Orchids and Stone

by Lisa Preston

  “It’s Thea.”

  “It’s after eleven,” Daphne said.

  “I know. Wake you?” Thea waited for Daphne’s negative murmur before asking, “What are you doing over there?”

  “How’d you know I was here?” Daphne countered. She could tell this would be a long one with Thea, and she got a glass out of the cabinet, half-filling it at the sink and wondering if there was something better in the fridge.

  “I called your house and Vic said you were at your mom’s. What’s up?”

  “Nothing, I just …” A noise outside the house, something that could pass for boots on the back porch, made Daphne flinch.

  “Marry him.”

  “What?!”

  Thea said, “He told me.”

  Daphne inhaled, long enough to stem the sniffle that wanted to escape. “Just because a nice guy loves me and treats me pretty well and understands me pretty well and is a nice guy—”

  “He is a nice guy.” Thea cut in.

  “Nice to children,” Daphne said, “and animals. We’ve talked about Grazie, you know, putting her down or getting her hips done, and he just about breaks up over it.”

  “So, he’s nice to kids and animals.”

  “And to old people,” Daphne said. “You should see how he is with his dad. And he’s great with my mom.”

  “You’re not.”

  “No. I’m kind of crappy with her.”

  “So he’s nice to old people,” Thea went on. “And to you.”

  “Yes,” Daphne agreed now that the list was complete. “And to me. Anyway, just because of that nice stuff and ’cause I love him, it’s no reason to go around marrying him.”

  “Oh, hell, no,” Thea said. “You know that tiff you and I had a couple of days ago? Did you know he called me and asked me to use my alumna status to get that Wallach chick’s contact info for you? He said it would be the quickest way and this is the shittiest weekend of the year for you, so would I please help you out. And he was right.”

  Daphne felt the familiar clench in her stomach thinking of her best friend’s usually snide attitude toward Vic. “Why don’t you like him, Thea?”

  The reply was a verdict. “Well, shit. He says things that no one should say.”

  “Like?” Daphne felt her eyebrows rise.

  “Like cool beans.”

  Daphne’s protest was immediate, adamant. “He does not.”

  “He does, too. And I mean, come on. No one says cool beans anymore. No one.”

  “Vic does, sometimes,” Daphne admitted. “Listen, where are you?”

  “Driving.”

  Daphne snorted. “Where are you, Thee?”

  “Um, out.”

  “Out?” Daphne drained water from the plastic tumbler.

  “Just driving. I was in your neighborhood—I mean, near Vic’s house—and I called, and Vic told me you were at your mom’s and you’d left him and he’d proposed a couple of days ago. You never told me he’d proposed—”

  “I started to. We got distracted, I think.”

  “Well, I think you should marry him.”

  “Why? Seriously, why do you think I should marry him?” Daphne turned as she asked this. A prickly feeling of someone watching made her glance around the kitchen, stepping over the cord as she circled. Was she feeling examined just because Thea was being nosy? Daphne nodded, calming herself down. No one was watching her. No one except her best friend was paying attention to her. It was just darker in the old neighborhood, with taller trees blocking city light and glow.

  “As they say in court, Daphne, asked and answered.” Thea’s tone changed and the reception became clearer. “The lights aren’t on and nobody’s home.”

  “What?”

  “I’m at that address I gave you a couple of days ago, on Eastpark. Listen, I was doing quite a bit of research earlier, Nexus searches and more. The thing about this Minerva Watts lady … and the stolen car from California? It’s possible the old woman who owned that California car, that Lincoln that you chased—”

  “I know what car you’re talking about,” Daphne said, yanking the fridge open.

  “It’s possible she was murdered. It all fits. Too many pieces fit. So it is more than possible there really is a couple victimizing old people in a systematic way and maybe your Minerva Watts is their next victim, their Seattle one.”

  “What!” A shadow moved outside and Daphne swung the fridge door shut, mindful that she’d just been backlit, visible to anyone outside.

  She told herself to calm down. A tiny clink of broken glass rattled. Daphne looked for Cinderfella amongst the goods on the dining table, telling herself she should switch phones and take him to the living room, get the cat away from the tools and picture frames and old lamp.

