Triple Shot

by Sandra Balzo

  It was nearly three thirty when Amy had helped me carry two platters of appetizers out to the Escape. I’d stopped home and let Frank out – food still safely sealed in the Escape – and then proceeded to the open house.

  Or, open mansion.

  MaryAnne Williams’ place was on Wildwood Drive, the same street where my ex-husband, Ted, had lived with his second wife. Wildwood was off Poplar Creek Road, but, instead of turning east, toward Ted’s, I turned west on Wildwood toward Poplar Creek, the stream itself.

  I’d been to MaryAnne’s home once for a Historical Society fundraiser and, unlike many of the McMansions in this southernmost – and toniest – part of Brookhills, it wasn’t sandwiched in amongst other monstrosities. Instead, the house stood proudly at the center of a two-acre plot that bordered on the creek.

  I parked my car behind Sarah’s in the driveway, noticing that there was a third car, a Mercedes, in front of that. It looked like Gabriella Atherton’s but then so did every other big, black Mercedes. Besides, what would Atherton be doing here?

  Climbing out of my Escape, I opened the rear liftgate and considered trying to carry both platters. Nah. I was already late, but arriving with road-kill appetizers trailing behind me? Sarah would take that pistol . . . sorry, revolver, to my skull.

  I carefully slid one tray out, leaving the lift gate up. My plan was to ring the doorbell, hand over the one platter to Sarah, and then run back to get the other, along with my handbag.

  Only problem? No answer from inside.

  Then again, maybe no bell had actually rung. Not wanting to take a chance on losing the platter, I’d punched the button with an elbow.

  Now I set the tray down on a small, wrought-iron table to one side of the door and pressed the button again. This time, an audible, if muffled, ding-dong.

  But still, no Sarah.

  Opening the aluminum storm, I saw the lockbox dangling from the handset of the heavy wooden door. Knocking, I stepped back to survey the house.

  Pink brick and really very charming, despite its size. I knew the inside to be the same. Six thousand square feet, but every room felt just right. Not overpowering, almost . . . cozy.

  Around the back was a swimming pool surrounded by a tiled patio. From the fringe of the pool apron, a wide expanse of lawn sloped down to the creek. The day of the fundraiser in June, white tables with umbrellas had spotted both the pool deck and the lawn while a string quartet played beneath the tallest weeping willow tree I had ever seen.

  I peeked around a corner of the house, but all I could see was MaryAnne’s high – not to mention legally-required – fence of wrought iron surrounding her pool.

  Still no response at the door, and I was growing worried about Sarah. I left Tien’s platter of cheese cubes, vegetable tarts and miniature sandwiches to fend for themselves and followed the flagstoned path that led to the rear.

  Because I’d arrived late, Sarah had likely been there a good thirty minutes before. The Mercedes, given that Sarah had boxed it in, must already have been on-site when she came. Had my business partner walked in on something? Or, had someone arrived earlier, hidden in the house and taken her by surprise?

  Though if you were intending to be an assailant, parking your Mercedes where it could be road-blocked in the driveway didn’t seem part of a smart getaway plan.

  The path brought me to a gate I hadn’t remembered seeing, though admittedly I’d come through the house that day, the better for Elaine Riordan and her minions to force you past the silent auction tables in the living room.

  I pushed on the gate and was surprised when it swung easily open. Maybe the pool cleaners or lawn people had left it that way but, if so, MaryAnne needed to talk with them. Ted and I had maintained a large ‘umbrella’ insurance policy just because of our pool, but no amount of liability coverage would ever have made up for an accident resulting from carelessness.

  I closed the gate tight behind me, making sure the lock engaged. I was fighting a building sense of panic. Three real estate agents had been killed and I couldn’t reach Sarah.

  Should I call Pavlik?

  Except . . . my smartphone was in my purse, which was next to the second platter in the back of the Escape.

  I stopped, suddenly and desperately wanting to regain the safety of the front driveway where I could access my cell and be sure I had a getaway route of my own, while still blocking in the other two cars until help arrived.

  But could the Mercedes belong to MaryAnne? Maybe she’d driven a different vehicle or gotten a ride to her other event. Or maybe she’d skipped it altogether.

