Dying to Get Published
Page 34
Chapter 34
"Disposed of bodies?" Moore squeaked out.
"Not real bodies," Jennifer confessed, easing up from the couch and moving to stand in front of the fireplace so that Edith could only cover Moore with the gun. "In my books. I did a lot of research. Concrete's the best. Give me a good ol' construction site any day. Piece of cake."
"Where?" Edith asked.
"A new car dealership is going up on the northern end of River Road. Yesterday I noticed a frame for pouring concrete had been put up."
"Isn't that a little shallow?"
Jennifer shook her head. "Those blocks are a good two to three feet thick, especially in the area where they do the repairs and have all that hydraulic equipment. You don't see the thickness of the foundation because it's dug out. My dad ran a construction company. I know about these things." Actually, she knew nothing about them. Her father had been a teacher, and she had no idea how deep a concrete pad needed to be to hold anything. She was banking that Edith was just as ignorant as she was.
"What would we have to do?" Edith asked, not blinking an eye. Inwardly, Jennifer sighed her relief.
"We'll wrap the body in plastic. You got any plastic around here?" Jennifer asked Moore.
If Moore had been apoplectic before, he was now close to a stroke. She thought it better not to include him further in this conversation.
Jennifer shrugged. "Well, no matter. We'll find something that will do. We'll need a couple of shovels to dig out the gravel. And it would help if we had something to carry the excess dirt away when we get done, so it doesn't look like the work site has been disturbed. This house is on a big lot. I bet it requires a lot of yard work. Moore's got to have most of what we need in his outbuilding. He probably has the plastic out there, too, the kind used to keep down weeds. If not, we can use blankets."
"When do we kill him?" Edith asked, nodding in Moore's direction. He was making a whimpering sound.
"Later. Not here. We want the police to believe he's still alive, which means no blood stains in the house. Once we get rid of the body, we'll come back and plant the clown costume and the gun. You still have the costume, don't you?"
"It's at home, but you've got the gun, the one that killed Penney Richmond."
Jennifer stopped cold. "I do?"
"It's in your sofa. I slipped it down between the cushions when I was at your house." Edith looked at her sheepishly. "At the time, it seemed like the thing to do."
"And that?" Jennifer asked, pointing at the gun trained on Moore.
"Don't worry. It's not traceable."
Jennifer didn't want to know what kind of crime connections Edith had or what kind of arsenal she had built. She let the subject drop.
"We'll need some rope to tie up Moore," Jennifer pointed out. "I noticed a flashlight in the kitchen drawer and a collection of keys when I was catering the book party. You stay here and keep Moore covered while I get them."
Without a backward look, Jennifer walked out of the den and into the kitchen. She collapsed for a moment against the counter, breathing hard. Edith must be buying her story. She didn't follow her or order her back. Now if she could just get through this without getting Moore killed before she got the drop on Edith…
She stared at the phone that hung on the wall. Did she dare dial 911? Some extension phones gave that little "ding" sound when another phone on the same line was being dialed or at least displayed a line-in-use message, and there was a phone in the den. She couldn't risk it.
She could arm herself with a knife, but she hated knives. They were so sharp. And where would she hide one? No, the knives were better left where they were.
She opened the pantry and gave it a quick look-see. Too bad Moore didn't have an Uzi or at least a shotgun lurking among the spices. The man was not one to plan ahead.
Her eyes lit on a spray can of cooking oil. She snatched it up and placed it on the countertop. Then she rummaged through the tool drawer, finding the flashlight and a key ring that was labeled TOOLSHED. Next, she went to the door to the outside and unlocked it.
When Jennifer got back to the den, Edith had pushed the ottoman away from the sofa and was now sitting on it as she made little circles with the gun barrel in Moore's direction. She really wanted to pull the trigger.
Edith looked at Jennifer dangling the key ring from her second finger and holding the flashlight with her right. "Found them. Be back in a sec." Jennifer crossed the room and was out the door before Edith had time to react.
Darkness. It'd be so easy, now, to get away. She could get in her car and speed to the nearest police station, or at least call them on her cell phone. But what would she tell the police? Moore would testify that she planned to kill him, assuming he were still alive when the police got there. Not only that, but he would testify that if she weren't actually Penney Richmond's murderer, she was at the very least an accessory. He'd heard her admit to being in Richmond's apartment building that night to kill her.
No, if she were to save Moore, and herself in the process, she needed something other than the police. She needed a colossal distraction.
She doubled back to the kitchen and noiselessly let herself in. She grabbed the can of cooking spray and shook it vigorously. Then she thoroughly coated the tile from the hallway well into the kitchen. That should do it.
Next, she carefully extracted a half-dozen stainless steel forks from the drawer. She laid them in the microwave and set the timer for a full five minutes on High.
Then she stopped up the drain, took down a pot, and turned it upside down in the sink. She plugged in the toaster, placed it atop the sauce pan, spread a dish cloth beneath the faucet, turned on the water, and pressed the lever on the toaster.
She looked once again about the room, shoved the flashlight deep into her pocket, and silently opened the back door. She took one last, deep breath for courage and pressed her icy index finger against the Start button of the microwave.