  Then a cool draft whispered through the house, coupons clipped to the fridge fluttered, and Daphne knew the back door was open. The living room floor creaked as someone crossed the room. One wall separated her from someone coming toward the kitchen.

  Daphne looked with horror down the long phone cord connecting her to the far wall at the kitchen’s opening. A small revolver—unbelievable, but there—entered the room in a man’s hand. And then another hand, this one in a black leather glove, reached for the telephone hook.

  “Thea, call the cops. Now.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Flinging the telephone’s handset, trying to ignore the sound of its plastic body skittering across the floor as the coiled cord beckoned it home to the receiver, Daphne stepped deep to the wall, beside the fridge. But that man—it was Guff—already knew where she was and would be on her in seconds.

  Daphne pressed herself against the cold metal of the refrigerator, aware of how its hum changed when she leaned into the monstrous old appliance. The wham of her frightened heart threatened to make her shake. Guff was coming. He was a few yards away.

  She had to do it fast, very fast, with all her power. If it didn’t slam over, but only rocked, he’d be warned. And there was no time for anything more than full, immediate success.

  It’s the legs. It’s the legs. Hunching her shoulders and abs as her hands gripped the upper back corner of the fridge, Daphne curled her body, stepping her feet up the wall toward her hands. She braced in a fetal position, body in the air, clinging to the refrigerator’s upper corner, toes high on the wall as she eyed the little cupboard above the fridge. A cheap cabinet. And she could see in her mind’s eye what her mother stored up there. A big milk glass platter for serving the Thanksgiving turkey. A punch bowl. They’d been part of the family forever and would be ruined if she flipped the fridge. The cabinet would rupture when the back end of the fridge rocked forward.

  Pushing her feet against the wall with every leg, arm, and core muscle, she forced the refrigerator to crash, doors to the floor. She rolled toward her father’s old things as she fell. Guff’s startled cry and the sound of breaking glass, splintering wood, and cabinet items scattering was punctuated by a heavy, whomping thud as hundreds of pounds of metal met the man and smashed him to the floor.

  Daphne jumped to her feet, hoping her heart would stop thudding aggression and fear. It didn’t.

  The man grunted. Motion in the dim light sent terror through her legs like electric sparks.

  A sick, wet sound came as Guff lifted his head and then gave up, smacking it back into a little pool of blood.

  She’d pinned him. One unmoving boot toe protruded toward Daphne from under the fridge. His left arm flailed above his head as his right shoulder made damped motion, the right arm trapped beneath the fridge. She guessed his trapped arm was on his torso. She wondered where the gun was.

  “Ah! My leg. Knee …” He wheezed.

  Stepping away from the wall, she skidded on a piece of broken cabinetry. Her father’s things, her mother’s pending garage sale setup, were behind her. In order to get to the light switch and the telephone, she’d have to climb over the fridge.

  Well, why not?

  Daphne planted her pa
lms in the middle, noting the fridge didn’t rest flat. When she vaulted the facedown appliance, Guff eked out pained breaths. She scampered farther from him, flicking on the lights and pausing in the kitchen doorway as she scanned the floor for his gun.

  The odd black shape—there had never been a pistol in her parents’ house, she was pretty sure—was on the floor near the kitchen sink. The phone was at her feet in the doorway, its plastic cracked. Shards of milk glass and extra baking pans littered the floor and countertops.

  Guff eyed her, struggling for breath as another word formed. “Bitch.”

  Daphne looked down at him, fear and fury melding together. “Where’s Minerva Watts?”

  He grabbed the edge of the refrigerator with his left hand and pushed, but the harvest gold block of metal kept him pinned. His breathing got raspy and he didn’t bring himself to try again.

  Picking up the phone, Daphne glanced at the hook where he’d disconnected her from Thea, but hesitated. Had Thea heard her and called the police already?