  So what if I telephoned Pavlik and he sent the troops, as he had called them? Deputies would find me cowering in the Escape, doors locked and windows up. Inside, of course, Sarah and MaryAnne would be opening the wine and arranging cocktail napkins, music turned up so high that they couldn’t hear . . .

  A high-pitched scream pierced the stillness.

  The cry had come from the back of the house. Forgetting about my cellphone and the cars and the trays of appetizers, I sprinted down the walkway to a break in the row of arbor vitae that surrounded the patio proper. As I did, I registered that the shriek I’d heard had not belonged to Sarah.

  Should I be glad? I didn’t know, since at least the screamer, presumably, was still alive.

  As was Sarah. As I broke through the hedge, I saw my business partner standing at the edge of the pool with another woman . . . Jane Smith?

  The brunette, body language projecting horror, was backing away from Sarah. ‘What . . . What did you . . .?’

  For her part, Sarah was doing . . . well, pretty much nothing.

  I pulled even with her, me gasping for air. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Sarah pointed.

  I turned to see a redhaired woman in tennis whites, floating face down in the pool.

  Chapter Fifteen

  No more information seemed forthcoming from Sarah, so I turned to Jane Smith. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Smith. ‘I came back here and saw her –’ she pointed at Sarah – ‘and then . . . her.’

  ‘So no one has . . .’ I broke off, not wanting to waste the time. Instead, I kicked off my shoes and jumped into the pool, ignoring the shock of the frigid water.

  It only took two strokes to reach the woman. I’d taken life-saving when Ted and I had bought the house with the swimming pool, but that was a very long time ago. Still, I knew enough to grasp the victim and roll same onto her back.

  If the red hair had been a strong clue, the face proved a giveaway.

  Gabriella Atherton. There went my burgeoning theory that she’d been the one to kill Brigid Ferndale and try to pin it on Sarah.

  Slipping an arm under Gabriella’s chin to tow her, I managed, ‘Call 9-1-1,’ as I side-stroked to the pool’s long side.

  No one moved.

  ‘Call . . . 9-1-1!’ I sputtered on pool water.

  This time, Sarah stirred. ‘I—’

  ‘Sarah!’ I said, reaching the stairs of the pool. ‘Call Pavlik, now!’

  She nodded once and dug into the bulging pockets of her ‘uniform’ jacket.

  Meanwhile, I signaled Jane Smith. ‘Help me get out.’

  To the woman’s credit, she came forward, but shrunk back as she leaned down to grasp Atherton’s shoulders. ‘What’s that?’

  She was pointing at the woman whose face I still held above water, despite the fact I feared it was too late.

  An irregular pattern of stippling and, at its center, a dark hole in Gabriella Atherton’s temple.

  The EMTs arrived first and took over. Though I’d started CPR – more pool-owner training – I hadn’t detected any response from the victim.

  One of the emergency workers had seen I was wet and gave me a blanket to wrap around myself against the cold. As Jane Smith and I stood back to watch the med-techs work, I asked Sarah the same question I’d put just fifteen minutes earlier. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t k
now. I went through the house to make sure everything was in order and put out the sell sheets on every flat surface. Then I came back to the kitchen and opened MaryAnne’s wine.

  ‘When you still weren’t here, I checked out back, because I’d asked MaryAnne not to close the pool for the winter so the house would show better. I wanted to make sure the water looked clean and nothing disgusting was . . .’

  Floating, I finished for her mentally.

  I’d pulled countless mice, voles, squirrels and even the occasional snake or crawfish out of Ted’s and my pool. This, glancing toward the EMTs, was far, far worse.

  ‘And Gabriella was already in the pool?’

  Sarah nodded. ‘At first I didn’t understand what I was seeing, then she –’ pointing to Smith – ‘came up behind me, screaming. And who are you, anyway?’

  ‘Sarah, Jane’s one of our customers at Uncommon Grounds.’ Though, given I’d served the woman for a year without knowing her name, I didn’t have the right to register proprietary indignation at my business partner. ‘Jane Smith.’

  I turned to Smith. ‘So Gabriella and you were both already here when Sarah arrived?’

  The brunette blinked. ‘No. Why would you think that?’

