Verona’s voice wavered. “But will we find them in time?”
55
Kellen and Birdie followed the star path down the back stairs and outside into blinding sunshine, startling heat and the heady smell of grapes from the crushing shed. Not surprisingly, Rae’s stars headed away from the tents and the masses of people congregating for the wedding and toward the edge of the lawn, where the vines began their orderly march. There wasn’t much out there, just the old red barn and the wine blending shed.
A gang of Di Luca teenagers were running across the lawn, laughing. Annabella and her cousins stopped and stared at Kellen and Birdie.
Kellen and Birdie waved vigorously. “Thirty minutes!” Kellen yelled and pointed at her arm, at the watch she wasn’t wearing.
The kids waved back, smiled and went on their way, chattering about their early glimpse of the bride.
“Thirty minutes until the ceremony?” Birdie moaned. “We haven’t got much time to wrap this up and get you married.”
“The wedding is the least of our worries.”
“Don’t tell the three hundred waiting people.”
“It might have been better if I wasn’t the only woman dressed in bridal white.” Kellen’s stiletto heels sank into the grass, and she stopped, yanked them off and hooked them into her belt.
“You do stand out.” Birdie lifted Kellen’s train. “We’ve got to be careful of grass stains.”
“Focus!” But Kellen understood Birdie. She was trying to keep things real, make sure Kellen was calm and prepped for battle. She pulled out her phone and kept walking. “I’ll call Temo. You call Adrian. We need them.”
One ring, and Temo picked up. Kellen heard a speed and volume of Spanish she had never imagined from the even-tempered Temo.
Birdie heard him, too, because she disconnected and stared.
“Stop, Temo. Stop!” Kellen spoke a little Spanish, but not like this. “What happened? Where are you?”
In painstaking English, Temo said, “This puke of a security man has detained Adrian and me. He has taken our weapons, and he is all puffed up with indignation and disbelief that you would bring in a couple of ringers, as he calls us. Like we are bells!”
“That dumb son of a bitch. Put him on.” Kellen barely waited for Parliman to say hello. “You don’t realize who you’re messing with. Release my friends at once.”
Her tone must have penetrated Mr. Parliman’s thick skull, for he said loftily, “This is most irregular. I will speak with Mr. Waldberg and Mr. Di Luca about you. I was told these two criminals were carrying firearms by that man who—”
Kellen heard a thump. Abruptly, Mr. Parliman stopped speaking.
Somewhere near, a man shouted.
Another thump.
Temo picked up his phone and spoke to Kellen in a cold clear voice. “Two dumbass security men down. We’ll retrieve our weapons and be there ASAP.”
“Come to the edge of the property,” Kellen instructed and hung up. She turned off the sound and put the phone on vibrate.
As they passed under one of the massive cherry trees, they heard a worried old voice call, “Kellen, il mio cara, you’re not running away from Max again, are you?”
It was Bisnonna Debora, leaning against the trunk, and Kellen whirled to face her. “No. I won’t do that.”
“Marry him today,” she said. “It won’t be as bad as you fear.”
Kellen believed her. But...she looked around. No one was near. “Bisnonna, what are you doing here so far away from everyone?”
“I was looking for the restroom.” She dabbed at the sweat on her cheek, and her hands were shaking. “One should always go before a wedding. But it’s very far and I’m afraid I’m confused.”
“There’s no one to take charge of her,” Birdie said in a low voice.
The kids had disappeared, probably doing exactly what Bisnonna wanted to do—visit the restroom before the wedding ceremony began.
“We can’t call security to come and get her,” Kellen said.
Bisnonna Debora moaned and slid down the tree trunk.
Birdie caught her arm.
“Would you take her...?” Kellen asked.
“Okay.” She slid her arm around Bisnonna Debora’s waist. “We don’t trust any of the staff now?”
“I don’t know. Anyone Arthur hired—”
Birdie fumbled for her phone. “I’ll call Carson. He’ll meet me and take her.”
