“This seemed like a good idea back at the shop,” Crystal whispered, “but now I’m not so sure. I feel like a mummy on All Hallow’s Eve.”
“Trick or treat,” I chirped. “Maybe we can work each house along the way.”
“Come on, Gwyn, aren’t you scared?”
“If we get caught, we get nothing more than egg on our faces. You think Boone’s going to toss us in jail?”
“It’s not your cop that worries me.”
I stopped walking. “You think we could be walking into more than Letty or the cops?”
“Hell, yes. Don’t you?”
I did. I’d just been trying to ignore it. That’s why we were here—because we didn’t believe Letty when she said everything was fine. Which could mean Marshall had her completely brainwashed. Or it could mean she had company.
“We’re just walking in there,” Crystal continued, “without so much as pepper spray. I mean, how smart is that?”
“Nobody needs weapons in Golden Beach—”
“Nobody needed weapons in Golden Beach. Times, they are a-changin’, girl.”
“I’m counting on Scott. It’s not like we didn’t tell anybody where we’re going.”
“Uh-huh.”
We resumed our walk down the narrow road, framed mostly by older homes that had resisted developer buy-out of their now pricey waterfront land. My spirits picked up as we approached Bella Vista and I saw only two cop cars sitting outside. What looked like miles of yellow tape undulated slowly under the condominium’s security lights. Unfortunately, from what we could see, the lights on the waterside were as bright as the lights at the entrance. So were the lights in the home this side of Bella Vista. No chance to sneak down to the water without being seen.
We sauntered on down the road, trying to look inconspicuous. Maybe the black mummy look was a bit much. We probably stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. But no one seemed to notice us, or if they did, they figured we were just two oddball snowbirds out for an after-dinner walk.
On the far side of Bella Vista, a hedge of oleanders towered eight feet high, probably the homeowner’s effort to block out the condominium that had intruded on their sleepy little neighborhood. Gratefully, Crystal and I slipped along behind the hedge until we reached the water. No one yelled at us.
Still lurking behind the oleanders, we surveyed the area. Even from ground level, Letty’s panoramic view was breathtaking, a collage of lights around the bay transforming a crisp Florida night into a fantasy world. Pinpoints of light from houses and street lights on the far side of the bay. Strong white beams from the lights on the bridge at the head of the bay. And up close, the glow from Bella Vista’s many windows and the brilliance of the security lights illuminating the swimming pool and the array of boats anchored at the condo association’s private dock.
I glanced up and, yes, the stars were adding to the show, Orion hovering like a talisman overhead. Okay, Gwyn, you’ve procrastinated long enough. Gathering my courage, I stuck my head around the end of the oleanders and examined the west side of Bella Vista’s grounds.
Not a soul in sight, not even a cop. Hopefully, any official surveillance was being done from inside the comfort of the two patrol cars.
I called Scott. He was just pulling up to the marina’s gas pump, towing a twenty-four-footer whose newbie captain had failed to check the fuel supply before he went off to fish a sandbank six miles out. I told Scott that Crystal and I were poised to make the final approach to Bella Vista. He wished us luck and promised he’d be ready for back-up in twenty.
Twenty minutes was about right, I thought—if we didn’t get stopped in the hundred feet from the oleander hedge to Bella Vista’s rear entrance. To reach our goal, we were going to have to walk past the swimming pool, where the lights were so bright we might as well have been on stage. “We’d better carry the cloaks,” I said. “Better to look like two residents out for a breath of fresh air than a couple of ninjas trying an end run around the police.”
“Are you sure of this?” Crystal hissed as she pulled off her cloak. I nearly groaned out loud. The design of Crystal’s caftan du jour consisted of giant cerise and yellow peonies on a white background. I swear she glowed in the dark.
“I might as well be a lighthouse,” Crystal pronounced mournfully.
“On the bright side,” I said, with considerable effort to channel Pollyanna, “no one who sees us is going to think we’re trying to sneak in.”
“Right.” Crystal sounded far from convinced.
We folded our cloaks over our arms, hoping they looked like jackets, and strolled across the grass along the seawall as if we had every right to be there. Ten feet, twenty . . . the brilliance of the pool area loomed ahead. I winced as the spotlights hit us. Our feet touched concrete. We kept going past the Jacuzzi, past lounge chairs and small round tables. We were behind the building now, sheltered from the two cop cars . . . but was a guard lurking at the back door?
