the hardwood floor and slips around the corner, bruising her knees in her escape. Fear drags her into the kitchen, around the cooking island. She tumbles through the open sliding glass door onto the deck, pressing the purse against her chest. With controlled force she pulls shut the door, thrusts to her feet, bends low.
Rachel runs.
Having covered this ground twice before, she no longer needs to pick her way. She flies through the dark, propelling herself across the neighbors’ property, onto the sidewalk. She sprints across the street, skids to her car, and yanks open the door. Throws herself inside. The purse thumps to the passenger floor. Stretching out her legs, she leans back, fumbling in her pocket for the key. Three times her shaking hand shoves the key toward the ignition and misses. When the car finally starts, she rolls away in the lamp-lit street, turning on her headlights only when she has turned left at the corner.
On impulse at the next corner she turns left again. When she reaches the next block, she peers down the street toward her mother’s house. A police car is parked out front.
Rachel veers right.
She drives by rote for a mile until she remembers Rosa’s words.“They’ll want the purse and will come looking for you . . .”
The bizarre truth punches her in the stomach.
She can’t go home.
FIFTY-EIGHT
The minute she hung up from talking to Paige, Leslie called Arthur Gretz back, telling him all was set. If he’d come down town and open up his office, Leslie would have Paige there in about half an hour. He agreed to meet them. “And, Leslie,” he added, “she’s my client now. Thanks for the referral, but you know I’ll be advising her not to talk to you or any other reporter.”
Fine, Gretz, all I need’s the drive back to town. “Sure, Arthur, sure. I’m just helping her out. See you soon.”
She flipped her cell phone closed, sparking with energy. Swept a strand of hair from her eyes and spun to point a finger at Sarah. “I need your car keys.”
“Huh?” Sarah stood flummoxed, one hand on the counter, her brain obviously miles behind Leslie’s.
“I have to drive out to Paige’s house and pick her up.” Leslie waved her hand toward the door. “I can’t go in my car because I’m likely to pass the chief on Lakeshore as he’s headed back. If he sees my VW, he’ll put the pieces together. I can’t let him know I’m the one who called Paige.”
“Oh. Okay.” Sarah pushed away from the counter and bent down — far too slowly for Leslie’s taste.
“Sarah, hurry!”
“Okay, okay, just getting my purse.”
A minute later Leslie trotted up the sun-drenched sidewalk, cell phone stuffed in her pocket. For some insane reason Sarah had parked her blue Honda Accord around the corner and up two blocks on Second Street, not far from Leslie’s VW. Surely closer parking spaces had existed when Sarah opened the store that morning. But no matter. Leslie could hardly believe she’d struck such a major coup. Now if she could just get Paige Williams to talk on the drive back to town. Her mind spun, figuring the best approach. What if Paige asked about her job? As much as she wanted to make use of this situation, she couldn’t bring herself to out and out lie. But Paige would probably freak to hear she was a reporter. Somehow she’d have to extract juicy tidbits while convincing Paige that she was just looking out for her.
Guilt twinged Leslie’s stomach as she turned the corner. Paige had sounded so scared on the phone. And Sarah had made a big deal about her not having any friends. How would Paige feel when she heard everything she’d told Leslie reported in the news?
Yeah, but she had told Paige to get a lawyer, hadn’t she? And that was a big help. Where would Paige be right now without that advice?
Still, her remorse refused to dissipate. Leslie forced her thoughts to safer ground. What on earth did the chief have on Paige Williams?
Leslie reached Sarah’s Accord and whipped the cell phone from her pocket. Inside the car she tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. Whew, it was hot. She could feel a sheen of sweat under her shirt. Doggone July weather. If she did make it on national news tonight, she’d look like a wilted tulip.
She gunned the engine and took off up the street. Her brain hummed. No time to lose here; she had calls to make. She snatched up the cell phone and hit 03 to automatically dial Jared at the office. He answered on the first ring. “You won’t believe where I’m headed,” she blurted. She spilled her story, saying she’d report in as soon as possible. Jared tried to tell her how to pull information from Paige Williams on those precious ten minutes back to town, but Leslie’s thoughts were already on the next call. “Okay, Jared, okay. Talk to you soon.”