“Perfect.”
“We can do this. We’ll get Bisnonna Debora cared for, and we’ll be back as quickly as we can.” Which was as quickly as Bisnonna Debora could walk. “As soon as you know your destination, let me know!”
“I will.” Kellen moved on, moving quickly, holding her skirts off the grass, watching ahead of her, following the star path—which disappeared halfway between the barn and the wine blending shed. “No!”
Rae must have run out of stars. Kellen looked between the two buildings.
The barn was too open, with too many ways to get in. But the shed had one way in, the door.
The shed it was.
The door should be locked, but a pick set could open it. All the windows were up at the second-story roofline, a long line of old-fashioned warehouse-type awning windows. In there, a kidnapper could contain Rae and pick Kellen off as she breached the door—Kellen, and whoever came in with her.
Obviously, she wasn’t going in the front door. She had to get to one of the windows. The cherry fruit pickers were finished for the summer, so no ladders were available, but there was a lean-to built onto the shed, a place to store lawn mowers and, oh gee, clippers. Kellen smiled. Nice shiny long sharp clippers, much better for defense than colored pencils.
When she tried the door to the lean-to, it creaked open into a shadowy interior. Inside, gardening equipment was neatly arranged on hooks around the walls, and the pink handles on the hand tools made Kellen think this was Verona’s domain. So many of these tools meant to pierce and turn the earth qualified as weapons; Kellen chose a thin pointy set of pruning shears, light and easy to carry. She smiled at the eight-foot ladder; it would get her onto the lean-to roof and from there, up to the windows.
Climbing a ladder in petticoats and pantyhose was a special hell reserved for, well, her, but she did a good job of it. Dragging the ladder up onto the lean-to roof while trying to maintain silence made her strain and puff—whoever had invented corsets with their cursed plastic stays should be damned—and Kellen was glad that none of the windows were open. Of course, that might present a problem all its own...
She placed the ladder on the lean-to roof, leaned it against the shed’s wall and wedged it into place with her colored pencils. With her heels tucked in her belt and the clippers in one hand, she got to the top of the ladder, to the last step that warned, “Danger! Do not step on me!” And she stepped on it. That got her chest height to a window. She dug her fingernails under the bottom seal and tugged. The hinge moved; the glass shifted a reluctant inch.
Yes! Yes! Why lock a window up so high? Using a deliberate motion, she opened it as wide as it would go, stuck her head in and listened.
There. She could hear Rae’s voice saying, “My mommy and daddy are going to come for me, and you’re going to be sorry.” She gave the word a loud, whiny emphasis.
Kellen loved it. Her little girl was alive and defiant.
She pulled out her phone and to Max and Birdie, she texted, Wine blending shed. Then she waited, wanting to tell them who they were facing. She had expected to hear Arthur’s voice. But while this voice was familiar, it was definitely not Arthur.
A man spoke. “The only part I’m sorry about is—” He stopped in the middle of his sentence, as if he was trying not to be goaded.
Kellen froze.
Who was he?
No matter. Rae was alive, and
it wasn’t going to be easy, but Kellen could get herself inside.
She texted, Not Arthur, slid her phone back into her pocket, hung her pruning shears on the wall, one handle on either side and out of her way. She placed both her hands on the sill, and using all of her upper body strength, she raised herself to the full extension of her arms. Now. This was the tricky part. She maneuvered herself sideways, crooked one knee and never mind the damned heavy skirt, got her leg inside. After that, everything else was easy. The turn, the rotate, the slow drop onto the top of the giant oak wine cask...
It was like killer Olympic gymnastics, only in slow motion and with death as the punishment for failure.
Her toes touched, barely, and she lowered herself to stand flat-footed. She took a moment to balance herself on the sloped oak.
“What was that?” The man’s voice echoed up to the high ceiling and around the bare metal walls.