To our right, a variety of cruisers and sailboats clustered around Bella Vista’s substantial dock. All were dark, not a would-be sailor in sight. The night was so quiet I could hear water lapping softly against the sea wall and the creak of ropes as the boats swung gently in their berths. In the distance I saw the moving lights of a good-sized cruiser coming this way, but it was still too far out for its engines to disturb the peace and quiet. Hopefully, it was a boater returning from a long day on the Gulf, and not the Golden Beach patrol boat doing a drive-by check on Bella Vista.
Better get a move on.
Bella Vista’s rear door was glass. I tried to see into the lobby as we passed the pool, but not all of it was visible. We might be able to bluff our way past an officer, but a security guard for Bella Vista would be familiar with every tenant. And—blast it!—instead of a security guard, a code was probably needed to open the door. I should have thought of that. All our efforts, our success in penetrating the grounds, for nothing. Furious with myself, I did the final steps at a near run. I grasped the door and pulled. It swung open so easily I nearly fell over backward.
The small lobby was deserted, nothing more than a list of names and an intercom system displayed on one wall. Crystal tried the inner glass door that led to a hallway and the bank of elevators. It didn’t budge. Of course it didn’t. So much for sneaking up to the penthouse.
“Letty will let us in,” Crystal said. “Buzz her.”
I did, and received a surprisingly prompt buzz back. Was she expecting us?
Or perhaps someone else?
Or maybe it wasn’t Letty who buzzed us in?
Tantalizing will-o-the-wisps that never quite coalesced into coherent thought swirled through my head as the elevator took us up to the top floor. A voice seemed to be trying to break through, but I couldn’t pin it down. My common sense? Crystal’s black and swirly visions?
When Letty’s door opened, would it be the lady or the tiger? Were we rescuing a friend or charging into the lion’s den with all the naivety of people who had lived too long in pristine, uneventful Golden Beach?
I rang Letty’s doorbell. Marshall Johnson answered. Frankly, he looked as shocked to see us as we were to see him.
Chapter 21
Letty’s alleged fiancé recovered quickly. “Miss Halliday and the fortune teller,” he said smoothly. “How kind of you to call.” He stepped back, waving us inside with a gesture worthy of a sixteenth century courtier.
Crystal and I burst past him, running to Letty, who was sitting on her cream silk brocade sofa, her face crumpled, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Letty, what’s happened? What’s wrong?” Our questions tumbled over each other as Crystal sat down beside her and I knelt at her feet.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Marshall answered for her. “Not that I planned on the two of you or my idiot son forcing me to adjust our time schedule—but I’m nothing if not flexible. I thrive on challenges. You might say challenges are my forte—the Williams family against the world.”
“Williams?�
� I asked.
He ignored me. “So few real challenges,” Marshall continued, obviously entranced by his own rhetoric. “Most people are gullible, so easily fooled.” He paused, focusing his steely gray eyes on Crystal and me. “But not you two. Congratulations. I find you worthy opponents.”
I gaped at him. He wasn’t even trying to hide his deception. Which was definitely not good for Letty, Crystal, or me.
“Let’s call it a stand-off,” I said. “You leave and Letty promises not to press charges.”
“Press charges?” Innocence shown from Marshall Johnson like rosy pink clouds around the setting sun. “Against me? But, my dear, I haven’t done a thing except keep my dear Letty company. She loves me, do you not, my sweet lady?”
I almost gagged. We all stared at Letty, waiting . . . I pulled a tissue out of my purse and handed it to her. She mopped her wrinkled face, sniffed, and finally replied, “I loved you, Marshall, I truly did. You were everything a lonely old woman could ask for. But I’ve had doubts for a while now—in my heart I knew these girls wouldn’t shred my happiness without good reason. And then, when I heard about what happened to that poor girl last night and the news said they were looking for Eric . . . well, I realized these dear girls must be right.”
