HER SISTER'S KILLER an absolutely gripping killer thriller full of twists

by MICHELLE S. SMITH

  Suddenly, Victoria saw the other person’s arms reach out to grab Todd, and the air was split by a scream, a terrifying, rasping scream that chilled Victoria to the marrow.

  “Stop!” yelled Victoria, leaping up.

  She started running toward them, just as Todd’s companion snatched the beer bottle from his hand, and smashed it over the beggar’s head, leaving him in an inanimate heap.

  Victoria tripped over a rock on the path and came down with a tumble. She pushed herself up, wincing, dimly aware that tomorrow she would be scratched and bruised. She raced over to where Todd was lying and caught a glimpse of a figure in the distance sprinting away.

  She knelt over the body of the man. “Todd! Todd! Can you hear me?” she shouted. Shattered glass lay all around him, and a large, bleeding cut zigzagged its ugly route across his forehead. Another deep cut was oozing blood from the back of his head where he had fallen.

  There was no response from the man, and she felt frantically for a pulse. She felt the faintest throb with her fingers and said a silent thank you. With trembling hands, she took out her phone and called Steve’s cell. No reply. She tried Karen Timms. No answer. Where was everyone? She pulled off the long-sleeved sweater she had tied around her waist and held it to the cut on Todd’s forehead. She was too scared to leave him in case his attacker returned, and she didn’t want to stop compressing the cut.

  “Help!” she shouted at the top of her voice while with her free hand she scrolled through her phone for Karen’s number. “Anyone? Help!”

  “V-Victoria?” she heard a familiar voice say, and she glanced up to see Joe, slightly stooped and an anxious frown above the heavy glasses, hastening toward her, followed by Claire Timms.

  Claire gasped. “What happened?” she asked, hurrying forward. “We were just out walking.”

  “T-Todd has been badly injured,” Victoria stammered. “Someone tried to kill him.”

  “I’ll call my mom,” Claire exclaimed, pulling out her phone.

  “There’s no answer from her or from Steve’s cell,” Victoria replied. Her stomach lurched as she put her fingers on Todd’s pulse again and felt it weakening further.

  At that moment, Karen phoned Claire back, and she spoke hurriedly to her.

  “Mom’s coming,” Claire said. “She’ll bring the car to the Meeting House.”

  Joe helped Victoria to rise and steered her away with a gentle touch on the arm. “Stand back,” he said. “I’ll carry him.”

  Joe was surprisingly strong and lifted Todd easily into his arms.

  Claire took over holding Victoria’s sweater to the beggar’s forehead, and the three hurried out into Main Street as Karen pulled up in her SUV.

  “What happened?” she exclaimed, leaping out. “Put him in my car. Why didn’t you call for an ambulance?”

  “I don’t know, it all happened so fast. We couldn’t get hold of you,” Claire said as her mother flung open the doors for Joe.

  “I left my phone at home,” said Karen. She frowned as she leaned over the motionless form slumped in the seat.

  “Is he still alive?” asked Claire, her voice trembling. Joe put his arm around her, and she held on to him gratefully.

  Karen nodded. “Just.” She glanced up at the three anxious faces staring at her. “If we get him to the hospital now, he may have a chance. Let’s go!”

  Chapter 25

  The mood at the police station was tense.

  “How is Todd?” asked Steve.

  “Breathing,” Victoria replied. “Barely. And no change in his condition.”

  “Did forensics reveal anything about his assailant?” asked Karen. She nodded at the report in Victoria’s hand.

  “This is the report for the attack on me at Norway Pond,” she said, continuing to read. “Todd’s report I’ve already read.”

  “Anything interesting in either?”

  “Blood spatter analysis confirmed what I saw of the attack — a direct blow to Todd’s head with a bottle. And of course he was badly hurt by the injury to the back of his head when he fell. I also have the results of a DNA sample from the attack on Todd and a sample of DNA from under my fingernails as well for my assailant.”

  “The same person I presume?”

