by Joanne Fluke
Willy backed carefully out of the parking spot and drove toward the exit. Just as he turned onto the street, a dreadful possibility occurred to him. She’d told him he didn’t deserve to have her boyfriend’s kidney. Was she crazy enough to try to kill him to get it back?
* * *
She’d watched him as he’d come out of the restaurant and scurried across the parking lot. He had moved very fast and he’d glanced around constantly, his eyes searching the dark shadows. His behavior had given Connie a feeling of satisfaction. At least she’d managed to make him nervous. But Willy Rossini deserved a lot worse than a few sleepless nights.
It wasn’t that he’d refused her. Connie had prepared herself to cope with that. But when he’d called her crazy and had threatened to call the police, she had known that she had no choice but to act. She wasn’t afraid of the police. She’d done nothing wrong. But if Willy managed to convince them that she was crazy, they might lock her up and stop her from contacting the other candidates on the transplant list.
Connie stared down at the knife she still clutched in her hand. She wasn’t a violent person, but there was no other alternative. She had to silence Willy before he could tell anyone else what had happened in the back room at the Lamplighter. She’d used a fake name as a precaution, but he could describe her. He could also describe the car she was driving, and someone at the dealership might even remember her license plate. Alan was depending on her. She couldn’t take chances. That meant Willy Rossini had to die.
She put her car in gear and followed as Willy drove out of the parking lot. She’d made a dreadful mistake by telling him about Alan’s kidney. Alan had assured her that Willy would understand, but he hadn’t.
“I’m sorry.” Connie shook her head sadly. “I tried to do things your way, Alan, but it didn’t work. People just don’t understand us, honey. They think we’re crazy, so we can’t make this kind of mistake again.”
At least this was a good area for what she had to do. Connie glanced around and smiled as she saw that most of the factories were closed for the night. If she remembered correctly, there was a perfect street for it about three blocks up. When she forced him to turn right, he’d be stuck at the dead end with nothing but deserted warehouses around him.
Connie stepped on the accelerator and pulled up behind him. He couldn’t see her. The interior of her car was dark, and her headlights were practically blinding him. All she had to do was stay right on his bumper and make him so nervous, he’d turn onto the dead end to get away from the driver that was following him too closely.
* * *
“Jesus!” Willy swore softly as he noticed the headlights behind him. The driver was right on his tail, and the streets were icy. Willy tried to speed up, but the other driver kept pace with him. The lunatic couldn’t pass. This was a two-lane road, and there was a solid line of oncoming traffic.
“Okay, mister. Go ahead and kill yourself. I’ll just get out of your way.” There was a street coming up, and Willy turned on his signal. He was going pretty fast, but he didn’t dare slow down or the guy might hit him from behind. It was probably some idiot from Florida or California—where they didn’t have snow. Minnesota drivers knew how treacherous icy roads could be.
The street was only a few feet away. Willy gripped the wheel tightly, and made a skidding turn, fishtailing to a stop at the side of the street. Mr. Lunatic could drive on his merry way and kill someone else on the road.
Willy took a deep breath. It had been a close call. Then he glanced in his rearview mirror and saw that the other driver had made the turn, too! What was going on here?
Suddenly he had a terrible suspicion. Perhaps the other driver wasn’t from out of state. It could be Cherie.
Willy didn’t take the time to find out. He just put his car in gear and roared off down the street. She was right behind him, practically running him off the road. And then he saw the sign at the end of the block. DEAD END.
“Oh, my God!” Willy hit the brakes and swerved. He almost managed to make the U-turn at the end of the street, but his right rear tire slipped off the pavement. He was stuck! And Cherie was right in back of him, preventing him from backing up!
Frantically, Willy revved his motor. If he could just get a little traction, he could jump the curb and pull forward. But his tire dug in deeper and deeper.
That was when he saw her coming toward him, a tire iron in her hand. Willy’s mouth opened in a terrified scream as his window shattered. And then, in the space of only a few seconds, he was no longer capable of screaming . . . or even breathing.
