“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
“I was a good athlete. But every time we played against SF I wasn’t allowed to play. They always beat us, and coach said I wasn’t good enough to play. I was good enough.” His voice was rising. This wasn’t a good sign. I had to diffuse the tension. He went on, getting louder. “Mom said I wasn’t good enough too. Wrong. Wrong. I was a great athlete. I hate SF graduates. Hate ’em.”
I nodded, and spoke again, my voice calm. “Okay, what about Creighton Jameson?”
“Beyond the obvious that he went to St. Francis, he was going to die anyway, so what’s the big loss? I made him the decoy. So no one would know it was me. They’d figure he felt bad about it and decided to kill himself. Then the cops—including your boyfriend—would close the case.” I could hear the satisfaction in Richie’s voice. “I mean don’t act like the world is going to miss Jameson. He was toast anyway.”
Omigod, he’s a psychopath! And I knew I really had to keep him talking, plus I had to keep complimenting him.
“And everyone would believe he was the murderer.”
“Of course,” he nodded as he spoke.
“Tell me more.” I had to keep the conversation—such as it was—going.
“What do you want me to tell? There’s one model of the old-style Polaroid camera that has an automatic timer on it. You can set up a shot and then be in it.” He smiled as he said this. “Not many people know that. So for the first guy, it was easy for me to set up the camera on my bike, throw on my blue hoodie, and presto—one vagrant gone.”
He walked around the living room, but kept the gun pretty much facing my way. “I knew I wouldn’t be a suspect because of the type of camera I used. Then when I made the brilliant move of stabbing myself in the chest—well, that sealed the deal on me being innocent. You stupid, stupid people. Of course, my heart is in the wrong place. Literally.”
He let out with a maniacal laugh. The kind the villain always did in the old movies. I halfway expected him to pull out a black cape and twirl on a pencil-thin mustache. At that moment a Jimmy Buffett tune surfaced in my brain. I wish I had a pencil-thin mustache, the Boston Blackie kind. I cursed my ADHD and forced myself to focus.
“You made some brilliant moves, Richie. I wish you’d done it in a legal way, so people could really appreciate you as a free man. They won’t give so much admiration to a criminal.”
“Criminal? You ignorant female.” His voice got lower and more serious. “Shut up and do what I say.”
“Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.” I could feel my heart beating.
“I want you to write a note. Get some paper.” I did. “You need a pen too. Don’t drag this out anymore than you already have.”
“I don’t have a pen,” I said, as meekly as I could. “I mean I can’t find a pen. I know I have one. Do you want me to keep looking?”
Richie took a pen out of his PRESS hat and threw it at me. “Here’s a damn pen. Now sit down at the table and write what I tell you.”
“Okay,” I said, still compliant, and knowing he wanted me to write a suicide note.
“Please don’t forget to take your pen with you after you kill me. I don’t want anyone to be able to use it as a clue to trace it back to you.” I didn’t want to sound too bossy and set him off, but wanted to drag things out.
“See,” he said. “That’s what I mean. Sometimes you’re a really nice lady.”
I was immensely grateful that he didn’t catch on to my procrastination.
“Hey, Richie, I just thought of something. Would you like something to drink? I have iced tea or I could make some coffee.”
Damn, that was one too many distractions.
“Are you trying to drag this out so you get rescued?” He wagged the gun around like he was doing a flag routine.
“No. Yes. Yes, I guess I am. I don’t want to die. I have two kids, a dog, and a boyfriend. Plus a job I love. Why would I want to hurry up my death?”
“That makes sense,” Richie said, “but it’s not enough reason for me not to kill you. You’re the only one, the only damn one, to almost figure it out.”
“I told you I was nosy. I can’t help it. I wish there was a twelve-step group for curiosity. I’d join. Hell, I’d be the poster child for the group. My mom was the same way. Guess I got it from her.”
“Shut up, Sam.” Richie was getting antsy. “I can’t stand here all day with a gun pointed at you. Sooner or later someone is going to show up.”
