by West, CJ
The stinging splotches on his chest made the first line of Randy’s note prophetic. He was lucky not to be flat on the floor oozing blood. The following lines assured him Randy had taken the money from the attic, but the last line was the one that haunted him. He wanted to believe Randy was taunting him to search for Deirdre back in Piolenc and learn of her death. But the name Sweetie didn’t fit, not unless he knew Charlie and Deirdre had met again. Randy might have listened to the phone message. He might be bluffing, knowing they had lost touch, but Charlie feared the worst.
Until now, most of Charlie’s fears were shadows and ghosts that evaporated when he stopped thinking about them. But this one stabbed him in his mind’s eye. Randy was real, incredibly dangerous, and intently focused on him. All of a sudden Charlie realized how grossly he’d underestimated him. Monique’s murder was no accident. Randy had known Deirdre was in Westport the night he stalked around the dining room. Charlie couldn’t imagine how, but he knew. He had been sniffing around the dining room and the kitchen to make Charlie nervous, but there had been nothing to discover. Randy already knew.
He murdered Monique to convince Laroche of Charlie’s innocence. It was ruthlessly brilliant and classic Randy. He scared Charlie blind with the threat of prison then snubbed his nose at Laroche, daring him to catch him. Randy wanted Charlie here to toy with him. He killed Monique in Piolenc when he knew Deirdre was somewhere in Massachusetts, and now he was about to turn up the pressure.
Randy was no fool. He was a genius, a warped, sadistic genius.
Charlie slinked back to the front entry and spent three full minutes climbing the stairs, checking every inch of the hand rail and the carpeting for some sort of trap. There was nothing unusual on the stairs or the landing, but Charlie knew Randy was expecting him to come this way. Nine million dollars was powerful motivation and this was an opportunity he wouldn’t pass up.
At the edge of the pull-down stairs, Charlie found two brown wires, nearly invisible against the dark trim. They protruded from above, the shiny ends barely touching. One came down half an inch from a tiny hole in the recessed stairs, the other from the molding. If Charlie had pulled down on the rope, the circuit would have been broken, another trap sprung.
Charlie trudged to the basement, found a fine length of wire, and delicately attached one end to each wire that came down from the ceiling, thereby maintaining the circuit when he opened the stairs. He pulled the stairs down inch by inch, mindful of the wires until he saw where they led. The wire on the backside of the stairs was only four inches long. It ended in a knot, connected to nothing. Charlie could almost hear the echo of Randy’s laughter when he’d connected this. It was another demonstration that he could have taken him if he wanted to. Charlie was doing exactly what Randy wanted and the real trap was coming.
The leftovers in the attic were precisely where they were when Charlie was here last. The only difference was behind the sporting goods. The wine cases had been replaced by one large box with a picture of a Sony television on the front. There were shuffling, scratching noises coming from inside that reminded him of Randy’s work at the Caulfields’. There was a note taped to the top of the box.
Sloppy! Very sloppy!
Inside the box was a squirming, twisting jumble of fur. Tiny mice jumped over each other, vying for breathing space. By the smell, the box had been there two days at least. The gable window was too small to push the box through, so he’d have to walk it all the way through the house. He decided to take it far into the woods to keep the mice from working their way back inside the old house.
Reaching around the box to get hold, Charlie felt a fine line extending around the box, just above floor level. Randy had sliced it with a box cutter. If he’d hefted the box by the handles, the bottom would have fallen out before he reached the front door. Charlie eased his fingers underneath the very bottom, grinning over his small victory, as he hoisted the box for his excursion. It was heavier than he expected, resisting his effort for an instant then suddenly it popped upward in his hands, much lighter than it should have been. The bottom held fast to the floor. Randy had sliced the very bottom, too. He fastened it to the floor and concealed his trap under the scurrying mice.
The mice relished their newfound freedom. A bubbling brown flood scattered over the floor for five feet in every direction. Several ran over Charlie’s feet, two clawed their way up his jeans until he shook them off. There were a hundred at least, including a few dead ones, trampled by their brethren while they were still confined.
Randy had out-maneuvered Charlie again and with flair.
Charlie threw the box aside, grabbed a tennis racket, and started swatting the scuttling vermin. Any sort of contact crippled the little creatures and Charlie furiously jabbed at the floor until most of them had disappeared into storage containers or tiny spaces in the floor. For all his swinging, he stopped less than a dozen.
As he cleaned up, Charlie considered why Randy had planned such an elaborate sting. Charlie was positive they’d never met before the day Randy approached him in the bar, but who could tell what was under the scraggly exterior. Randy could have been getting even for a broken arm or rib suffered on the football field, but his payback seemed more than a bit extreme.
He remembered what Randy said about Caulfield. What he did could only be done once. Was it murder? Did Randy somehow think Charlie was involved? Whatever his reasons, Randy was bent on retribution.
Chapter Thirty-four
Charles pushed aside his e-ticket receipt and stared down at the sacrificial circle on his investment portfolio. As the phone rang, he drifted back to a time when he owned a single struggling winery. There was no need for estate plans, investment portfolios, and tax strategies in those days. Back then, everything the family owned was mortgaged to keep the winery afloat. They teetered on the brink of financial ruin year after year. One more mistake in production or one less big sale and the business would have gone bankrupt.
