Obsessed (9781617732393)

by Gibson, Jo

  Books by Jo Gibson

  OBSESSED

  TWISTED

  AFRAID

  And writing as Joanne Fluke

  Hannah Swensen Mysteries

  CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE MURDER

  STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE MURDER

  BLUEBERRY MUFFIN MURDER

  LEMON MERINGUE PIE MURDER

  FUDGE CUPCAKE MURDER

  SUGAR COOKIE MURDER

  PEACH COBBLER MURDER

  CHERRY CHEESECAKE MURDER

  KEY LIME PIE MURDER

  CANDY CANE MURDER

  CARROT CAKE MURDER

  CREAM PUFF MURDER

  PLUM PUDDING MURDER

  APPLE TURNOVER MURDER

  DEVIL’S FOOD CAKE MURDER

  GINGERBREAD COOKIE MURDER

  CINNAMON ROLL MURDER

  RED VELVET CUPCAKE MURDER

  BLACKBERRY PIE MURDER

  JOANNE FLUKE’S LAKE EDEN COOKBOOK

  Suspense Novels

  VIDEO KILL

  WINTER CHILL

  DEAD GIVEAWAY

  THE OTHER CHILD

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  OBSESSED

  JO GIBSON

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  The Crush

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  The Crush II

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Epilogue

  Teaser chapter

  Copyright Page

  The Crush

  One

  Deana Burroughs beat her fists against the steering wheel in pure frustration. This had been the absolute worst day of her life, and now her car had conked out on her. The old black Nissan had started making strange chugging sounds right after she’d turned left from Olive Street, and she’d barely managed to make it over to the curb before the motor had given a gurgling cough and died.

  She stared out at the deserted residential street with small, one-level bungalows that were so common in Southern California and thought about the horrible day she’d had. For starters, she’d overslept. And then, when she’d hopped out of bed, knowing she’d be late for her summer session Spanish class, she’d stubbed her toe on the dresser. That little incident should have warned her. She should have gone back to bed, pulled the covers up over her head, and slept the day away. But she hadn’t. She’d raced to the shower, turned on the water, and the cold water knob had twisted right off in her hand. She’d wasted valuable time attempting to re-attach it, so much time that the hot water had run out and she’d finished washing her hair in an icy stream. And from that point, things had just gotten worse.

  Deana rested her forehead against the fake sheepskin steering wheel cover and mentally added up the disasters. The zipper on her favorite pair of jeans had broken, her left shoelace had snapped, and the watch band she’d been meaning to replace had finally given up the ghost. And all that had happened before she’d even left her room!

  She had arrived at summer school twenty minutes late, and found her class taking a surprise quiz. Since it was oral, she’d missed the first fifteen questions, and ended up flunking. So much for her first class. Algebra had been next, and naturally, she’d forgotten her homework . . . again. Miss Berman had been so angry, she’d called Deana’s mother at work, pulling her out of an important conference.

  Deana had been ready to give up right then and skip her last class. But Miss Berman had personally escorted her there, forcing her to sit through another of Mr. Scharf’s boring lectures. She’d dozed off a couple of times, but to her surprise she had managed to answer the three questions he’d written on the board at the end of the period.

  Deana had stared at the questions, and groaned along with the rest of the class. What was the date of the Battle of New Orleans? Who led the American troops? Which river did they travel? It was all Greek to her. But then she’d remembered their last rehearsal at Covers, the teenage nightclub their speech and drama teacher owned. Michael Warden, the featured singer at the club, was fascinated by vintage rock ’n roll and he’d sung a number called “The Battle of New Orleans.” The lyrics had been so catchy, Deana had remembered them.

  In 1815, we took a little trip,

  Along with Colonel Jackson down the mighty Mississip.

  We took a little bacon and we took a little beans,

  We fought the bloody British in a town called New Orleans.

  Deana had written down the answers. 1815, Colonel Jackson, and the Mississippi River. And Mr. Scharf had been so pleased, he’d complimented her in front of the whole class. Deana had walked out of the room with a smile on her face. Could her luck be changing?

  No. She’d gone down to Chuckie’s Wagon for a burger with a couple of girls, and Sally Hornaby had squirted catsup all over her new peach silk shirt, the one she’d been planning to wear the next time she went out with Michael.

  Surprisingly, Deana’s afternoon hadn’t been all that awful. The cable had gone out during Oprah, but she hadn’t really been into interviews with women who beat their husbands anyway. And she’d remembered to put in the roast and baked potatoes the way her mother had asked her to. Of course she’d forgotten that the oven was fifty degrees hotter than it said on the dial, but she’d turned it down just as soon as she’d remembered. Naturally, her bratty brother had complained, but her father had said he didn’t think the roast was that dried out, just a little crispy around the edges.