“That’s my fondest hope,” I whispered.
“Well, the door’s locked and I’m sure not going to open it.”
“But, Richie, that door is the only way out. Since this was a carriage house, the windows are small. If someone comes to the door you won’t be able to get out without being seen.” I needed to come up with a plan, and fast.
I could feel my brain going into overdrive. Maybe some of that crazy activity would be useful for once. Think.
“Wait, let me show you where there’s another escape route, just in case someone barges in on us.” It sounded crazy to me, that I would actually try to help him escape when I knew he was trying to kill me, but he might be just crazy enough to believe it. I prayed.
“Okay. But hurry.” God bless Richie. He bit on that one.
“I will,” I said. “Just follow me.”
He did and I could imagine the gun pointed right at the back of my head, although the reality was that it probably was moving all over the place.
At this point I had no idea what I was going to do, I just knew I had to keep stalling. As we were walking to my bedroom I heard the front door rattle, and then George’s muffled voice yell, “Hey, Sam. You locked your door. Amazing. Open up, hon, I have something to tell you.”
Richie put his finger to his lips, warning me not to make any noise. But I could tell he was getting nervous about how he was going to escape.
I didn’t want to make noise anyway. Sarah was upstairs and I didn’t want her to barge into this situation. But knowing her, she’d have on headphones with music playing.
“Hurry, I told him. George has a key,” I lied, “and he’ll be in any second.”
“You hurry,” he countermanded. And I did. I ushered him to my bedroom and then to the adjoining bathroom.
This was my moment. I was thinking as fast as I could. What was my story?
“If you stand on the edge of the bathtub and put your hand on the window ledge, you’ll feel a lock.” He was climbing up. He believed me. What to say?
“Push the lock and part of the wall will fall away, letting you virtually walk out of here.” That was nuts. A fantasy. Keep talking.
“I know that sounds wild, but its…it’s because this place is a carriage house. It’s the old part of the wall that used to be there when carriages actually came in and out. A great big opening.”
I didn’t know where this was coming from. Some part of my mind that was intent on survival. Richie was up there and feeling for the lock.
“It’s on the opposite side of the house as the front door, so George will never know,” I said.
“Gee, thanks,” Richie said, gullible as ever, and then he stretched his arm above the tub and reached up to the high windowsill. As he did, he had to balance himself against the wall. For an instant I saw the gun pointed at the ceiling instead of at me. I took that moment to move faster than I thought possible, stepping out and slamming the bathroom door.
I heard him yell at me to stop, and then I heard the explosion of gunfire, echoing in the tiled bathroom. I heard the bullet hit the door. It didn’t go through it, but I felt lucky that I was off to the side, already heading toward the front door. I only had a moment’s head start, so I grabbed some dining room chairs as I passed them and pushed them down behind me. I knew they wouldn’t stop bullets, but they might trip up Richie.
Hearing more gunshots, and breathing heavily, I finally reached the front door and grabbed the doorknob. Just as I touched it two th
ings happened. The door opened, and I got shot.
TWENTY-TWO
I didn’t lose consciousness, but my butt hurt like hell. I wanted some attention, but didn’t want to let on that I was shot in my butt. I was actually feeling pretty relieved to be alive.
So I lay there, on my stomach, and stayed quiet—for once—while the man I loved took care of the man that shot me.
“Richie,” George said, his own gun in his hand and pointed at the murderer, “don’t do anything you’ll be sorry for. You’re in deep enough trouble already, and I don’t want you to make it worse for yourself.”
From the floor, I could see that Richie was shaking, and unarmed. I was trembling myself. After all, I was the one who’d been shot in the butt.
George started to tell Richie what to do, but Richie interrupted.
“I’m sorry, George.” He started to sob. “I’m sorry, Sam. I don’t know what happened. It just snowballed. Not my fault.”
“Shut up,” I said, brave now that I could see Richie didn’t have a gun. “George, he kicked Clancy. Help her. Then help me.”