Their fortunes changed when Charles bought Westport Wineries for a fraction of its value, an amount his friend at the bank gladly loaned him. Charlie was in junior high then and getting serious about football. Charles was totally absorbed in the business, beginning to fret about retirement, and trying to scrape together some money to help Charlie with college expenses.
By the time Charlie enrolled at Ohio State five years later, the Marstons owned four wineries that produced a steady stream of profits. Charles not only paid for tuition, board, and books, but he also sent enough money so Charlie could split his time between football and his studies without having to take some menial job for spending money. Not many fathers could have done that.
The phone continued to ring.
Charles idly flipped through the twelve-page statement from his broker thinking how far he had come. Investing had scared him at first. He’d only started acquiring blue chip stocks when his accountant had said the company’s cash reserves were an obscene waste of resources. Those companies had grown steadily over the years and the dividends alone were enough for the family to live on. He flipped through half a dozen pages detailing positions as small as five hundred shares that Charles dabbled in. Some were holdovers from initial public offerings he’d made millions on. Others were tech stocks he’d fallen in love with during the Internet boom and couldn’t bring himself to dump. Life was certainly different now.
The line connected.
“Dan Milesko.”
“Dan, Charles Marston. I need to make a trade.”
“What are we buying?”
“We’re selling. Thirty thousand shares of Microsoft.”
“You can’t do that. Not today. The market’s way down.” There was clicking as Dan checked the current price. “It’s ten percent across the board. Microsoft is at twenty-four. If you wait a few days, it’ll be back to twenty-six and a half or twenty-seven.”
“I appreciate the advice, but this can’t wait.”
“You’re wasting sixty-K. We’ve been in this for
seven years. What’s a few more days?”
“I don’t have a few days, Dan. Make the trade and get the cash into my B.O.A. account. I need it right away.”
“This is going to cost you a bundle.”
“More than you know,” Charles sighed.
“Surely you can give me—”
“Make the trade, Dan. Thanks.”
Before Dan could protest, Charles replaced the phone and shifted his eyes to the note. Elizabeth had never seen this one, thanks to his arrangement with the postman, but keeping it from her would be nearly impossible. The note demanded he go to Westport, but no excuse would justify leaving now, not even for a week. The panel had approved the Marston’s first French vintage and the chateau was showing its first signs of economic life. If he left now, she’d be more than suspicious. He told himself she’d be safer here in Piolenc, but he couldn’t be sure.
He was beginning to think the blackmailer was someone he’d fired from Westport Wineries. If he was, his hate had been festering since the takeover fifteen years ago. Money wouldn’t quell that sort of rage. His first demand had been a pittance and this one, ten times the first, was insignificant compared to Charles’ profit from the Joyets’ misfortune. No amount of money could repay that debt. The blackmailer could be desperate for cash, he could be testing to see what his information was worth, or maybe this was a ploy to separate him from Elizabeth.
Charles couldn’t be sure.
He looked down and read the note again.
Charles,
I have given a chance for the wrath of God. For it has been written, “Vengeance belongs to me. I will repay, saith the Lord.” I waited a long time, but the Lord apparently needs my assistance.
I have decided to give you a final chance to repent. Bring $500,000 to Westport in a large briefcase. Don’t send your errand boy this time, do it personally. I will give you the evidence I collected and bid you adieu.
A word of caution Mr. Marston: The Lord and I will be watching you forevermore. If you stray off the path of righteousness again, I will fertilize the pilfered vines with your body parts.
The demand troubled Charles. The blackmailer had plenty of time to think it through, yet the amount was too small and he hadn’t specified denominations or a delivery location. He indicated the Westport winery, but no meeting place or date as if he’d be there waiting when Charles arrived. Charles had a nagging feeling that money wasn’t the primary reason for the note.
The biblical references reminded him that young Oliver Joyet was sent to live with a pious aunt in rural Illinois when his parents died. He’d spent his teenage years separated from his friends, studying the Bible in the middle of nowhere. It would have been a difficult adjustment for any teen, but Oliver carried a painful secret. How wrenching it must have been to have seen the crime, but not be able to convince anyone of the truth. How horrifying it must have been when his parents died. He knew they died needlessly and he lived the last fifteen years, doubting he did enough to save them. His anger screamed out in the last line of the note.
When Elizabeth walked in, Charles made no attempt to hide the stock portfolio or the note. She rested her hands soothingly on his shoulders until her eyes recognized the curly script.
She stopped massaging and leaned toward the desk. “What’s this?”
“The final note from Westport, I suspect.”
Elizabeth read the first few lines.
“Ridiculous! Five hundred thousand dollars! Not a chance. I’m calling the police.”
“They can’t help us, Elizabeth. No matter what happens, no police. We can’t let them talk to this man.”
“What? If you pay him, he’ll never leave us alone.”
“I don’t think it’s money he’s after.”
Flabbergasted by what Charles insinuated, Elizabeth wrenched his head toward her and studied his eyes. Her fingertips pinched his cheeks painfully against his teeth. “What have you done?” she asked.