Kellen held herself carefully still and released her grip on the window. The wood was rough; it snagged her hose.
“I didn’t hear anything.” Rae’s voice was blasé, then rose with excitement. “Wait, I did, too. That rustling noise?”
The sound of Kellen’s skirts.
“Yes.”
“That’s a mouse.”
“A what?” He sounded horrified.
Big tough man, killer of women and children, scared of a mouse.
Rae sensed his weakness. “Maybe a lot of mice. Or a rat!”
“You little brat.” Loathing filled his voice. His familiar, almost recognizable voice...
Kellen took the pruning shears in one hand, slid to her knees and crawled, first hand, one knee, then the other hand, other knee, to the front edge of the cask. Her voluminous skirt made every movement an ordeal. The silk rustled and whispered.
In extravagant Di Luca–voice volume, Rae said, “I like mice. And rats. My science teacher says rodents carry fleas and disease, like the Black Plague. All these people dying of pimples exploding all over their skin. Gross! Don’t you think it’s gross?”
Rae was making life difficult for the man, working on his nerves, and doing a good job of it, too, while she waited for her mommy to arrive and rescue her. She had learned so much on their trek through the mountains...or perhaps she had a knack for annoyance.
Kellen grinned. That was her kid.
When Kellen got to the front of the cask, she found herself at the middle aisle that cut through the blending shed, high over the long table where she and Max had talked and made love. Directly below was the tap and the wooden bucket placed to impress the tourists. Facing the door were two figures, a balding brown-haired man dressed in a white suit and white shoes with no socks—okay, that was weird—and her daughter in her too-ruffly gown with the purple accents, holding her plastic princess doll case. Pink, of course.
The Triple Goddess sat on the table, her eyes facing forward, facing backward...and facing up, watching Kellen, demanding action.
“I’m not afraid of mice. Are you?” Rae’s voice was now innocent.
“No!” The man tightened his grip on Rae’s arm.
“I bet you are,” Rae said. “I bet if I dropped one in your lap, you’d run and scream like Martin.”
Kellen loved her daughter so much.
“There are no mice!” But he turned to look behind him.
He had no goatee, no mustache, no pointy eyebrows. His dark glasses had disappeared.
But it didn’t matter how much he had changed his appearance, Kellen should have recognized this man; she was staring into the face of her first husband, Gregory Lykke.
Gregory. He had cut her, humiliated her, broken her bones, taken the child he had conceived with her and killed it.
Poor baby. Never a moment of life, of breath, all chance taken from her from the man who should have loved her most.
Then the man on the floor turned back toward the door, and the illusion vanished.
Not Gregory. Similar in bone structure, eyes, lips, brows, sure. But with thinning hair and eyelids that sagged over cool brown eyes.
Not Gregory—then who? A Lykke relative, obviously. She’d never met any of the male relatives; Gregory had been too jealous to introduce her to another man, but she did remember the family talking about Daniel, a cousin they scorned as a parasite, a musician and...an actor.
An actor.
Kellen took her mental identification card labeled Dan Matyasovitch, tore it up and threw it away.
He held Rae’s upper arm tightly, so tightly that Rae squirmed and tugged and said, “My mommy’s coming!”
“I hope so. That’s the plan. That’s why I let you scatter your stars.” Rae must have stared at him in horror, for he laughed. “Did you think I didn’t know what you were doing? Stupid kid.”
“I’m not stupid!”
“Yeah? Think about this. Your stars will bring your mommy, and then I’ll shoot her.” He showed Rae the Glock he held in his free hand. “I’ll kill her.”
“You’re mean. You’re weird. Why would you want to kill my mommy?”
Yes, why?
“Because I’m a Lykke.”
That Kellen had figured out. She placed the pruning shears carefully, where they would not topple to the floor.
“A like?” Rae was truly confused. “Like on social media?”
“No. A Lykke. Part of your mommy’s first husband’s family.”