A crackling sound accompanied the shower of sparks that began to war inside the appliance. Jennifer dove through the door, rolling onto the grass outside. Recovering her balance, she ran several yards away from the house. And waited. And waited. Maybe all those cautions about metal and microwaves, not to mention toasters and water were just—
The explosion boomed across the yard, shattering the window above the sink. In almost the same instant, the house went totally dark, silhouetted in the silvery light of the quarter moon.
Wow! She hadn't expected the lights in the den to be on the same circuit as the kitchen. But for all she knew, the circuit box could now be one piece of molten metal. She hoped she hadn't done too much damage. It'd be just her luck to have Moore sue her.
And she hoped there wouldn't be a fire. Fires were not good.
She dashed back toward the house. Silently, she opened the French door to the den and slipped in. She heard a low moan coming from the direction where the couch should be. At least Moore was still alive—sniveling, cowering, but alive.
Echoing down the hallway was a series of oaths. Good. Edith had found the cooking spray.
Jennifer turned on the flashlight and shielded its glare as she made her way to Moore and the couch. He looked alarmingly white in the yellow glow of the beam.
"Jennifer?" he asked.
She placed her fingertips over his lips to shush him.
"Come on," she whispered, dragging his reluctant body up off the couch. "We've got to move fast."
She pulled his arm around her shoulder. His free arm found her waist and squeezed, going for one last grope before he met his Maker. "Let's get the heck out of here," she told him, pushing his arm away.
On the patio, they paused.
"Get!" Jennifer ordered.
Moore stood there, staring.
"Get to the closest neighbor and call the police."
"You mean you're not going to kill me?" Moore choked out.
"Of course not. If you haven't noticed, I'm saving your life. Now go. Call the poli
ce before I get myself killed."
Moore turned and fled into the darkness. She only hoped he had some idea where he was going.
Jennifer switched off the flashlight and slipped back into the house. Somewhere in the darkness was a real murderer, a real murderer with a real gun.
"Edith?" Jennifer called out. "Edith, what happened? Are you all right?"
It was, after all, quite possible that Edith hadn't put two and two together, that Edith had no idea she was responsible for the explosion in the kitchen, and no idea she was betraying her big-time.
"Jennifer, is that you?" Edith called back. "Where's Moore?"
"I don't know," Jennifer lied. "I can't find him."
"Then get in here and help me up," Edith ordered. "Every time I try to stand, I slip back down. I think my ankle may be broken."
Jennifer found her way into the hall and then to the kitchen, the beam of the flashlight falling across Edith's sprawled body.
A bullet flew past Jennifer's head, tearing through a nearby wall. The flashlight fell from her hand, and she dropped to all fours, her palms skating out from under her over the slick, oil-coated tile. She found herself sliding into Edith's body, her chin smack up against the floor.
"You idiot!" Edith spat out in the darkness. "What kind of mystery writer are you that you'd actually think I wouldn't realize you were the one behind whatever blew up? No wonder you've never gotten anything published."
Even in the dark, Jennifer saw red. How dare Edith judge her literary skills on her inept personal behavior? Had the woman ever read a word Jennifer had written? No. Would she ever read a word Jennifer had written? No. She wouldn't live long enough.
Jennifer dove for what she estimated was Edith's throat. Her elbow connected with an arm, and she rolled over on it, pinning the woman's hand and a most uncomfortable gun beneath her. At the same time, she found Edith's nose and pulled for all she was worth. Under her shoulder blades, she felt the gun loosen as Edith fought to push Jennifer off. Jennifer rose up and shoved hard, sending Edith scooting across the slick floor and separating her from the gun. At the same time, Jennifer slid backward, fumbled for the gun, and flung it down the black pit of the hallway.
A rage of adrenaline swept through Jennifer, just as it always did when Jolene Arizona found herself in a fight. Say what one would about Jolene, she liked to get physical, and the part of Jennifer—granted it was a dark and hidden part—that had given birth to her character was now fully in charge.
"Anyone who hasn't read my work is not allowed to make any comments whatsoever!" Jennifer dove after Edith, who, from the sound of skin slapping against the tile, had yet to find a foothold and was still trapped in a dark, slick world. Flesh connected with flesh, and Jennifer's hand closed on an arm. Sputtering sounds indicated the location of Edith's head. Jennifer turned sideways and threw her body straight out, facedown, on top of where she figured Edith's shoulders had to be, pinning her fast. It was a trick Jolene, an accomplished wrestler, once used to subdue her villain. Of course, Jennifer had no idea, until now, whether or not it really worked. Edith's body shuddered in a futile attempt to dislodge the weight cradled at her neck and then lay still.
"Get off of me," Edith half screamed, half growled. "You're cutting off my windpipe."
"If that were true, you couldn't talk," Jennifer pointed out. "I'm not moving and neither are you!" she declared. She'd stay there all night if she had to, until Moore found his way to the authorities or until something or someone—
"Jennifer?" a male voice called from the darkness of the den. "Jennifer, are you in there?"
Sam. Thank God. Sam had finally made it. Tears wet her cheeks.
"I'm in the kitchen," she called back.
A beam of light appeared in the hall and trailed across to the T formed by the two women. "What the—"
"I can't explain now. Don't get too close or you'll find yourself down here with us. There's a gun somewhere in the hall toward the front door. Get it, find the fuse box, see if you can get the lights back on, and please, please call the police."