He tried to turn away, but she held firm. He cast his eyes downward and thought about the confrontation to come. He wasn’t athletic like his son and he’d never fought anyone as a man. At his age, a twenty-eight-year-old would have a sizeable advantage. If Oliver was built like his father, Charles didn’t have a chance.
He wondered how he could find the sort of man who could help him with this.
Elizabeth grew impatient with his silence. “Tell me what’s happening! Why can’t we call the police?”
Her voice carried well down the hall.
Charles didn’t dare provoke her by asking her to lower it. He responded softly instead. “It’s done. It happened a long time ago.”
“So you’re going to pay five hundred thousand dollars? What will that solve?”
Five hundred thousand was a bargain, if Oliver would take the money and go, but this wasn’t about money. Suddenly, leaving Elizabeth in Piolenc didn’t seem like a good idea.
He closed his eyes rather than face her.
Elizabeth shook him by the shoulders until he opened them. “Tell me, damn you. Tell me what’s going on.”
“For starters,” he mumbled. “We’re going to Westport.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why this is happening.”
Chapter Thirty-five
Deirdre sat mesmerized as the screen-saver flashed from place to place on the darkened monitor. Her Internet search uncovered nothing new about the killing in Piolenc and she wondered if the authorities had really mistaken Monique for her. Of course it wasn’t true. The Deudons wouldn’t soon forget the woman, who produced two heirs for their family, yet they were impossibly silent. Strange too, that Charlie hadn’t returned home. The papers hadn’t reported his arrest and she knew he wouldn’t stay longer than he had to. And the lack of follow-up stories on the fire puzzled her. Any decent reporter would have connected the two deaths. It was eerie being closer to the news than the press, knowing the truth wasn’t being told, and feeling as if they had somehow failed to protect her. If the Marstons were more powerful she would have guessed they were suppressing the story.
Deirdre had picked up the receiver to call the gendarmes several times, but anything she said to help Charlie would incriminate her, so she never finished dialing. She repeatedly called Charlie’s house instead, but he had yet to answer. She glanced toward the phone, her eyes stopping on the remains of runny eggs and burned bacon on the nightstand. Her tight stomach grumbled, but even so, she couldn’t bring herself to touch another meal from the hotel kitchen.
She moved to the bed and dialed the phone again. The familiar ring sounded three times and surprisingly Charlie picked up and greeted her breathlessly.
“Thank God you’re back,” she said. “What happened?”
“I have bad news for you.”
“I know about Monique.”
Charlie hesitated. “I’m sorry for what this has done to your family.”
“You don’t need to apologize. It’s not your fault.”
The line went quiet.
“At least Randy doesn’t know I’m here,” Deirdre said.
“Don’t get comfortable. I think he knows exactly where you are.”
“What? How?” Her eyes darted to the window locks then to the chain on the door, all securely in place. Surely he couldn’t know where she was. TJ had circled several blocks to make sure no one had followed them here and she hadn’t left the property since registering under a phony name two days ago. Two simple words from Charlie, “he knows” cast a horrid light on her hiding place. She could feel Randy watching her now. Her hands trembled as if he could appear from the bathroom any second.
“He wouldn’t kill Monique if he knew I was here,” she said.
“Trust me, he knows.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No. He left me some surprises and a note.”
Deirdre ducked down between the beds and huddled with the phone, praying she hadn’t given herself away. If Randy had checked the caller-id box
while he was inside Charlie’s house, he would have found a long list of desperate, unanswered calls placed from this hotel.
“Just relax, Deirdre. Tell me where you are and I’ll come get you.”
Deirdre imagined Randy listening on the line as she gave Charlie the name of her hotel. When they hung up, she turned off the computer and stuffed it in her overnight bag with the rest of her things. Then she shifted to the window and pulled back the curtain to watch for the Mercedes or a grey van.
She felt Henri drift into her thoughts from above, his billowy figure rigid with spite at her excitement for Charlie’s arrival. He sent a chill rippling through her.
It’s not about him, Henri, you have to know that. I need him now. He’s the only one who can protect me from that monster. If I run, he’ll find me. I don’t know how, but he’ll find me. You know I loved you. I always loved you. It’s my fault this happened. I should have told you, but I was too scared of losing you.
Please forgive me, Henri. Please.
The tension hovering around Deirdre didn’t ease with the peace of forgiveness. The chilly air was electric with anger instead.
It’ll be over soon. TJ will fix it for us.
Deirdre fixed her eyes on the pavement and held them there.
After an interminable wait, a blue sedan pulled in and parked in front of the main entrance. The man who got out was too rotund to be Charlie or Randy.
A few minutes later, a black Volvo pulled in and drove the length of the parking lot, disappearing around back. Deirdre checked her watch and waited three full minutes. When no cars turned in behind him, she grabbed her bags, poked her head out into the hall, and slipped past the maid. The lobby was arranged in a cross, with the registration desk a bit off-center. On either side, doors led to the parking areas front and back. The hallway behind her led to the guest rooms and continued through the lobby to the restaurant and bar. Randy could be anywhere and after what Charlie had said she expected to find him waiting to ambush her as she left.
