by Sheryl Lynn
“What’s in these boxes?” McKennon asked.
Frankie rolled her eyes. Since moving in, she hadn’t decorated or unpacked anything she didn’t use regularly. The boxes he indicated contained books, papers and computer disks. “Junk.” She chuckled weakly. “Max’s junk mostly. Textbooks he paid for. Copies of work I brought home from the office. I’m surprised he doesn’t say I stole that stuff.”
She turned to her desk. It looked exactly the way she’d left it. She picked up shredded newspaper off the floor and dumped it in a waste can. She’d turned away before it struck her that there were wads of paper in the can. Since acquiring Cat she’d gotten into the habit of emptying the trash every day. Otherwise he partied hearty with anything made out of paper. Her mouth went dry.
Using her fingernails she fished a piece of paper out of the can. It was common, lined notebook paper. With great care she unfolded the crumpled ball, trying not to leave any fingerprints. “Look at this.”
It was a pencil draft of a note. “Greetings, Julius Bannerman” had been crossed out, as had “Julius Bannerman: We are your worst nightmare come true.”
“Frankie,” Sally said. “Two police cars just pulled into the parking lot.”
McKennon hurried to the window. “Time to go,” he said. “Grab that trash can.”
“There’s only one way out of here,” Frankie said. “Down the stairs. They’ll see me.” A sickening image flashed of herself wearing handcuffs and orange coveralls while trying to explain to a judge that she hadn’t murdered Julius Bannerman and kidnapped her own sister.
“My place,” Sally said. She rushed out of the apartment and opened the adjoining door. Waving an arm, she urged Frankie and McKennon inside.
McKennon had the Butunal vial, wrapped in paper towel, in his shirt pocket. Frankie held the trash can. She wondered what else Max had planted for the police to find.
Sally looked out the peephole in the door. “They’re coming upstairs,” she whispered. “They’re at your place.” Pounding emphasized her announcement.
A man called, “Police, open up!”
Frankie’s hands shook so hard she had to put down the trash can. She stared at the balls of paper in sick horror. If the cops caught her with the evidence, Penny was going to die.
Sally kept watch through the peephole. Frankie and McKennon listened through the thin wall separating the apartments. Uniformed city police officers and plainclothes detectives pounded on Frankie’s door, announcing their identity and possession of a warrant before breaking in the door. The trash can full of papers kept drawing Frankie’s gaze. Deep, aching anger ignited in her chest, spreading until her blood felt hot as it pulsed through her veins. The only way Max could have acquired the vial of Butunal and the note drafts were if he had planned the murder and kidnapping from the beginning.
“The guys in suits are leaving,” Sally whispered.
Frankie’s breath caught in her throat. Now was McKennon’s chance. If he still worked for Max all he had to do was open the door, speak a few words to the police and Max’s problems were solved. McKennon could collect Belinda’s bounty, too. A million bucks would go a long way toward his son’s medical bills.
“Dang it,” Sally muttered. “The cops aren’t leaving.”
McKennon watched the parking lot below. “Looks like they’re waiting for you.”
“Two of them are standing in the hallway,” Sally said. She glanced at the trash can as if it contained a dead animal. “Talk to them, Frankie. Show them what you found. Anybody with any sense knows you wouldn’t hurt anybody. Especially not your sister.”
“Not until I get Penny back.”
“We have to get out of here,” McKennon said.
“I’ll call my uncle. He can tell me if the kidnappers contacted—”
“No.” He shook his head firmly. “Calls in and out of the resort are being monitored. They’ll trace the call in seconds. You can’t risk it.”
“I have an idea,” Sally said. She clapped her hands gleefully. “It’s perfect!”
Twenty minutes later, transformed by Sally, Frankie emerged from the bedroom. She gazed down at herself in dismay. “Are you sure this will work?”
“The best way to hide is in plain sight. Now hold still.” Sally adjusted the wig on Frankie’s head, then stepped back to examine her handiwork. “You wreck my wig, and I’ll kill you with your own cat. It cost me six hundred bucks. That’s real human hair.”