CHAPTER 16
Jill was watching the last of the evening news when the telephone rang. She reached out for the remote control, pushed the button that muted the sound, and picked up the phone.
“Jill? It’s Doug. Did I wake you?”
“No.” She flicked off the television. The news was over anyway. “I just finished watching the news.”
“What’s your route home from the office?”
She was frowning as she told him. It was a strange question to ask.
“Did you pass Baylor Street tonight?”
Jill’s frown deepened. Doug sounded worried. “Yes. I pass it every night. What’s wrong, Doug?”
“Plenty. What time?”
“I’m not sure. I got home at seven, so it must have been about five forty-five.”
“That’s what I thought.” Doug sounded even more worried. “You might have been there.”
“I might have been where?”
“Passing Baylor Street. There was a homicide tonight. The victim left the Lamplighter Restaurant at six thirty-five. That put him on Baylor about ten minutes later. You must have been driving by when it happened. Can you see the dead end from the road?”
“Not really. It’s around the bend.” Jill shivered slightly. Even though she’d worked on hundreds of homicides, there was a quality in Doug’s voice that made her feel uneasy. “Tell me about it, Doug.”
“We found the victim’s car at the dead end. His right rear wheel was stuck. The killer smashed in the driver’s window to get to him.”
“Was it gang related?” Jill asked, though she’d never heard of gangs in that area.
“I don’t think so. The victim was a white male in his late thirties with no history of gang affiliation. No record, either. He was a salesman at Froelich Motors.”
Jill nodded. She passed the dealership every day, and Neil had bought his Mercedes there. “Suspects?”
“Not yet.”
Doug still sounded worried, and Jill knew there was something he wasn’t telling her. “It was a bad one?”
“Yeah. Bad.” Doug paused for a moment. “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow, but take another route to work. That whole area is going to be crawling with cops.”
Jill shivered. She’d never come quite this close to a murder before. “Okay, Doug. Thanks for the tip. Was it a shooting?”
“No. Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”
“Just a second. I’ll check.” Jill flicked open the small appointment book on the table and turned to tomorrow’s date. “I have an arraignment at ten, but I’m coming straight back to the office. What time?”
“Meet me at The Beef Barrel at noon. Do you have a cell phone, Jill?”
“No.” She began to frown again. Doug still sounded worried, and she wasn’t sure why.
“Okay. I’ve got to get back to work. Make sure you lock your car doors.”
“I’ll do that. Good night, Doug.” There was a bemused expression on Jill’s face as she hung up. Doug was worried about her safety. It was clear he cared about her, and that made Jill feel warm inside for the first time since Helen had told her about Neil and Lisa.
* * *
It was a new day, and Connie was ready. She was wearing a midnight blue cashmere sweater and skirt. Around her neck was a long rope of cultured pearls. She’d done her hair in a French twist, secured at the nape of her neck, and she wore tiny pearl earri
ngs that matched her pearls. She looked elegant and sophisticated, the perfect match for the next candidate on her list.
Ian Perkins had received Alan’s liver, and Connie knew where he lived. She’d told the hospital she wanted to send a card to his home, so they’d given her his address on Forestview Lane. Connie had driven past and had discovered that it was an exclusive area with expensive homes on huge, wooded lots. If Ian Perkins owned a home on Forestview Lane, he had to be rich.
“Don’t worry, Alan. We’ll be successful this time.” Connie pulled on her new calfskin gloves and slipped on her white wool coat. She touched her lips to Alan’s picture, then went out the door. She wasn’t going to make the mistake of telling Ian Perkins the real reason for her visit. She’d just say she was a volunteer from the hospital and had come to see if there was anything she could do for him.
As she climbed into her car, Connie was smiling. She even had a new identity for the occasion. She was Camille Ward, a recent Vassar graduate, doing volunteer work for the hospital until she decided what she wanted to do with her life.