Letty glanced from Crystal to me, her tear-filled eyes begging us to understand. “I told Marshall I needed more time . . . and he showed his true colors. Oh-so-smooth, but hard as nails. He’s held me here for hours, waiting for something, I don’t know what.” She broke her gush of words with a hiccuping sob. After wiping away more tears, she added, “I’m so sorry you girls got yourselves mixed up in this, and all because you cared. So very sorry.”
Tears overcame Letty again. I could only squeeze her hand and wonder if Scott would get here before whatever Marshall was waiting for went down. Stall, keeping talking. I turned to Marshall, who had produced a shiny black gun. No surprise. “What have you done with Royal Willie?”
“A nice meaty bone with animal trank. He’s sleeping it off in the bedroom.”
Marshall’s cellphone rang. “Hell!” he burst out, as he answered the phone.. “Where’ve you been? I thought it was you a few minutes ago, and it turns out I buzzed in the costume lady and the fat fortune teller. “No,” he responded, “can’t leave them here. We’ll have to take them with us. Shut up and listen! No. More. Bodies. No collateral damage. That’s how we keep going. Turn serial killer and every cop in the country will be looking for us.”
Bad news and good news. Evidently we were going wherever Marshall and Letty were going. And we might make it out alive, if whoever was on the other end of that call—probably Eric—didn’t get his way.
As for Letty . . . not much doubt that Marshall was going to find a way to marry her. That had been the whole point of this five-month con. Letty Van Ryn’s millions. But Eric fouled things up by getting involved with Alexis Lippincott. Now the Johnsons were on the run, forcing Letty into a quickie marriage the only way to salvage their scam.
“We’re going on a trip, ladies,” Marshall said, motioning us toward the door with his gun.
No way to make a run for it without Marshall shooting at least one of us, so not an option. I opened the door and stepped out, leaving the others to follow—Crystal supporting Letty with an arm around her shoulders and murmuring soothing words, Marshall and his shiny black gun bringing up the rear.
When we reached the ground floor, Marshall ordered us to the back door. Outside, everything still looked deserted. Where were the cops? Didn’t they patrol the perimeter or something? The irony of wanting the police to see us, when we’d tried so hard to avoid them not a twenty minutes earlier, didn’t escape me. Unfortunately, they were still invisible, evidently sublimely certain they had everything under control.
I paused on the walkway leading to the dock, looking around. Was Scott hiding out there somewhere? Marshall growled, I moved forward.
There were new lights at the end of the dock, a large cruiser, probably the one I’d seen as Crystal and I approached Bella Vista. The one I’d thought of no consequence. Marshall shooed us forward. Well, duh, the bad guys had conceived the same “attack the postern gate” idea Crystal and I had. Except they’d gone us one better. They had a boat.
Scott, where are you? If you’re still putting Sea Tow to bed for the night, I’m going to throttle you.
If I lived that long.
My thoughts cut off abruptly as ready hands helped us aboard—the Mutt and Jeff characters I’d seen at Antiques Etcetera, although the tall one was more like the Hulk than the skinny Mutt from the old comic strips. I blinked when we entered the cabin. And blinked again. Looming large was a man who looked a lot like Eric Johnson, only younger and tougher. Or maybe that impression was due to the AK-47 cradled in his arms. He not only appeared to know how to use it, but like he would have no qualms about doing so. Was he the third man Chad had seen at the cabin in the woods?
Eric Johnson was sprawled on the built-in beige vinyl couch, his arm around . . . Vanessa Kellerman? I gaped, every ounce of sophistication stripped from me. Vanessa and Eric? My wild flights of imagination were right? These two knew each other? A big yes. And from the looks of it, they knew each other well.
Smoke drifted across their faces from the cigarette of an older woman seated next to the cozy pair. A woman who had been attractive in some dim past, but whose features had turned stone-cold hard. A woman who made Madame LaFarge, placidly knitting as guillotined heads rolled, look like Mother Teresa. Something about her was familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. Perhaps it was the family resemblance, for I was nearly certain she was the mother of Eric and AK-47. Which likely made Marshall her husband.