  The police would listen to her now. They could put it all together. But how long would it take? Suppose the other woman was waiting for Guff to come right back? She could be around the corner, holding a gun on Minnie. Suppose they planned to make their escape, leave town right after he had come and dealt with Daphne. Had they already killed Minnie? How long would it take to find out where they held Minnie if police asked, then waited for his cooperation?

  How long would it take to make Minnie safe?

  How long did she have?

  Daphne walked to the sink and toed the pistol toward the doorway.

  A gun was not one of her tools. She drew her tongue across her front teeth in wicked pleasure.

  “Wait here,” Daphne told Guff as she kicked the pistol into the living room, feeling like she’d scored a goal. Out of his sight, she pushed his pistol under the edge of the couch with her foot.

  A decision burst. She grabbed the roofing hammer she’d wielded on the Honda the day before. A distant siren wailed. The police might be coming here already. She might not have much time.

  Crouching just out of Guff’s reach, Daphne raised the special tool, showed him its sharp adze.

  “Shingler’s hammer,” she explained. “Tell me where she is. Now.”

  He looked at her, opened his mouth, and turned his head in a half shake of refusal.

  Cutting off the gulp her throat wanted, Daphne drew her arm back to swing like she was at T-ball practice with Josie, years ago.

  The man’s shoulder on the floor made a different sort of target than a white plastic ball on a post, asked for a vertical blow instead of a horizontal swing. Asked a very different mentality of the swinger. Daphne swallowed hard and raised the hammer. “I think you’re going to tell me where Minerva Watts is.”

  His breath came in pained gasps between words. “You … are a crazy bitch.”

  “Not even the point,” she said, locking in on Guff’s exposed shoulder. “I want to know where Minnie Watts is and I want to know right now.”

  He pressed his lips together, puffing through his nose.

  “Put your name on it, Daphne,” she shouted as she closed her eyes and brought the hammer down.

  The sick thwack, blood, and Guff’s following scream didn’t surprise her—she’d signed up for it—but when the fridge shifted as he struggled, she raised her hammer and eyebrows.

  The distant but definite wail of sirens called and she knew it had to be now. He had to tell her. No asking nicely, no taking time and bargaining or giving his girlfriend a chance to escape again. Now. Not later, not after waiting until he felt like offering a little information in exchange for some legal benefit. Not after he had taken the time to weigh the pluses and minuses of being cooperative, balanced his crimes against what the police knew, what his fallout would be. Not after he got an attorney and exercised rights and took time to choose whether or not to let Minnie be safe.

  Now.

  Daphne stood, looking across the fridge to the dining table. “How about I see if I can get the old chainsaw running?”

  He wheezed.

  She vaulted the fridge again, causing him to gurgle in protest at the added weight. He grabbed at her with his free arm, but it was futile. A few feet away, she was safe. She hefted the chainsaw.

  “Wow, feels like there’s some gas and oil in it,” she lied. It felt too light, unfueled, the scent of petroleum products much fainter than it should have been. She flipped the choke and power switches, then yanked the starter cord. The little engine gave a quick accompanying roar but didn’t catch. She pretended to adjust the choke, pretended a confidence she didn’t feel.

  “This will be a faster way to cut your arm off. A lot easier than hacking it off with my hammer’s adze. And I don’t know how else to make you tell me what I want to know.” She yanked the starter cord again, holding the chainsaw as close to him as she dared.

  His eyes went wide and rolled back in his head.

  “Hey, don’t pass out,” she said. Slight red light played through the room. The police were on the street, down the block.

  They were here too soon. She raised the chainsaw.

  “I will cut your fucking head off,” she told him. “You will tell me right now where she is or I will kill you. This is your last chance.” She yanked the starter cord again and knew she was assaulting this man who, at the moment, was vulnerable and at her mercy.

  His lips formed soundless words, a bubble of spittle popping from his teeth. He rasped as his chest heaved as he strained to breathe.

  “What? Say it,” she demanded.

  He opened his mouth but no sound escaped. Then he managed, “Q-Q-Quality Inn. Exit one-fifty-four. Two-seventeen.” His free hand made a feeble gesture.