  Deana’s mother had come home late. She’d been crabby because she’d had to work overtime, and she hadn’t forgotten about Miss Berman’s call, though Deana had hoped she would. Deana was grounded—for a solid month. She couldn’t sing at Covers again until her summer school classes were over. And if she got into any more trouble with Miss Berman, or any of her other teachers, she could forgot about that new guitar they’d planned to buy her for her birthday.

  Even though her mother had been angry, Deana had tried to appeal to her sense of fair play. Yes, she’d messed up. And she wouldn’t do it again. But she’d made a commitment to perform at Covers. Couldn’t her mother see that it wouldn’t be fair to quit now, without any notice or anything? Deana’s mother had pointed out that her commitment to pass her summer school classes was a lot more important than singing at a teenage nightclub. First things first. Then she’d marched Deana up the stairs like a naughty child, and locked her in her room to do her homework and go to bed.

  Deana had watched the clock. Her parents always went to bed early on Thursday nights. When they’d come up the stairs at nine-thirty, she’d hopped into bed with all her clothes on, and waited until her mother had opened the door to check on her. The minute she’d heard the television click on in their bedroom, she’d gon
e into action. The old apricot tree outside Deana’s window had been her secret escape route for years. She’d shimmied down without doing too much damage to her clothing, hopped in the Nissan which was parked a couple of houses down the block, and headed for Covers. She hadn’t been scheduled to sing until ten-thirty, and she’d figured she could get there by ten at the latest.

  But the fates had conspired against her. The Nissan needed gas. Deana stopped at the Shell station on the corner, charged the gas to her father’s account, and arrived at Covers at ten-twenty-five. But she’d forgotten to look at the new schedule they’d posted at the last rehearsal. She’d missed her first set, and someone had been forced to fill in for her. Mr. Calloway had been very upset with her, and he’d told her that if she was late again, she was out. And then Michael Warden had positively glowered at her when she’d told him she hadn’t had the time to learn the lyrics to the duet he’d planned to sing with her.

  Deana glanced at her reflection in the rear-view mirror and frowned. Now Michael was mad at her, and she had to think of some way to make it up to him. They’d gone out the past three Sundays in a row, and she was crazy about him. He wasn’t that much older, only two years, but he’d just finished his freshman year at U.C.L.A. All her high school friends were envious because she was dating a college guy, and it had given her some real status around the high school campus.

  Michael was tall, dark, and handsome, and the best singer Deana had ever heard. There was no doubt in her mind that he’d make it big someday. Since Covers was in Burbank, only a stone’s throw from the studios and the big record companies, Michael had managed to make some good contacts. Mr. Calloway had connections and he sent out tickets to lots of people in the biz. When you got up to perform at Covers, you never knew who might be in the audience.

  Had she blown it with Michael tonight? Deana frowned. She’d had plenty of time to learn those lyrics, and now she could kick herself for putting it off. When she got home tonight, she’d do it. If she got home tonight.

  Deana’s frown deepened. She didn’t dare call her parents to come and get her. They’d be mad she’d sneaked out of the house in the first place, and when they found out she’d spent the money they’d given her for the auto club on clothes, she’d never be allowed to leave her room again! But what should she do? She couldn’t sit here all night. It was almost midnight, and there was no traffic. That meant there were no cars to flag down. This area was relatively safe, but she still didn’t want to try to walk home alone.

  A car rounded the corner, its bright headlights illuminating the interior of her car. It pulled over to the curb to park behind her, and Deana shivered. A rapist? A murderer? But then she recognized the car, and she smiled in relief. Her luck was changing. Help was here!

  It took Deana only a moment to grab her purse and lock up her car. Seconds later, she was standing by the open passenger door. “Boy, am I ever glad to see you!” she said. “My car conked out. Can you give me a lift home?

  “No problem. Climb in.”

  Deana climbed into the passenger seat with a smile on her face. She’d be home in a couple of minutes.

  “What’s wrong with your car?”

  “I don’t know. It just died.” Deana frowned. “It sounded like it was out of gas, but I know that’s not it. I just filled the tank.”

  “Do you want me to stop at a gas station?”

  Deana shook her head. “Don’t bother. I’ll take care of it in the morning. All I want to do right now is get home.”

  As they headed down the street, Deana glanced at her watch. Eleven-forty-five. This awful day was almost over, and tomorrow was bound to be better. Things were always rushed in the morning, and if she was lucky, her parents wouldn’t even notice the Nissan was gone. One of the guys from school could help her fix it, and her parents would never know.

  But this wasn’t the way to her house! Deana turned to the driver in surprise. “You know where I live, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I’m taking a shortcut.”

  “Great,” Deana said. Anything was fine with her, as long as she got home as fast as possible. An experience like this could make her swear off sneaking out of the house for life!

  But suddenly they pulled over to the side of the road, and Deana frowned. “What’s the matter?”

  “Car trouble.”

  Deana almost groaned as she looked at her watch. Two minutes to midnight. This day wasn’t over yet, and this area was really deserted. No houses, just warehouse buildings that wouldn’t open until morning. Her rotten luck was still with her. But at least she wasn’t alone.