Traffic was light, so Connie practiced her prepared speech as she drove toward Forestview Lane. “Hello, Mr. Perkins. My name is Camille Ward, and I’m a volunteer from the hospital. I’ve been assigned to help you with your recovery. There’s no charge, and I’ll be at your disposal for the next four weeks. I’ll be happy to run errands, prepare your meals, or do anything else you might want.”
Connie said the speech three times, and then she laughed. “And by the way, Mr. Perkins . . . in return for my services, I’d like you to service me in bed just as soon as you’re able.”
Of course she wouldn’t say that! She giggled as she turned on to Forestview Lane. He’d get the idea, all by himself. And once she was sure she was pregnant, she’d disappear. When Mr. Perkins called the hospital to ask where she was, they’d tell him they’d never heard of Camille Ward.
The house was definitely imposing. Connie parked at the curb and got out. She locked her car, a precaution she probably didn’t have to take in this area, and put a bright, eager smile on her face as she walked up the brick steps to the Colonial-style home.
A wreath of pinecones decorated the door, brightened by a gigantic red bow. On its steamers was the phrase HAPPY HOLIDAYS in fancy gold letters. Connie stared at it for a moment, then sighed. Tonight was Christmas Eve. She’d forgotten all about it. Alan had always loved Christmas, and they’d planned to decorate the condo this year. Now the condo was gone, but she’d do something special with Alan when she got back to the hotel. Perhaps she’d even pick up a small tree for the dresser, one that was already decorated and strung with lights. They could have dinner in their room and listen to some Christmas music before they went to bed. It wouldn’t be like the huge Christmas party they’d planned to have, but it would be a nice intimate evening for just the two of them.
Connie rang the doorbell and almost immediately, a maid in a starched, black uniform responded. “May I help you, ma’am?”
“Yes.” Connie smiled her broadest smile. “I’m Camille Ward—a volunteer from the hospital. I’d like to see Mr. Perkins.”
The maid looked surprised. “But he’s not here. Mr. Ian is still at Fairdale Convalescent. He won’t be home until next week.”
“I’m sorry I disturbed you.” Connie looked very apologetic. “The hospital must have given me the wrong address. Could you tell me how to get to Fairdale Convalescent?”
The maid nodded. “It’s on Seventh and Gillette, right next to the park. Mr. Ian is in room one-fourteen. You say you’re from the hospital?”
“Yes.” Connie was smiling as she nodded. “I’m a volunteer. I was assigned to visit Mr. Perkins to see if he needed any help.”
The maid smiled back. “He’ll be glad to see you. His parents visit in the evenings, but he gets lonely all day by himself. Tell him I said hello, will you?”
“Of course. And your name is . . . ?”
“Gretchen. And since you’re going there, would you mind taking his mail?”
“I’d be happy to.” Connie was grinning as she took the stack of cards the maid handed her and hurried back to her car. This was a lucky break! If anyone at the convalescent home asked her why she was visiting, she could tell them she stopped by to bring Mr. Perkins his mail.
Connie glanced down at the envelopes as she started her car. Several were from children. She could tell by the youthful handwriting. Perhaps Mr. Perkins was a teacher. It didn’t seem likely that a public school teacher could afford a home in the area, and a maid, but he might have inherited money. It really didn’t make any difference to Connie. Rich or poor, teacher or highly paid executive, Mr. Ian Perkins had exactly what Connie needed. Alan’s liver was alive in his body, which made him the perfect candidate to father their child.
* * *
They were sitting in the booth Jill had come to think of as theirs. A giant Christmas tree stood in the center of the restaurant, and Christmas carols were playing over the speakers. It was perfect weather for the day before Christmas—snowflakes were falling lazily outside—and Jill knew she would have enjoyed this holiday lunch with Doug if he hadn’t just told her about the homicide.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine.” She took a sip of her coffee and tried to hide how upset she was. “What do you mean, he was . . . gutted?”
“You don’t want a description while you’re eating.” Doug looked a little sick himself.