  Victoria glanced up. “That’s the surprising thing. The results from the two tests show that the attacks were carried out by two different people.”

  “Two people involved?” puzzled Karen. “Were both assailants involved in Rebecca’s murder then, and why?”

  Victoria sat down, poring over the results. “That doesn’t really make sense,” she said. “The motives for Rebecca’s murder seem to be either romantic jealousy or an argument. Doesn’t make sense that either would be carried out by two people working together. I keep thinking and thinking who might have had the biggest motive.”

  Victoria closed her eyes trying to sort through the list of those who might conceivably have had something to do with Becky’s murder. The names in her head went around and around in circles. She opened her eyes and found Steve watching her closely. She looked back, trying to read his mind. And at the center of it all was Becky. Young, beautiful, vibrant Becky, who smiled on everyone with the same kindness. Then all smiles stopped together . . . and the only one who knew who had done it was Todd. She had to keep him alive.

  * * *

  The walls of the police station felt like they were closing in on Victoria, and her head was pounding. Her tea sat cold and untouched on her desk. She stood up, stretching stiffly, and checked her phone. Two hours past the lunch break she hadn’t taken. She had to get out. She grabbed her car keys and headed for the door.

  * * *

  Sarah’s Hat Boxes.

  Victoria stood gazing up at the shop sign with its black background, framed with a red margin and displaying in the middle a picture of three hat boxes, stacked in the fashion of a tiered cake.

  She walked inside, feeling the heaviness lift as she revolved slowly on her heels to take in the multitude of hat boxes. Becky had loved it here. There were as many boxes as she remembered from her childhood. Round boxes, oval boxes, square boxes, boxes decorated with flowers, boxes with seashells, boxes with polka dots, boxes of every shade, from the blues of azure, laguna, navy and aqua to amethyst, burgundy, cerise and flamingo pink.

  She tried to imagine what she would have bought for Becky and stared at the shelf in front of her, torn between an oval box with blue starfish and a white box with a black rim displaying the Eiffel Tower.

  “I would choose the starfish,” a voice said in her ear, and she jumped.

  “Steve! What are you doing here?”

  He shrugged.

  “I saw your car as I drove past and came in out of curiosity. Are you going to a wedding?” He lifted a cylindrical ribboned wedding box of white moire and held it up for her inspection.

  “Put it down,” Victoria hissed. “You’ll get fingerprints on it.”

  He grinned and returned it to the shelf.

  “You haven’t answered my question yet,” he said.

  “I came here as a child,” she replied. “I just wanted to see it again. Maybe buy a box as a memento.” To feel close to Becky again.

  He took her by the elbow and leaned across her to point at a box in the corner.

  “What about that one?”

  His closeness made her dizzy. Victoria realized she was holding her breath and forced herself to exhale.

  “Something wrong?” she heard Steve’s voice say teasingly.

  His eyes glistened with a playfulness that made her feel breathless again.

  “I like that one,” she managed. It was a tiny box, striped in the colors of the rainbow.

  She reached out for it, but Steve lifted it off the shelf himself.

  “Allow me,” he said with a wink.

  “What? No, you can’t — I don’t need — you really don’t have to.”

  “I know,” Steve steered her to the counter and took out his wallet. He turned
to her once he had paid and placed the box in her hands.

  “A peace offering for calling you jealous,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she replied, moved, raising her eyes to his. She thought of Becky again and how much she had loved her rainbow-colored scarf. She hoped her voice sounded steady. “It’s beautiful. This is exactly what I would have chosen.” For you, Becky.

  “If it’s beautiful, then it suits you,” he replied.

  * * *

  Even Victoria finally succumbed to the thrill of the ball when Janet wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  “What do you think?” she demanded, spinning in front of Janet on her stilettos. Victoria’s sleek satin dress, ebony and ankle-length, with a daring slit up one side, clung to each curve in true secret-agent fashion.

  “Beautiful,” grunted Janet, who was trying to do up a zip on a dress she’d last worn before having children. “Help me here. I may need surgery to get out of this again.”