“First things first, Sam.” George turned his attention back to Richie, whose gun I now saw sitting on the floor. “Kick it over to me.” Richie did. “Now turn around and put your hands behind your back.” Richie complied and George cuffed him. He had another set of cuffs and he righted one of the chairs and attached Richie to it.
George called in for backup immediately. He also called for an ambulance. Then he read Richie his rights before Richie could say anything else.
George’s proximity made me feel better, but damn, my butt hurt. That was secondary to my dog in the closet however.
As George opened the closet door, Clancy came out slowly. I could tell her ribs hurt, but she let me know she was okay by coming over and licking my…butt?
“Clancy,” I quickly said, “I’m okay. Someone will take care of the wound. Come here.” And she gingerly walked toward my face and nuzzled me. I found it immensely comforting.
Police arrived first. Two of them came in and carted Richie off. As he left I noticed tears running down his face. He tried to turn to me, but couldn’t because the officers were leading him quickly toward the door. I did catch his words, however.
“I’m sorry, Sam. I’m really sorry. Especially about the dog.”
His remorse didn’t touch me as a victim. As a social worker, I hoped he would get some help in prison and maybe be put in the forensic mental health ward. But that wasn’t up to me.
When the ambulance arrived I insisted that Clancy get taken as well. George warned them not to argue with me, and they didn’t. Clancy and I shared the gurney. It was a tight squeeze but the only difference from every bedtime was that my dear sweet girl was hurting and my butt cheek was bleeding.
“Drop her off at Dr. Bob’s first.” I turned my head to George, desperate for him to agree with me.
He sighed heavily, knowing this was a battle he wouldn’t win.
“Yeah, do what she says.”
I smiled, in spite of my pain, in spite of my worry. George called Dr. Bob’s office to let them know what had happened to Clancy. The ambulance driver and George gently carried in my girl, and when George returned to the ambulance he said he’d be checking on Clancy. I knew that he loved Clancy almost as much as I did, so I was able to relax a little. In fact, if my butt hadn’t hurt so much I would have fallen asleep.
George interrupted my relaxed state.
“What in the hell were you doing?”
I knew what he meant.
“Well, once I figured out what Richie had done, I thought I could trap him into confessing. I didn’t let him in knowing he was the murderer. Even I wouldn’t do that.”
At George’s expression, I rethought that. “Okay. Maybe I would have. But I didn’t.”
George was scowling at me, and caressing my cheek at the same time. It was an interesting combination.
“To tell the truth, I let him in without thinking. I didn’t figure out he did it until after I let him in, and he showed me the picture. Or maybe it was after I saw the gun.” I could hear George breathing hard, and I knew he wanted to yell at me. “Anyway, don’t say anything. I know it’s a problem. And I felt safe because I knew you’d be right back. And you were.”
“That’s not going to get you out of the doghouse.” Even though his words were harsh, his tone was warm and he put his hand on my back. If I hadn’t been lying on my stomach I would have kissed him.
“I know. I should know better by now. In my head it’s always a smooth operation. I solve the crime and nobody gets hurt.” I suddenly thought of something as the ambulance stopped at the entrance to the ER. As they wheeled me in, I yelled at George, “Call Dr. Bob and find out how Clancy is doing.”
I was immensely grateful that my sister Jill was on duty and available to be my physician. As soon as she saw me she said, “What have you done now?”
“Is that how you treat all your patients?”
“Nope. Just you. What happened?” she asked as a nurse took my vital signs.
I told her all the details, while trying to make myself sound good and Richie sound evil.
“I’ll lay off for now, just until we’re done treating you,” Jill said. “Then I’ll turn into your sister instead of your doctor.”
She gave some orders to the nurse. I heard “bullet,” I heard “sutures,” I heard “injection,” and I signed a paper agreeing to treatment.
Someone started an IV, and before long I was out.