Using the balance she’d developed from years of yoga, Kellen stood on the sloped oak surface of the giant cask, lifted one stockinged foot and slid the blue garter off her thigh.
“Gregory was my cousin. The Lykke family is a noble, wealthy family from New England, and everybody’s dead except me...and her.”
There it was. Kellen’s mind clicked all the pieces into place.
With everybody dead, the Lykke family fortune hung out there, waiting to be claimed. Kellen was really Cecilia. Cecilia had been Gregory’s wife...and was of course next in line for the inheritance.
Money. Of course. Dear cousin Daniel wanted to kill her to secure the fortune.
56
Kellen hadn’t thought of the Lykke fortune and her claim on it. Why should she? In the nine years since she’d escaped Gregory, her life had been in turns despairing, terrifying, adventurous and laced with the kind of surprises that would shatter most people.
Yet the money...my God. When she married Gregory, it had been in the tens of millions. On his death, his sister Erin had taken up the reins of the industry; she had been a brilliant businessperson, and fully as crazy as her brother.
Kellen’s mind clicked through the facts: Gregory had lived long enough to tell Erin that Cecilia still lived. Last winter, Erin had hunted her down, tried to kill her, and killed herself instead. Cousin Dan must have been thrilled to think he was the sole heir and the fortune was his, but Erin had left information letting him know that Cecilia lived. And true to the family’s mad creed, he had come after her—and her daughter—intending murder. Not for vengeance, but because by now, the fortune must be worth...
Wowza. A lot.
Kellen wanted to jump on him and kick him into next week. Maybe she could have, if she wasn’t wearing this wedding dress and all its petticoats and the corset and...
Damn Zio Federico. And praise him, too. Right now, these spike heels were the best throwing weapon in her arsenal.
First, she needed Daniel to face her. She stretched the garter between her hands like a giant lacy rubber band and shot.
The stupid thing didn’t so much fly as wobble, catching unseen air currents and doing no more than ruffling Dan’s thinning hair. He half turned to look behind.
Rae spotted her and shouted, “Mommy!”
Kellen pulled one spiked heel out of her belt and flung the stiletto heel as hard as she could.
It bumped Dan’s chest with e
nough impact to make him exhale with an “oof!”
She threw the second heel.
He leaned forward, into the arc of the next heel, and the stiletto lived up to its name—it took a divot out of his cheek.
He let go of Rae and grabbed his face.
Blood dripped.
“You bitch,” Daniel shouted.
Kellen heard the hint of a Boston accent. He had been the one pinching Rae’s cheek and questioning her.
With the pruning shears in one hand, she slid down the curve of the barrel and dropped six feet to the cold concrete floor. Her feet slipped out from under her—damn slick silk hose!—and she landed in an ungraceful heap. Pain shot through her hip. She struggled to right herself and move into the fight.
He lifted his Glock and took aim, his brown eyes cold and intent.
Kellen was about to die, and her daughter would die with her.
Instead, her daughter—her daughter—yelled, “Watch this, Mommy!” and swung the pink princess doll case at the side of his knee.
Rae couldn’t do any real damage. She didn’t have the muscle mass. But she used all her strength.
He stumbled sideways.
The shot went wild.
In a stunning follow-up, Rae opened the case and flung five naked princess dolls under his feet.
He stepped on one, then another, off-balance, arms outstretched, weaving madly.
“Rae, run!” Kellen shouted.
Rae whacked him, a good princess-case blow to the groin—groin, groin, groin, groin—and took off toward the back, toward the barrels, where she could hide.
Kellen didn’t take the time to stop and laugh. She laughed as she charged, pruning shears extended. She laughed as the points hit him in the belly right above the waistline.
Daniel screamed. Red stained his white suit jacket, but the material must have been patented for superheroes, for the shears bounced back and out of her hands. They clattered away on the concrete floor.
What Doesn't Kill Her Page 31