Frankie tried to smile but failed miserably. The wig felt as if it weighed fifty pounds. Her temples throbbed. “I can’t believe you actually wear this thing.”
“You never know when I’ll get lucky.” Sally batted her eyelashes at McKennon. “Big hair, big mouth, that’s my trademark. What do you think?” Sally was a bartender in a karoake club. She sang six or seven songs a night in the hopes that someday a talent scout would discover her.
McKennon swept his gaze slowly over Frankie. A faint smile tugged his lips. She almost groaned. She wore a honey-blond wig befitting Dolly Parton, a stretch-velvet sheath, clinging like a second skin, and a pair of high-heeled pumps.
“Interesting,” McKennon said. “I’ll leave first. You wait five minutes than walk down to the bus stop. I’ll pick you up.”
“What if the cops ask me for ID?”
“They’re expecting a redhead to arrive, not a blonde to leave. Play it cool.”
“That’s me,” she said dryly. “Cool-hand Frankie.” She huffed a deep breath. “Let’s do it.”
Sally moved well out of view of anyone who might peek into the apartment. McKennon opened the door. He carried a shopping bag containing the evidence, covered by the Frankenstein coat. Frankie followed as if seeing a boyfriend out. He paused in the doorway.
“Sure you have to work, babe?” he asked, loud enough for the cops to hear. “Can’t play hooky?”
The police officers eyed the exchange.
“Get out,” she said. “I’m going to be late as it is.” She gave his shoulder a playful push. He caught her around the waist and pulled her to him.
Her body reacted with a shock of familiarity and longing, almost making her forget the seriousness of her situation. Almost making her forget the cops. Instinctively she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders and met his kiss halfway. He kissed her quickly.
He grinned at the cops. He whistled as he walked down the stairs. Frankie turned a cool glare on the cops. She gave a little sniff as if they intruded. She closed the door.
Her knees buckled, and she rested against the wall. “They looked right at me,” she whispered to Sally. Her heart pounded so hard her ribs ached. “What if they recognize me?”
“Do you hear anybody pounding on the door?” Sally hurried to the window. “Nobody is stopping him. He’s getting in his car. Everything is cool. The cops aren’t even looking at him. That’s what you have to do. Just walk out like you don’t have a care in the world.”
“I don’t know if I can. I’m so scared.”
“You don’t have a choice.” She grinned. “So, uh, where did you find him? Hubba-hubba.”
“I used to work with him.” She hoped the heavy makeup job concealed the warming of her cheeks.
“I wish I worked with a guy who looked at me like that.”
“Like what?”
Sally barked a laugh. “If you say you don’t know, you’re lying. That man has it bad for you. You make a cute couple.”
“There is nothing going on between us.”
“Yeah, right.” She opened a closet door and pulled out a faux fur coat. Knee length, it looked like sable. Frankie slid her arms into the sleeves. It was as heavy as a real fur coat, and she was glad. It muffled the sound of her knocking knees. Sally’s expression crumpled. “You going to be okay, kid?”
“As long as I make it past the cops.”
The women embraced. Sally snuffled loudly. “You’re my best friend. Stay safe, okay?”
“You got it.” Afraid she was about to burst in
to tears Frankie pulled away. “Here goes nothing.”
She opened the door and stepped into the hallway. She pulled the door shut and rattled the knob as if checking to make sure it was locked. Her insides clenched up so tightly she wanted to double over and vomit. She forced a snooty expression and looked at the police officers. Both of them were busy looking at her legs.
“You guys raiding a crack house or something?” she asked, grateful her voice didn’t break. A search warrant had been stuck on her door. It took all her willpower not to stare at it. “What’s going on?” She thrust her shaking hands into the deep, plush coat pockets.
“Have you seen your neighbor? Francine Forrest?” a police officer asked. He raised his gaze to her bust level.
She tugged the coat and revealed even more of her body. Anything to keep him from carefully looking at her face. Frankie shrugged. “She’s stuck-up, doesn’t talk to me. What did she do?”
The other officer cleared his throat and frowned at his partner.