I awoke in the same room in the ER, with George holding my hand and me lying on my side. At least it was a different position. I felt some pain in my butt, but felt kind of groggy too, which was okay by me.
George explained the procedure to me and that everything had gone well. I grinned at him, in my dopey haze, and saw my knight in shining armor. My George.
“I love you,” I said. “Did you see my butt?”
“I love you, too,” he responded, “and don’t worry about your butt. And even though you are out of the woods medically, you are still in trouble with me.”
I nodded, then changed the subject.
“How’s Clancy?”
“She’s fine,” he said. “Doc said she’s going to be sore for a while, but no ribs are broken and he doesn’t think there’ll be any permanent damage. Gus is going to pick her up later. She’ll probably be home before we will.”
“Good. When can I leave here?”
“Jill said you have to be completely awake and alert. She’ll be back in to check on you soon.” He patted my shoulder, almost absentmindedly, as we talked.
Now that things were getting clearer I remembered something.
“When Richie and I were in the carriage house, and you couldn’t get in the front door, you yelled that you had something to tell me. What is it?”
“Not now, Sam,” George said. At my insistence he gave in and told me.
“I’ve been promoted to Chief of Detectives.”
“I’m so proud of you,” I gushed. And not knowing when to leave well enough alone, I added, “I probably helped you get that promotion, because I’ve solved so many murders since I’ve been back.”
George gave me a look that silenced me immediately. But not for long.
“And I have something to tell you.” I had even more to say than usual. The medication made it all seem very pleasant. “I have ADHD, and that’s why I’m so impulsive and stupid. Well, ADHD doesn’t make you stupid, I just do stupid things. But I can’t help it sometimes. And sometimes I can.” I thought a moment. “I’m talking and I can’t shut up.”
I started crying, not from his look which was now kind and loving, but from the whole experience. I was groggy, in pain, worried about my dog, and even worried about Richie. I noticed a look of compassion on George’s face. He put down the railing on his side of the bed, moved me over, and slid in next to me. He put my head on his shoulder, and sweetly and softly sang to me.
&n
bsp; Who knew George could sing?
I felt like I was in heaven. If heaven included sore butts.
If only Clancy were on the other side of me, I thought that I could fall asleep between my two loves forever.
And who knows…maybe I will.
Want more? Don’t miss Jerilyn Dufresne’s first two Sam Darling mysteries!
WHO KILLED MY BOSS?
A few minutes after he hires Samantha Darling as a therapist, Dr. Burns is murdered. Stunned by his sudden death and desperate to keep the job she just got, Sam vows to find the killer.
She has two things going for her. The first is that her brother Rob is a cop, and she figures the crime-solving thing has to be genetic. The second is that Sam is a little bit psychic—a trait she’s come to accept, though it can be inconvenient at times.
With the help of her landlord and her dog, Sam sets out to solve the murder. Along the way, she spends time with the hot new guy in town and tries NOT to spend time with her old beau.
Using her “psychic vibes,” her wit, and her charm, Sam bumbles along and finally solves the mystery, but not before going in the wrong direction more than once.
ANY MEAT IN THAT SOUP?
When a man falls down at Samantha Darling’s feet, she thinks it’s pretty funny. But she stops joking when he turns up dead.
Social worker and would-be crime-solver Sam is busy trying to unravel the mystery as the death toll keeps mounting. She’s thrilled to be hired by the handsome local PI to work in the ER and investigate.
“I’m being paid to snoop! I’ve died and gone to heaven.” Her elation quickly evaporates when she finds out that her sister Jen is being investigated for the murders.
A trio of other suspects, a poisoning scare for her best bud and canine companion Clancy, and the back-and-forth pull of Sam’s attraction to the dreamy Michael and the loyal George keep her unbalanced as she tries to juggle social work, secret sleuthing, and a romantic triangle. As usual, Sam takes her snooping to extraordinary heights. She can’t seem to stop putting her nose where it doesn’t belong.
Can You Picture This? (Sam Darling Mystery #3) Page 12