  “Breathe in,” Victoria laughed. She zipped her friend in at last, stood back and gave her a thumbs up. “Blake is going to be sorry he’s only arriving tomorrow.”

  When they arrived at the country club where the ball was being held, it was already flooded with people, the murmur of conversation intermingling with music from a live band playing light classics.

  “Isn’t that ‘Moon River’ they’re playing?” said Victoria.

  “Could be. I love violins,” commented Janet. She caught the eye of one of the musicians and smiled as she passed. “What a mass of people. There must be over a hundred here already.”

  The ballroom, used often as a wedding venue, fitted the crowds comfortably. Guests sat chatting around circular tables decorated with glass vases holding multicolored roses or stood in excited huddles beneath the high ceiling, from which golden chandeliers hung. Waiters weaved their way across the floor, offering snacks and strawberry rosé punch.

  “Shrimp cocktail, Swedish meatballs, oysters, crab cakes . . . I’m in heaven,” declared Janet, her fingers hovering indecisively over the hors d’oeuvres.

  Under the chandeliers, the men looked suave in Bond-like suits, and the ladies shimmered in the light, some in skintight miniskirts, others in chiffon that swayed with each movement, revealing toy revolvers strapped to their thighs.

  “Itchy feet?” asked Janet as she saw Victoria nodding to the music.

  “Shall we dance?” asked an oily voice, and Victoria turned to see Maurice, flashy in an expensive suit, holding out his hand.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Steve pulling Claire onto the dance floor. Victoria suppressed a pang as she realized for the first time how beautiful Claire was. Petite and timid and so ready to admire someone as confident and charming as Steve.

  “Why not?” she replied, taking Maurice’s hand.

  Maurice held her close, his breath hot against her neck, and she fought the panic that rose up within her. She felt her chest tighten. She couldn’t breathe, and her head felt sickeningly dizzy.

  “Spin me,” she ordered. Anything to get away from the clammy clasp of the man.

  He spun her out, and as she spiraled, she noticed Steve watching her, a jealous gleam in his eye.

  “You look gorgeous,” Maurice wheezed, a little out of breath from the exercise as he drew her closer.

  “All for a good cause,” she said. “Spin me again!”

  He chuckled. “You’re a little exhibitionist, aren’t you?” She gave an involuntary shudder and almost bumped into Steve.

  “The next dance is mine,” Steve murmured in her ear, leaving her fuming that he hadn’t even bothered to ask her.

  The music ended, and Victoria gratefully withdrew her hand from Maurice’s. Steve, she noted, was still preoccupied with saying something to Claire, laughing as he teased her. Not that she cared at all. She felt a light tap on her shoulder.

  “I’d have known you for a spy anywhere,” John remarked, smiling down at her. She colored, annoyed with herself for noticing how well his black jacket and white-button shirt suited his broad-shouldered form. He proffered his hand questioningly as the next song began. She hesitated, then, as she saw Steve striding confidently toward her, nodded at John and placed her hand in his. He held her hand lightly, leaving enough space between them that she felt able to relax. Following her gaze, he smiled ruefully.

  “Are you using me to make him jealous?” John asked, lifting her effortlessly off her feet as they turned a corner. She felt lighter than air, as though she were flying.

  “I suppose so,” she admitted, “but I would have danced with you anyway.”

  His foot slid slightly, and he involuntarily held her to his chest to regain his balance. She could feel his muscles, hard and comfortingly powerful, through his shirt.

  “Sorry, too close,” he muttered, hastily releasing her. She was both relieved and, at the same time, oddly disappointed.

  He looked up over her head to where Steve was glowering at them. “Your technique is working,” he commented. “He’s ready to wring my neck.”

  John nodded at Maurice, now standing next to his wife. “Did you notice?”

  She looked at him questioningly.

  “Look at his sleeve as we dance past,” was all John would say, steering her in that direction. He slowed as they neared Maurice, and as they danced past him, he lifted his hand to his mouth to cough. Victoria blinked, startled.