The first officer said, “We just want to talk to her.”
“She’s probably at work.” She shut up before she said too much. “I have to work myself. Have fun.” She swished past, feeling their eyes tracking her legs. On the stairs, she gripped the railing tightly, certain the police officers were going to shout at her to stop. The high heels prevented her from giving in to instinct and running.
Once on the street level she strolled along the sidewalk as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Cat, released by the invading police, had reclaimed his patch of sunshine. He watched her with cool insolence as if daring her to chase him.
Stay out then, she thought hard at him. He liked mice better than cat food, anyway.
Two men sat in an unmarked car. Only cops would sit in a car on a day this cold. Attempting an air of bored curiosity she glanced at them and kept walking. The bus stop on the corner looked a million miles away.
She reached the bus stop and caught the back of the bench with both hands. Her knees ached with the effort it took to remain upright. She wanted to look behind her to see if the police pursued, but didn’t dare.
A man in a passing car slowed and honked.
“Hide in plain sight,” she grumbled. She looked like a hooker. How very nondescript.
A sharp whistle behind her made her jump. She whipped her head about. A hank of thick blond hair fell over her eyes. She pushed the hair away and spotted McKennon in the parking lot of a fast-food joint. White exhaust puffed behind his car. She maneuvered between ice patches and puddles of slush. She all but fell into his car.
“I’ve never been so scared in my life.” She hunkered down on the seat.
“You did good.” His smile pierced her soul.
“What now? What’s next?”
He pulled out of the parking lot and into the street. He turned south, away from her apartment. “I haven’t the foggiest idea.”
Whatever he came up with would beat getting arrested, she thought, and wearily closed her eyes.
“HE BROKE A WINDOW. Chuckie’s gonna be so-o-o-o mad!” Paul’s boots clopped on the wooden floor. He kept glancing at the window Bo had broken. The last time Paul broke a window Chuckie had yelled for about three days then made Paul mow Old Lady Broome’s lawn and pull all her weeds. He hadn’t broken this window, but if Bo fibbed and said Paul did it, Chuckie would blow his top.
“Shut up and sit down, you moron!” Bo yelled.
“Chuckie’s gonna be real mad about the window. You shouldn’t have broke it. You really shouldn’t.”
Bo stood on tiptoe. He slapped Paul upside the head. It didn’t hurt, but it shocked him into silence. He slunk to the couch where Miss Penelope huddled like a mummy inside a wrapping of blankets.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now.”
Paul sniffed and swiped his nose with the back of a hand. “I didn’t break the window.”
Bo threw up his hands and stomped out of the room. Paul listened to the little man opening and shutting doors and cabinets. This was a pretty house even if it didn’t have lights. The sun was going down and the house was almost as cold inside as it was outside. Paul didn’t know who owned it, but he guessed they might get mad if Bo made a mess. They sure would get mad about the window.
Bo returned. His eyes looked like little fire lights sunk deep into his face. Paul fidgeted on the couch. Chuckie always said, “Don’t make Bo mad.” Bo looked plenty mad, and Paul was scared.
“No heat, no electricity, no food! What kind of vacation cabin is this, if they can’t even keep it stocked?” He stalked out the front door, slamming it behind him.
“Paul?” Miss Penelope whispered.
“When Chuckie gets back, you gotta tell him I wasn’t bouncing no balls or throwing rocks.”
“What is Bo doing?”
“I dunno. He went outside. It’s getting dark. Chuckie’s awful late. He said he’d be back soon, but it’s late.”
“Listen, we have to get away from Bo.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks. The bottom of the mask over her eyes was discolored by tears. She’d been crying all day. Even when he told her jokes, she cried. He patted her foot.
Her tears made his eyes moist and his throat choked up. “Don’t cry, Miss Penelope.”
“He’s going to kill me. He killed my husband. Didn’t you hear the radio? He murdered my husband and now he’s going to kill me. You have to help me.”
Paul cocked his head. Bo had been listening to the car radio all day while they’d driven around and around the mountains. Since it wasn’t music, he hadn’t paid any attention. Not even when Bo yelled back at the people talking on the radio.
