by Scott, D. D.
Really, what choice did I have?
• • •
We returned to J.J.’s house. He was up in Boston for the day, having “unexpectedly” received tickets to the Red Sox/Yankees game. Those tickets are hard to come by. Make that impossible. And I can’t imagine what strings Monica Lyn had to pull to get a pair. But I didn’t ask, and she didn’t tell.
With the place to ourselves, we set out on a mission to find the murder weapon and/or the dismemberment tool. It’s not like the police hadn’t already searched the premises after our anonymous tip about the buried hacksaw, but we had the advantage in that Monica Lyn not only knew all the secret hidey-holes in the centuries-old mini-mansion, but also J.J.’s sneaky ways.
We started with the dusty attic and worked our way down to the musty basement. Nothing. I was starting to doubt that J.J. had done murder. And kind of/sort of, in the darkest recesses of my mind, began to wonder if Monica Lyn might not have been the one to have hit her killing point. That could explain her intense focus to frame J.J. in order to get away with it. It could explain her stumbling across the dead body in the first place. I mean, what are the odds that the one day she decides to steal J.J.’s trash can is the one day it’s full of Kitty Kline’s pieces parts? And now that I thought about it, she just seemed a little too intent on proving J.J.’s guilt—and thus her innocence. Why not let the police work things out?
We’d just finished our search of the garage and were heading along a cluttered breezeway/laundry room towards the house proper. “I need a drink,” Monica Lyn said. “You?”
“Diet Coke.” I followed her, my mind trying to hold back the questions leaking through the wall between conscious and subconscious thoughts. “With a splash of rum,” I added, detouring to the half bath off to my left. “I’ll be right there.”
I closed the door and leaned against the pedestal sink, closing my eyes against the riotous jumble of tropical colors of the bathroom’s décor. After drawing a deep breath of plumeria-scented bathroom air, I forced myself into a frank, honest, no-strings-of-friendship-attached assessment of the situation.
Monica Lyn hadn’t taken J.J.’s infidelity well (what loving and devoted wife would, though?) nor were the divorce proceedings tilting at all in her favor. She was about to loose not only the man she loved and the house she’d turned into a home, but also the financial security she’d enjoyed all her adult life.
So maybe she’d gone to his house to try to work things out but found Kitty there alone, wearing the satin kimono Monica Lyn bought on their recent trip to Japan, or bathing in her Jacuzzi tub using her ME! Mulberry bath salts, or just sitting around the pool drinking her Ketel Vodka. That might have been enough to set Monica Lyn off, after all Kitty was the cause of the unraveling marriage. (I’m not naïve enough to think that J.J. wouldn’t have hooked up with Kitty had there not been other problems, but I’d only heard Monica Lyn’s side of the story and the evidence was pretty damning against J.J..) Maybe, just maybe, an argument ensued and Monica Lyn reached her killing point.
After she’d killed Kitty and stuffed her in the Hefty Cinch-Saks, maybe Monica Lynn then concocted a plan to frame J.J. for the murder. My arrival in town cast me in the starring role of witness for the defense. I was the perfect shill. Innocent, trusting, faithful, and above all, in debt for a lifetime of favors.
There were a lot of maybes in there, but it all made perfect sense. Much more sense than all the other possibilities combined.
But what would Monica Lyn do with me now that I’d figured it out? Would she blackmail me into keeping my mouth shut? Or would she make sure I kept my mouth shut by killing me too? Possibly. Wait, we’re talking about Monica Lyn here. No “possibly” about it. Once Monica Lyn set a goal, there was not stopping her. And I was about to stop her from framing J.J., and pointing her out as a murderess.
A cold fear spread through my body. The type that set my teeth chattering. I had to get out of here. And I had to do it without Monica Lyn’s knowledge or suspicion.
I reached for the doorknob, preparing to sneak out through the garage and down ott he bus station. But the sound of angry voices coming from the kitchen gave me pause.
Monica Lyn’s I identified, but the other I wasn’t so sure about. It sounded like J.J., but the tone was lower and raspier. Maybe he’d caught a cold that night he’d slept poolside.