  “The cufflink. It’s identical to the one we found.”

  “Maybe he has several pairs,” John replied. “You think he was down there at Norway Pond?”

  “And was connected to the assault?” Victoria completed his thought. “I suppose it could easily be someone else’s, or he could have lost it another time, but he’s slimeball enough for anything.”

  “I’d watch my back if I were you,” John recommended as the music faded and Steve approached them.

  “She’s mine now, Gardner,” he said coolly, taking her arm. “Let’s get some air.” She pulled away her arm but walked with him, a thrill tingling her spine. “We can talk better here,” he said, leaning back against the trunk of a yellow birch outside the venue. A wooden table that had held drinks for arriving guests lay beneath it.

  “You want to talk?” Victoria queried, her mind still half on Maurice’s cufflink.

  “Why, what did you have in mind?” he teased her, and she was grateful the evening dark hid her face. Then he was serious again, and his eyes appeared to her almost tender.

  “I’m worried about you, Victoria. The attack on the homeless war vet, the attack on you — I don’t know if you’re safe here.”

  “What do you mean?” she said.

  “Next time you might not be so lucky. You could be killed.”

  Victoria stared at him disbelievingly. “You aren’t suggesting I quit, are you?”

  “I would still work on the case,” Steve said. “Give you regular updates. Come up to Chicago maybe.”

  The innuendo in these words brought the color back into her face, but she shook her head. “I need to be here.”

  Steve frowned.

  “You don’t trust me to solve it. Is that it?” he asked. “You honestly think you need to be here?”

  Victoria was needled by the accusatory tone. “She’s my sister, Steve! So yes, I think I need to be here! I refuse to leave until I have justice for her. Why would you ask me if I am going?”

  Steve leaped forward and dashed aside the table between them, his eyes blazing.

  “You want to know the real reason I asked?” he demanded, his volume raising, and Victoria straightened too, equally angry and slightly frightened.

  “Yes, Steve, yes,” she said. “Yes, I want to know.”

  The next moment, his arms were around her and her back was pressed up against the tree trunk. Bending his head, he kissed her, not the tentative brief kiss of the other night, but one so intimate and passionate that her head reeled. Her first instinct was to push him away, but it had been so many years since she
had allowed anyone near her, and the touch of his lips on hers drove all sense of sanity from her. Instead, she found herself entwining her arms around his neck and pulling him closer, her heart thudding wildly. He finally released her, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

  “That is why,” he said huskily, his hands cradling her face.

  “I’m not leaving,” she whispered. She drew him to her again. “We’re in this together, Steve.”

  Chapter 26

  “Home at last!” called a voice to Janet from the doorway of her home, and a stocky, dark-haired man staggered in, laden with suitcases, followed by a wildly unkempt puppy. Victoria watched as two young children shoved past their father and flung themselves at Janet.

  “What is that?” Janet demanded, hoisting her four-year-old son onto her knee and pointing to the doorway.

  “My dog!” Harvey said proudly.

  “Our dog,” corrected seven-year-old Carrie, pulling a face at her brother. “She’s ours!”

  “Say hello to my friend Vicky,” said Janet, and both children grinned up at Victoria.

  “Hello,” they chorused, and Harvey gave a shy wave.

  “I mentioned the puppy to you, didn’t I?” Blake said sheepishly. He kissed his wife.

  Janet stared at the overgrown pile of fur panting its way toward them. The dog’s shaggy coat was a glorious mixture of mocha and caramel shades, and her parentage was clearly indeterminate. Her long collie-like tail fanned out as she thumped it on the ground, her ears drooped in the manner of a beagle, and her legs were those of an Afghan hound, her paws almost invisible below mountains of fur. She crouched on the carpet and made a large puddle, then flopped down by their feet.

  “That is not a puppy,” Janet responded emphatically. “It is a floor mop with a tongue and no bladder control, and we’re taking her to the vet before she produces a string of little floor mops that eat us out of house and home.”

  Harvey pulled a face at his sister and mouthed, “She’s my dog!”