“And you don’t have any suspects?”
He shook his head. “Zip. Everyone said he was a nice guy with no enemies.”
“That could be a cover. Do you think it was a professional hit?”
“No way.” Doug took a bite of his burger. “Professional hits are . . . professional. They’re usually not this bloody, even when they’re trying to send someone a message.”
“An inept hit man?”
Doug shrugged. “I guess that’s possible, but I saw the crime-scene photos this morning. There was no reason for the multiple stab wounds. The coroner says the first blow was lethal and the others were just window dressing.”
“Then you think this was a crime of passion?”
“That’s what it looked like to me. The killer was completely out of control with that knife.”
“You said he’d just finished having dinner at the Lamplighter?” Jill reached for an onion ring, even though she didn’t feel much like eating.
Doug nodded. “He was with a client, a gorgeous redhead dressed in expensive clothing. The waitress said they talked a lot during dinner, and she saw him give her some brochures. We know her name is Cherie White. She told it to the hostess because she got to the restaurant first. And she left first, several minutes before the victim.”
“She’s not a suspect?”
“Everybody’s a suspect, but nothing points to her directly. Women don’t usually smash car windows with tire irons, and they seldom use knives. This killing was unusually violent.”
“That rules out a woman?”
“Not necessarily. It’s just unusual, that’s all.”
Jill forced herself to take a bite of her patty melt. She didn’t want Doug to know this conversation was upsetting her stomach. “Have you located her for questioning?”
“It’s not up to me. I’m not the lead on this case. But they’ll locate her. Channel four is doing an appeal. If she hears it, she’ll come in to clear herself.”
“Maybe.” Jill nodded. “Unless she’s guilty. Then she’ll head out of town.”
“You’re not eating.” Doug reached out to pat her hand. “Let’s change the subject. This is a pretty gruesome topic for lunch.”
Jill shook her head and reached for another onion ring. “I don’t have a problem with that. I’m just a little off my feed today, that’s all.”
“Okay.”
Doug nodded, but Jill knew he didn’t believe her. Why could he read her so well? He seemed to be in tune with her, to know exact
ly how she was feeling, though she’d made an effort to hide the fact that this homicide upset her.
“I’ve got something for you.” Doug reached into his briefcase and pulled out a package. “This is a present.”
She was surprised. “For me? But . . . you already gave me a Christmas present.”
“I know. This isn’t for Christmas, and it’s not really a present for you. It’s a present for me.”
“Uh . . . okay.” She wasn’t sure she understood, but she unwrapped the package. Inside the box was a cell phone. “Doug! Why in the world . . . ?”
“It’s so I won’t have to worry. What if you’d been stuck on Baylor last night? You could have ended up right in the middle of this thing. It was only luck that you weren’t the one forced off the road.”
“Forced off the road?” Jill raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You didn’t mention that.”
“Do me a favor and forget I said that. It’s just a theory. There’s no evidence to substantiate it. But think about it. What if someone forced you off the road when you were driving home? What would you do in a situation like that?”
Jill said the first thing that popped into her head. “I’d lock all my doors.”
“You should lock them every time you get into your car. But that wouldn’t have protected you last night. The driver’s window was smashed in.”
Jill nodded. “I see where you’re going. Last night’s victim didn’t have a cell phone?”
“That’s right, and one could have saved his life. If he’d been on the line, giving a description of the other car, the killer might have decided not to approach him.”
“I see.” Jill nodded again. “That makes sense, Doug.”
“Your cell phone is activated and ready to go. I even programmed the numbers. My home’s number one, my office is number two, and my beeper’s number three.”
“Thank you, Doug.” Jill was a little embarrassed. She should have gotten a cell phone for herself. “But you really shouldn’t have—”
“I wanted to. This phone holds nine speed-dial numbers. You’ve got six left. I’ll show you how to program them. And don’t forget nine-one-one. I didn’t bother to grogram it, since it’s only three numbers.”