I opened the door a crack and saw Monica Lyn running down the breezeway, followed in hot pursuit by Scott Hunter, J.J.’s twin brother. The years had not been kind to him. His once swarthy complexion was now ashy; his athlete’s muscle had gone to fat; and those blue eyes, which had once sparkled with mischief, were nothing more than narrow slits of steel.
I watched as Scott reached out and grabbed Monica Lyn by the ponytail, snapping her head back. With a skill perfected by four years on the varsity wrestling team, he wrapped her in a full Nelson. And with just as much practiced ease, pressed a stiletto knife to her jugular. “You didn’t fool me,” Scott said, his voice sounding like sandpaper on granite, “sending J.J. off to the game so you could poke around his house and find evidence of his Ponzi scheme. The proceeds of which kept you living like the rich bitch you are.”
“I don’t care about his thieving ways. We were looking for the murder weapon, you jackass.”
“J.J. didn’t kill Kitty. I did,” Scott boasted. “She found out about our little financial scheme and was threatening to go to the police. J.J. wouldn’t last a day in prison. I’m just looking out for my bro’.” Scott drew the knife slowly from the tip of Monica Lyn’s hairline down her nose and across her chin.
Monica Lyn whimpered but didn’t scream.
I almost screamed, but slapped my hands over my mouth to keep it in. It also helped keep in the vomit that bubbled up at the sight of the blood droplets forming along the slash line.
I eased back from the door and pressed my back against the cool tiles. Think, think, THINK! Scott was the killer, not J.J., not Monica Lyn. Of course not Monica Lyn. How foolish was I to think my best friend capable of such a heinous act?
If I didn’t do something, Scott was going to slice and dice her, the way he had Kitty Kline. I couldn’t hide in the bathroom while he did.
My eyes scanned the bathroom for some sort of weapon but found nothing heavier than a double role of Charmin.
Monica Lyn whimpered again.
I reached out and slid the medicine cabinet open. It contained one item, a bottle of OFF! bug spray. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had.
Scott spoke again. “And now you’re gonna join Kitty, the queen of sluts, at the bottom of the landfill. You and that sidekick of yours. Hey, where is Spring Roll, anyway?”
“She went to pick up lunch at Melba Moon’s.”
Now that was some BFF, trying to save me from being slashed up. How could I have ever doubted her?
“Good.” Scott said. “I can take my time and enjoy this.”
One heartbeat later, Monica Lyn let out a blood-curdling scream.
I didn’t think, just acted.
With my eyes closed, I yanked open the door, leapt into the breezeway and pumped that bug spray with every ounce of self-preservation I had. A mixture of ethyl alcohol, DEET, aloe and fragrance filled the breezeway.
“Shit!” Scott yelled. “Holy fuckin’ shit!”
Sharp, slicing pain shot up my arm followed by spreading warmth that indicates a gushing blood flow. I directed my bottle of OFF! towards where I thought I heard Scott breathing, still pumping that plastic nozzle like my life depended on it. Which it did. I threw in a couple of swift kicks, making contact with something hard, but I didn’t know if it was Scott or the washing machine, since my eyes remained closed. I kept spraying, moving my arm in sweeping arcs to make sure I covered all directions.
Silence registered on my senses. I cracked my peepers open just enough to scan the room. Scott was only a few inches away, rubbing his eyes with the palm of one hand, holding the knife in the other. Monica Lyn laid crum
pled, facedown, on the ground, in a puddle of her own blood.
I reached for bottle of Clorox on the shelf near my elbow near and threw it at Scott. It glanced off his temple, knocking him backwards. In the process, he dropped the knife.
I pounced on that stiletto like a seagull on a bologna sandwich, wrapping my hand around the hilt and slashing and stabbing in Scott’s direction. He crab-crawled out of arm’s reach, but I kept after him with sweeping slashing movements, not aiming, but hoping to make contact with a vital organ.
I heard the faint sounds of sirens in the distance. Monica Lyn must have had presence of mind to hit the panic button in the kitchen.