She closed the phone with one hand and opened it again. Punched in the next number.
“Hello, Java Joint,” Bailey’s ever-friendly voice sounded in her ear.
“Bailey, Leslie here.” She couldn’t keep the excitement from her tone. “I’m in a real hurry; can you talk for a minute?”
“Sure.”
“Tell me what you know about Paige Williams.”
A pause. “Well, I doubt I know much more than you do.” Bailey’s tone became guarded.
Leslie frowned. Since when did Bailey protect some newcomer over helping her get a story? “Bailey, come on, what’s the deal? You called me about her, remember? I’m not asking anything about this case; I just wonder what you know about Paige personally.”
“That’s just it; I don’t know much. She’s only come into Java Joint a few times. But she has this . . . aura about her. Like she’s really lonely and wants friends but is afraid to reach out. I don’t know, something about her makes me want to hug her and tell her everything will be okay.”
Leslie tossed a look heavenward. What else was new? Bailey wanted to hug everybody. Still, Sarah seemed to feel the same protectiveness toward Paige. What was it about this girl? “Anything else?”
“Not really. Except, like I told you before, she was scared to death when she came in here today. Very, very nervous.”
“Okay, thanks. See ya later.” Leslie snapped the phone shut.
She followed Lakeshore as it curved around the top of the lake and headed south. No sign of Chief Edwards on the road yet.
Leslie drove straight-backed, practicing her pitch, trying to ignore the skein of guilt in her belly. So she was taking advantage of some friendless person to get a story. It wasn’t her fault Paige Williams had attracted the attention of the police. The girl obviously had done something. Leslie adjusted a vent, aiming the air-conditioning directly on her face. Did famous reporters like Milt Waking have to use people like this? She flipped through her mental catalog of his major stories. Of course he did. But in the end he helped solve the crimes — and wasn’t that a good thing?
Up ahead, driving toward her, came a black-and-white police car. Leslie drew in her shoulders, wishing for an invisible cloak. The car whizzed by, followed by a second. She sighed with relief. The coast was clear.
Story, here I come.
FIFTY-NINE
Paige lay trembling on top of her bed, curled into a fetal position,
fears and memories fissuring her head.
She couldn’t believe it had come to this.
The reaction of those cops when she’d told them to leave! As much as they’d tried to appear passive, their frustration and suspicion could not be contained. She could only imagine the cataloging of all they’d seen. Why hadn’t she remembered the gloves in that load of laundry? And the attention they’d paid to her swept floors, her rumpled bed. Suddenly everything she’d done that morning to hide her crime seemed a blaring mistake.
Paige closed her eyes. An oily ball of wax rolled through her stomach. She was going to jail, even with an attorney’s help. If she stayed in Kanner Lake, they would catch her in her crimes. Why hadn’t she called the police last night? Anything would be better than what she faced now.
She would have to flee. Tonight. Dig up the metal box buried in her backyard and hit the road. Again.
But how could she? They’d be looking for her car. Her picture would splash across the news. Then everyone would be searching for her. Where would she go? When could she ever settle in and start a life? A real life?
Tears stung Paige’s eyes. For the first time in years she let them fall. To think that just over twelve hours ago she’d been dumb enough to believe the promise that she’d meet her long-awaited sister today. That a girl somewhere out there, with a past as rough as her own, would show up on her doorstep — just like that — and spill all the secrets of her miserable childhood. How stupid. How utterly, ridiculously naïve. Paige Williams was a loner now and always.
Any pieces of hope she’d swept together in Kansas should have been left there.
Paige wiped her tears. Enough. She had to pull herself together. Soon Leslie would arrive. Paige couldn’t let on that she was beaten down, that she had anything to hide. She couldn’t even imagine telling the truth to this attorney. No one here knew the truth about her. Who would accept her if they knew?
Paige, who’s going to care about your past when they find out what you did last night?
A sound from the other end of the house. The click of metal.
Violet Dawn Page 21