  “I-5?” she asked. “Exit one-fifty-four off of Interstate Five? Room two hundred seventeen at the Quality Inn?”

  He nodded assent and his head lolled back.

  “Seattle Police!” The shout came from the front door. She hadn’t locked it earlier.

  Guff blinked and looked away from Daphne, toward the kitchen’s doorway to the rest of the house.

  She set the chainsaw aside and swallowed. “Help! Help me, please.”

  Footsteps crossed the other room and then a uniformed man and woman appeared near the kitchen phone. Daphne waved from beyond the overturned refrigerator. The officers took in the trashed kitchen, her, and the man struggling for breath under the fridge in a glance.

  Both cops moved to the edge of the fridge and grabbed, readying to lift.

  “He’s got a gun,” Daphne said. “He’s an intruder. I was over here on the phone to my friend and the first thing I saw was his gun. He was going to kill me. I asked Thea to call the police. He’s working with some woman and they’re holding a lady named Minerva Watts. Holding her against her will. They’re robbing her. I think they’ve done it before, to others.”

  Leaving Guff pinned, the officers released the fridge. He moaned and tried to speak.

  The female cop leaned her face quite close to Guff. “What’s in your hand under the fridge?” she demanded, cocking her head to listen to his faint mumbles.

  Daphne couldn’t hear Guff’s response, but the cop keyed her microphone, asking her dispatcher for “paramedics and a rescue assist.”

  Then she turned to her partner. “He says his leg’s hurt. Says he doesn’t have a gun.”

  “It went across the floor when I pushed the fridge over,” Daphne said, pointing to their side of the fridge. “Then out the kitchen door. I kicked it under the couch in there.” She pointed to the wall separating them from the living room.

  “You pushed the fridge over?” The woman eyed the room again.

  The male officer stepped back into the living room. The woman studied Daphne. “Whose house is this?”

  “Mine. My mother’s. I’m staying here tonight.”

  “Is anyone else here?”

  Daphne shook her head, then hesitated. “Not that I know of.
But then, he’s an intruder and I don’t know if he’s alone.”

  The male officer leaned into the kitchen, the revolver dangling from his pen. “I’m going to clear the residence, then grab my camera,” he told the woman. “Medics are almost here.”

  She nodded and looked at Guff. “Hang on, sir. The fire department’s going to help you out.”

  “Hey,” Daphne hollered from the darker dining area, waving from behind the fridge. “You have to listen to me. There’s an emergency still. There’s this whole thing …” Pointing to Guff, Daphne told the woman cop about Minnie Watts and previous police encounters and Guff breaking into the house with a gun. She talked fast, without stopping.

  She said that after the fridge fell, Guff grabbed at her and she swung wildly in self-defense with her hammer, said she’d asked him where Minnie was and he told her the hotel and room number once he realized he was stuck.

  “Please, you have to get people over there right away. The Quality Inn on I-5 at exit one-fifty-four. Room two hundred seventeen. You have to make Minerva Watts safe,” Daphne finished.

  After listening these long minutes, eyeing Guff and Daphne at turns, the cop keyed her mic and said several things on several different channels. Daphne heard lots of “ten-fours” and other codes.

  Best of all, she heard the hotel location repeated and the words, “Immediate welfare check on a Minerva Watts.”

  The male cop used his radio, too, calling for Officer Taminsky and a sergeant, but Daphne could hear none of the other end of his conversation because he wore an ear bud jacked into his radio.

  As paramedics entered, Daphne longed to vault the fridge—or clamber up and bounce on Guff. The cop told her to jump over Guff’s head. When Daphne hesitated, the officer pinned Guff’s free arm and again told Daphne to jump.

  She jumped.

  They asked if they could look around, accepted Daphne’s nod, and told Daphne to wait outside by the police cars.

  From the front yard, Daphne watched paramedics and more fire department personnel crowd into her mother’s kitchen with their gear, tackle boxes, and a stretcher. On the street, a collection of police cars clogged the lane. Daphne could see an officer with stripes on her shoulder talking to the first woman officer in the living room. A fire engine and an ambulance hogged the neighborhood street.