  The trunk opened, and then the hood popped up with a solid clunk. Deana didn’t bother to get out to help. She didn’t know anything about cars, anyway. What good would it do?

  “Deana. Come here a second, will you?”

  Deana sighed as she got out. She supposed she was expected to hold tools or something, and she’d get her hands all greasy. She might even break a nail and she’d just spent a fortune having them done. “What do I have to—”

  Deana’s question died on her lips as something hard struck the middle of her back. There was a burst of horrible pain, and she fell heavily to the pavement. The last thing she saw was the bright moonlight glinting off a heavy tire iron as it arced down toward her head.

  Two

  Judy Lampert put her eye to the screen and peeked out through the mesh at the audience. It was a full house tonight, but that wasn’t surprising. Covers had been very popular since it had opened last year. She’d really lucked out when she’d landed this job.

  There was a mirror on the back side of the screen, and Judy checked her reflection. She looked good tonight. Her wavy blonde hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, and she was wearing her usual stage manager’s outfit, a black turtleneck sweater, black jeans, and black sneakers. She was responsible for adjusting the microphones, prepping the stage between numbers, and handling the props. They didn’t have a curtain, so they cut the lights between acts, and no one really noticed her up on the stage as long as she wore black.

  “Ready, kid?” Michael Warden walked up behind her and slipped a friendly arm around her shoulders. Judy felt such a rush of pure pleasure, she knew she would have purred if she’d been a cat. But Michael was only being friendly. She’d lived next door to him for enough years to know that he wasn’t interested in her, except as a sort of kid sister. He hadn’t paid attention when her hair had grown long and wavy. He hadn’t commented when her braces had come off and her smile had turned out picture perfect. He hadn’t even noticed when she’d lost her awkward baby fat, and started wearing the clothes that would show off her new svelte figure. Sometimes Judy felt like the invisible woman. Michael never seemed to really see her. It was frustrating to be in love with a guy who didn’t seem to know that she existed.

  Judy glanced at her watch. Michael was right. It was time to start. She gave him a quick hug. He didn’t seem to mind that, and then she walked to the old-fashioned light box on the wall. During the year she’d been working at Covers, Judy had learned a lot. The first time she’d brought up the lights, they’d clicked and blown a fuse. Now she knew the right way to handle the finicky old equipment. She brought the stage lights up slowly, gradually illuminating the painted flat that formed the backdrop—dark green with a pink Covers logo. Several students from the Burbank high school art class had completed it last summer.

  When the lights were up all the way, Judy cued Michael. He gave her a thumbs up gesture, and walked quickly to the black stool that sat on the apron. Michael was tall, and he didn’t have to climb up on the stool. He just slid on with one fluid motion, crossed his long legs, and grabbed the hand microphone while the audience applauded. All the regulars knew Michael. He was the closest thing to a star they had, and there were rumors about possible singing and acting contracts coming his way.

  For a moment Judy felt almost jealous of Michael’s success. But that was ridiculous. She knew she had no performing skills.
She couldn’t sing, act, do stand-up comedy or play a musical instrument. She didn’t know how to juggle, and she couldn’t do magic tricks. But she was good at her job, and that was all that counted. Mr. Calloway had told her that she was the best stage manager he’d ever had.

  “I’m Michael Warden. Welcome to Friday night at Covers.” Michael grinned and went into his opening speech, the one he gave every night except Sundays during the summer. When school reopened in the fall, Covers would only be open on Saturday nights. But it was summer now, and they were in full swing.

  “I see some regulars out there,” Michael said as he waved at a group of people he knew. “I’m glad you’re back, Bill. Hi, Mary. Nice sweater.”

  Judy tuned out for a minute. Michael always greeted the regulars by name. It made them feel important. But she started listening again when he went back to the script.

  “It’s always good to see new faces in the crowd, and that’s why I’m up here . . . to tell you about Covers.”

  That was Judy’s cue to bring up the back-lighting on the Covers logo. It began to gleam vividly against the dark green background, and she smiled. Back-lighting the logo had been her idea, and once she’d shown Mr. Calloway the effect, they’d used it every night.

  “Covers is our nightclub, staffed by teens with teen entertainment. But Covers isn’t owned by a teen. I’m telling you that right up front, because sometimes my former teacher, Mr. Stan Calloway, tries to pass himself off as a high school sophomore. Stand up, Mr. Calloway, and show everybody how young you look after that last face lift.”

  Judy swept the spot toward Mr. Calloway, and he stood up to take a bow. The audience applauded, and there were a few predictable chuckles from the regulars. Stan Calloway was a short, bald-headed man in his forties, and absolutely no one would mistake him for a teenager.

  “Covers serves the best burgers this side of the Burbank River.” Michael paused, waited for the puzzled expressions, and continued, “That’s the concrete drainage ditch that runs right by the back of the building.”