Scott must have heard them too, because he rolled to his hands and knees then to a sprinter’s starting position.
I lunged forward, the Stiletto sinking deep into the back of his thigh.
“I’ll kill you for that, bitch.” Those were his parting words before he escaped out the garage door.
I ran to Monica Lyn’s side and rolled her over. Gawd, it looked like he’d played a game of tick-tac-toe on her beautiful face. Her left eye dangled from its socket by the merest wisp of tissue. She’d lost a lot of blood, but was still breathing. Barely.
• • •
Nothing would please me more than to report justice has been served and that Scott has been sent up the river for life without possibility of parole; that J.J. sailed with him for his knowledge of the murder; that Monica Lyn cleaned up in the divorce; and that I, as the hero of the day, returned to my quiet life as a cotton merchant in Memphis, Tennessee. But things didn’t turn out quite that way.
Scott escaped and was tracked as far as Nova Scotia, where he just plain disappeared. He could be dead. Should be dead. Probably was dead. But there is the slim chance he is still alive and will some day track me down and finish the job of slicing me to pieces.
J.J. was convicted of running a Ponzi scheme, the likes of which shook the small seaside town of Sagucci to its core. But he had a good lawyer, and I’d lay even money he’d be out on parole in less than ten years.
Monica Lyn is scheduled for her third cosmetic surgery next week, but her beautiful face will never be the same. And it’s not just physical pain she’s suffering through, there’s financial anguish, too. All those riches she and J.J. had enjoyed throughout their marital life went to payoff investors. No more McMansion on the hill. No more worldly travels. Not even any more ME! bath salts. She’s moved in with her parents in their tiny house on Fisher Street.
As for me, I still have nightmares where Scott busts through my front door and slashes up more than my arm. The images haunt me during the waking hours, too. No longer able to keep my mind on task, I was fired from my job. I’m now working as a hostess at the Pig ‘N Whistle until I am able to close that horrific chapter and move on with my life. It’s going to take time, though.
Right now, I can’t go five minutes without looking down at my arm. Every time I do, my finger traces the pink scar that runs from my wrist to my elbow, a forever reminder of when I’d been middle-aged and foolish.
THE END
About the Author
Jayne Ormerod writes what she knows—small towns (influenced by her childhood growing up in Chagrin Falls, Ohio) and beach settings (thanks to her adult years spent living within a flip-flop’s throw of the ocean.) After graduation from Miami University in Oxford, Ohio, Jayne married a naval officer. Twenty-eight years and eleven duty stations later, they currently reside in Newport, Rhode Island. Jayne’s B.S. in Accountancy served her well at first as she became a CIA (that’s not a sexy spy thing but a Certified Internal Auditor). But with all that moving around it soon became apparent that she needed a more transportable vocation so turned to writing. Jayne’s first cozy mystery, The Blond Leading the Blond, was published by Avalon Books in 2012. The hardcover version can be purchased through booksellers, or rented (at no cost to you) through your local library system. The ebook version should be available in summer, 2012. To learn more about Jayne, check out her website or visit her Life’s a Beach blog.
TRUE FATE
By Tracy Sumner
One
Lainey Prescott was back, but she wasn’t sure she was happy about it.
She took a slow sip, wishing the wine could transform her hometown. But, no. Thirteen years and still the same: Casey’s Feed, Holworth Drug, The Bluff Dinette. Standing on the sidewalk in front of Timmy’s Nook, the red and blue neon a colorful spill across cement, she recalled the nights Timmy helped her get her father into their car, where he would invariably spend the night only to stumble in the next morning. But waking up in a parked car beat waking up in an alley. Hell, she’d spent most nights in high school waiting by the phone instead of spending time with her friends because someone needed to make sure her father made it home. And after the age of nine, after her mother left, the job had fallen to her.
Now, her father was gone, her uncle, too, and here she was, back where she’d started. As clueless as the teenager who had left the love of her life behind without a backward glance. Ah, that silly girl, she had wanted more. Lainey gazed at her reflection in the window of the Nook, thinking that the horse wearing more’s colors had come in dead last.