  ‘Because there’s only one car and it’s parked in front of Sarah’s. I assumed you made plans this morning at tennis to come here together.’ I was pretty proud of my clear reasoning, given I was shivering from a combination of the cold and the dissipating adrenaline rush.

  ‘The last time I saw Gabriella was in your shop, when she left to meet a client.’ Smith’s eyes kept flicking sideways toward her friend surrounded by EMTs. ‘Besides, I walked over.’

  I let the supposed 'client' pass. ‘Walked? Where do you live?’

  Smith blushed. ‘Just on the other side of Poplar Creek Road.’

  ‘So you’re a neighbor.’ Sarah was searching her pockets, presumably for cigarettes. ‘What did I tell you, Maggy?’

  Nosy neighbors poking around open houses were the least of our worries right now. Sarah’s main business competitor was dead, evidently of unnatural causes. In that, Gabriella Atherton joined three other women in the field, which included one who had reported her boss – my coffee shop partner – to the real estate licensing board.

  I didn’t think Sarah was ridding the world of agents.

  But someone sure was.

  The sheriff’s department followed on the heels of the EMTs. They taped off the area and moved us back, then interviewed each of us separately. I was first, and now Sarah Kingston and Jane Smith were talking to their respective deputies.

  Pavlik arrived just as the crime-scene investigators started their work.

  He came over to me. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ I lied. In truth, I was freezing, but I was damned if I was going to leave as the deputies had told me I was free to do.

  ‘I’m just sorry I was late, so Sarah had to find –’ I pointed to the gurney that held Gabriella Atherton’s body bag – ‘this alone.’

  ‘Honestly?’ Pavlik said. ‘It would be good for Sarah if there were another witness, but I’m glad you were late. The less you’re involved, the better.’ He tugged the blanket tighter around me.

  ‘You can’t think Sarah did this.’

  My partner’s gun had been confiscated – or better, voluntarily surrendered.

  ‘Ms Atherton and the other two shooting victims had wounds consistent with a much smaller caliber bullet than that .357 Smithy pocket cannon your friend was packing.’

  I brightened. ‘So, she couldn’t have done it.’

  ‘Not with that revolver. For now, though, that’s all I can say.’

  For now, it was enough.

  ‘My Lord!’ a woman’s voice said from inside the house. ‘What in the world is going on?’

  MaryAnne Williams swept into her backyard, a sheriff’s deputy guiding more than guarding her.

  Pavlik left me to introduce himself.

  MaryAnne extended her hand. ‘Of course I remember you, sheriff. You were Maggy’s escort for our little fundraiser here. And a very dashing one, as I recall?’

  But the Southern courtesy of our former Atlanta belle proved to be short-lived. ‘I don’t understand, sheriff. The deputy who met me at the door said there has been a shooting?’

  Before Pavlik could answer, MaryAnne registered my appearance. ‘Maggy, whatever are you doing here? And looking like a drowned rat to boot?’

  ‘Umm . . . well . . .’ I pointed to Pavlik. ‘You’d better ask him.’

  But MaryAnne had seen Sarah, interview apparently over. Jane Smith seemed to be finishing up with her deputies, as well, all the while throwing worried looks toward MaryAnne.

  Who, in turn, was crushing my surprised partner in an embrace. ‘Sarah, honey, thank God. I was afraid this crazed killer had gotten you and it was somehow all my fault.’

  Sarah didn’t crush easily. And she responded to hugs even less. ‘I’m fine. And, if I had been shot, why would that be your fault?’

  Not a bad question.

  ‘Because I insisted you handle my open house personally?’

  ‘I didn’t have much choice.’ Sarah spread her hands out wide. ‘These days I’m a one-woman operation.’ She glanced over at me. ‘At least the realty side of my life.’

  I was genuinely touched by Sarah’s evident relief at having me around for backup. In oh-so-many ways.

  MaryAnne began looking around. ‘But if you’re unhurt, then who . . . ?’

  ‘Gabriella Atherton,’ Pavlik said. ‘She was found dead in your pool.’

  ‘Gabriella?’ MaryAnne tilted her head. ‘What in the world would she be doing here?’

  Smith, who’d been heading toward us, made a U-turn and quickstepped out the gate.

  ‘You mean Jane Smith?’ I asked.

  ‘Jane? No.’ Apparently MaryAnne hadn’t seen her neighbor. ‘I meant Gabriella.’