“Bo didn’t kill nobody. He’s Chuckie’s friend.”
“He’s nobody’s friend. He murdered my husband. Julius. The man who was with me at Elk River. He’s dead.”
“Uh-uh! Bo gave him a shot. It was medicine.” He began to worry. Sometimes medicine didn’t work. That’s what happened with Mama. The nurses at the hospital gave her lots and lots of medicine, but she went to Heaven, anyway.
“Listen to me,” she said slowly. “He’s a very bad man and he’s done a very bad thing. Do you understand?”
Paul nodded before remembering she couldn’t see him. “Uh-huh. He broke the window. Chuckie’s gonna be real mad when he sees it. He don’t like broke windows.”
“You have to help me get away. He’s going to kill me.”
“Chuckie says to wait until he gets back.”
“I don’t think Chuck is coming back. The man on the radio said a suspect was taken into custody. That’s Chuck. He’s been arrested.”
Arrested. Paul lifted a hand to his mouth, but caught himself before he sucked on his thumb. Only babies did that and he wasn’t a baby anymore. He dashed at his tearful eyes. “Chuckie gets arrested all the time. I don’t want to go to the Home. When he goes to jail I gotta go to the Home. I don’t want to go there.”
“Shh, shh, don’t get all upset. Okay? I’m your friend, right? If Chuck can’t help you, I’ll help you. But you have to help me first. Then both of us can help Chuck. All right?”
“Chuck says I gotta do what Bo says.”
“Chuck made a mistake. Bo is a bad, bad man. If you do what he says, then Chuck will go to jail and you’ll have to go to that house you don’t like.”
She spoke aloud what he’d been worrying about all day. He didn’t like Bo. The little man was mean and called him names. Worse than that he was mean to Miss Penelope.
“Go see what Bo is doing.”
Paul left the couch and looked out a window. He could see the Bronco parked in the driveway. Deep snow buried the tires. “He’s sitting in the truck.”
Her head turned back and forth as if she tried to see beyond the mask. “Is there a telephone?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Give it to me. Please?”
“It’s hanging on the wall.”
She struggled against the blanket swa
ddling. “Call 911, Paul. You can dial 911, right?”
“I sure can! That’s for ambulances. And firemen.”
“Right! Call them. Dial 911. You don’t even have to say anything. Just call and let the phone off the hook. Okay? They’ll find us. Do it fast before Bo comes back.”
He wished Chuck were here as he looked between Bo and the telephone. Chuck always knew what to do. He was a straight-up kind of guy. Paul wanted to be straight up, too, but too many thoughts rolled around his head, and he couldn’t grab one long enough to know what to do.
“Please, Paul, hurry.”
“Dial 911,” he muttered and went to the telephone. Maybe a fireman would come and start a fire in the fireplace. Then the house wouldn’t be so cold. He lifted the handset. He knew his numbers, but sometimes he mixed them up. He stared hard at the number pad. The nine had the fishhook tail. He pushed the nine. He always remember the number one. Proud of himself, he pushed the one twice. “I did it!” he announced.
She slumped over so her head touched her knees. Her shoulders hitched. “Thank you, oh, thank you.”
“Is a fireman gonna come now?”
“Listen to what the operator says, okay? Tell me what she says.”
He pressed the telephone to his ear. “Nobody is saying nothing.”
“Is it ringing?”
“Nope.”
“Do you hear anything?”
“Nope.”
“Hang up.” She caught her lower lip in her teeth. “Now do you hear a dial tone? Does the phone work?”
He hung up the phone than lifted the handset again and listened. “Don’t hear nothing, Miss Penelope. Think it’s broken?”
A low wail broke from her lips. Alarmed, he hung up the telephone and rushed to her side. “It’s okay, it’s okay, don’t cry now. Don’t cry.” Crouched next to the couch, he petted her hair. It wasn’t so soft now, and tangles made it stick out. He felt bad about that. Ladies liked their hair looking nice, but his comb was in the Bronco and he didn’t want to go there right now.