Oops. That wasn’t the end of my Wow moment. I also knew the man at the wheel. Jeb Brannigan and I stared at each other, his face gone almost as pale as the cruiser’s outer hull. “No way,” he protested, shifting his gaze to Vanessa. “I said I’d pilot, but you didn’t say nothing about grabbing somebody I’ve known my whole damn life.” Shaking his head, Jeb lifted his hands from the control panel. Marshall shifted his gun in Jeb’s direction, the AK-47 went from cradle to lethal in one second flat. Jeb’s blue eyes widened, his hands flipped up, palms out. Grimly, he studied Marshall, as if trying to decide if he really meant it. Evidently, the answer was yes. Jeb shrugged. “Okay, okay, but it’s going to cost you double. Maybe triple,” he added as he turned back toward the control console.
“Leave it, Johnny,” the older woman ordered. “He got the message.” The Eric look-a-like tilted the rifle down. Slowly.
We’d stumbled into a nest of vipers—Letty, Crystal, and I. Mother, father, two sons, and two goons. And Vanessa? Was she Eric’s sister? Lover? Wife?
Oh. My. God. It finally came to me: we were on board Rainbow’s End, Martin’s dreamboat. And my wildest speculations were all coming together. Martin’s murder, Alexis’s murder, the burglaries, Letty’s lethal marriage—
My stunned brain finally made the connection. The older woman was Virginia Mills, Basil Janecek’s caretaker. Before me were the perpetrators of all the recent deaths and disasters. The full circle of evil.
“Take their cellphones and put ’em in the stateroom,” the older woman ordered. “We’ll figure what to do with them later. Let’s get out of here.”
Interesting. Evidently this clan of “travelers” was a matriarchy. For all Marshall’s smooth confidence, it was the woman known as Virginia Mills who was giving the orders. His wife? I was nearly certain of it.
Mutt and Jeff herded us down a couple of steps into a cabin that spread across the stern of the boat. Two built-in bunks, two small port holes and a couple of skinny, built-in closets near the door . . . and the vibration of the twin diesels powering up. I heard the snick of the latch and then we were alone, the three of us, wondering how—when we’d had enough warnings and clues to fill a bottomless pit—we’d managed to get ourselves into this fix.
Ropes thudded onto the deck. Rainbow’s End p
ulled away from the dock. I knelt on the bunk on the bay side and tried to see where we were going. Probably straight out the jetties into the Gulf. With the GPS turned off, we’d be nothing but a dot on countless square miles of water. Turning into the Intracoastal Waterway, however, would be like entering a trap, every drawbridge tender a spotter on our progress. Even worse for the “travelers,” if the drawbridges stayed down, Rainbow’s End and her flying bridge were going nowhere. A delicious prospect, except the Gulf of Mexico was a scant mile away and, ignoring the No Wake zone, we were picking up speed,.
Closer, ever closer to the jetties. I examined the porthole more carefully. Surely it was designed to open for ventilation on a hot day. There were always people on the jetties—it was a favorite spot for night fishing. If I could shout loud enough to be heard over the sound of the engines . . . Maybe I could wave something. I looked around the cabin and saw nothing movable but the dark, heavy bedspreads and Crystal and Letty, who were seated side by side on the opposite bunk. I eyed Crystal’s caftan—what a signal that would make! With a soft sigh, I settled for my long-sleeved white pullover. But first, I had to get the porthole open. If there was a light switch in this cabin I hadn’t found it yet. My fingers fumbled their way around the circular window and finally found a latch. There! Letty gasped as the room flooded with the brisk air of a January night on the water.
I stripped off my sweater, got a good grip on it, and waited. The porthole was too small for my head to poke through, but my sense of timing said we’d reach the jetties any moment now.
A great roar. I crashed to the floor, sprawling over Crystal and Letty as both engines went into emergency reverse, gears grinding, water spraying so widely droplets flew in the open porthole. What the . . . ? Leaving Letty to Crystal, I scrambled back up to the bunk and peered out. Rainbow’s End was moving forward again, turning north into the Intracoastal. As she turned, I saw the jetties as I’d never seen them before—a string of small craft were lined up bow to stern across the entrance. A blockade. God bless Scott. I thrust my sweater out the porthole and waved it in a wild, erratic arc. Before the jetties disappeared behind us, I caught a glimpse of the local police boat, blue lights flashing, breaking ranks to give chase.
Death by Marriage Page 20