  ‘We were hoping you’d know why Ms Atherton might have come by,’ Pavlik said. ‘I understand you played tennis together. Might she have just . . . dropped in?’

  ‘I very much doubt that. We didn’t really see much of each other outside of tennis? And, besides, why would she be in my backyard?’

  ‘Looking at the property?’ Pavlik ventured. ‘Maybe she was interested in taking over the listing.’

  ‘Interested? Well, I guess that’s certainly possible,’ MaryAnne said. ‘But I made it clear to her – and to just about everybody – that my listing was staying with Kingston Realty, so long as Sarah owned it.’

  ‘So long as she owned it?’ I repeated, turning to Sarah. ‘Have you been thinking of selling?’

  ‘Not until –’ an expansive wave that included both MaryAnne’s pool and Gabriella’s gurney – ‘now.’

  MaryAnne shrugged. ‘Perhaps I misunderstood. Gabriella said something about the difficulty of remaining licensed in the realty area when you had irons in other fires? I assumed that she meant Sarah was concentrating on the coffeehouse.’

  My partner’s eyes narrowed. I felt Sarah and I were weathervanes pointing in the same direction: Brigid Ferndale and Gabriella Atherton had been in cahoots. Maybe getting Sarah’s real estate license revoked was the dowry Brigid was bringing to the imminent business marriage. With Sarah off the board as a competitor, all her clients would be up for grabs.

  For the first time, I wondered whether Sarah’s employee, Theodore, really had sexually harassed Brigid, or if that was just another part of her master plan.

  Nah. Theo was a pig.

  ‘Did Gabby Girl mention Brigid by name?’ Sarah was demanding.

  ‘Gabby Girl? Oh, you mean Gabriella.’ MaryAnne’s expression, puzzled at the nickname, now slid toward a grin. ‘I’d pay money to see her face if . . .’

  MaryAnne trailed off self-consciously, probably approaching the same painful, brain-cramp territory that Deirdre Doty had last night when talking to Pavlik about Brigid Ferndale.

  Moving the recently d
eceased from our present tense and into the past.

  I cleared my throat. ‘I think what Sarah was asking was whether Gabriella ever mentioned Brigid to you.’

  ‘No, but she still worked for you, Sarah, so—’

  Pavlik jumped in. ‘Ms Williams, did Ms Atherton’s realty have a key to your house?’

  ‘No, of course not. Kingston has the only key.’

  Now Pavlik to Sarah. ‘And you used that to gain entrance today?’

  ‘I did, though I didn’t bring the key with me. We keep it in a lockbox on the front door.’ Sarah seemed to sense something from the sheriff. ‘And that’s standard practice throughout the industry.’

  Pavlik nodded. ‘Anyone else have the combination, then?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Brigid would have,’ I interrupted. ‘And maybe she gave it to Gabriella.’

  ‘But why ever would Brigid do that?’ MaryAnne asked.

  Her guess was as good as mine and, seemingly, neither of us had even that. ‘I don’t know, MaryAnne, though maybe it’s neither here nor there. Gabriella wouldn’t have needed the key just to access the backyard.’

  MaryAnne looked puzzled and turned. ‘But she had to come through the house, Maggy.’ A turn back. ‘I always keep my gates locked, and that fence is six-feet high. I doubt Gabriella scaled it.’

  ‘Sorry, but that gate –’ I gestured – ‘was unlocked. It’s how I got in. I assumed the pool cleaners or somebody left it open.’

  ‘Impossible.’ MaryAnne was shaking her head emphatically. ‘Both my yard and pool services came by this morning to do a spruce-up toward the open house. I checked that gate when I stopped home after tennis, as I always do after they’ve been here. Their men do a wonderful job on the grounds, but they’re not as security-conscious as one might hope.’

  Pavlik addressed me. ‘Yet you’re certain the gate was unlocked?’

  ‘Positive. It wasn’t even closed completely. MaryAnne, opposite question: someone could have gotten out of the yard, even if the gate was locked, right?’

  ‘Yes, yes – the lock is to keep people out, honey, not in. And my attorney told me I couldn’t prevent egress from the property, in case of fire or whatever. Are you thinking the killer escaped that way?’