She smiled, but it felt rough around the edges. Like her father had often told her: Use the horses to prove a point when you need them, darling girl, even if the point you’re proving is to yourself.
Once the daughter of a bookie, always the daughter of a bookie, she guessed.
The crowd of people attending the festival flowed around her as she gazed up and down Main Street, flags attached to lamp posts whipping, a sign at the end the street announcing the “Pine Bluff Spring Festival” in bold lettering. The hum of voices and music filtered to her on a gentle breeze, the sounds as vague and indistinguishable as her emotions.
She polished off her drink. Actually, Pine Bluff looked a little like an aging beauty queen working hard to impress.
And if she was the guy, she wasn’t interested.
“Lainey, are you in there?”
Lainey shook her head and turned with a smile. It wasn’t genuine, but she’d gotten very good at deception. Fontana Quinn, her best friend since freshman year, had her own challenges in life, raising her teenage sister and struggling to establish a landscaping business. Lainey had not done a good job of keeping in touch, and she didn’t think spilling her disaster of a life like a drink on the sidewalk was fair, even if she desperately needed someone to talk to.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Fontana asked as she reached into her purse. Coming up with a tissue, she shoved it into Lainey’s hand.
Lainey blinked, felt the tear track down her cheek. “Sorry, Tana, to be like this. The festival…” She dabbed her cheek, her nose. “I have no idea what’s come over me.”
“Please. Who cares about the damned festival? I could tell something was wrong from the moment you stepped off the plane this morning…but I wanted you to talk to me without me having to force you to. I get sick of being the pushy one in every relationship in my life.”
Lainey swiped a finger beneath each eye and battled back a laugh. “I think the telling requires more alcohol.”
“Great, we have beer and wine tents open all weekend. There’s even a tasting tomorrow night. Pine Bluff has gotten very hip, Lainey. With your new haircut, you’ll fit right in.” Fontana took the tissue from her friend and stuffed it in the pocket of her threadbare jeans. “Well, I’m not hip. You know me. As usual, arriving at the party covered in dirt and grass stains. What can I say? The life of a landscaper is not as glamorous as it sounds.”
Lainey drew a breath scented with sunshine and spring blossoms, warm air that would be as heavy as a boulder by summer. As she gazed into Tana’s vivid blue eyes, she realized she needed to tell someone how her life had eroded until she stood on little more than the cracked cement on Pine Bluff’s main avenue. Cheating husband, career meltdown. She could cover the situation with those four wo
rds.
However, she could not, would not, tell a soul she was considering moving back to the town she’d once thought to escape. Not yet, anyway.
“What do you think? We can gossip and drink, eat crappy food and sleep until noon. You can tell me about the man who got away. I always thought someone did. And I’ll tell you how I always dreamed of having a man good enough to wish back into my life.” She shrugged. “Unfortunately, as you may recall, the losers I dated didn’t get away fast enough.”
Lainey lifted the cup to her lips, then remembered she had finished hers off. “Actually, there was someone…someone the summer before college. I never told you about him. And sometimes, in the darkness, you know, in the dead of night when you feel the loneliest, I think of him and I…I wonder.”
Wonder if I made a big mistake.
Fontana turned Lainey to fully face her, her mouth falling open. “The summer after high school? Lainey, who?”
Lainey had not thought of Justin True in, well, months. Days. No, hours, because she had thought of him on the plane. Damn. When she’d been married, thoughts of him, especially the first year or two, came often enough to make her angry.
And confused.
After all, although she had ended the relationship, he had lit out of town two days before her. When had any True taken being denied well? She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but two headstrong teenagers from the wrong side of the tracks had seemed a recipe for disaster. Her life had been a disaster, and Justin’s had finally been headed in the right direction.
Life at the Prescott house involved checking race results every five minutes, her father’s customers stopping by at all hours to beg for more time or more credit, shoeboxes of money in the freezer and buried beneath the azalea bushes in the backyard. All she’d wanted at seventeen was to live in a household where she didn’t have to worry about the police showing up. What fifteen-year-old girl had known how to post bail as efficiently as Lainey Prescott?
