At First Sight

by Stephen J. Cannell

  Shit, I thought. New beginnings? What the hell does that mean? We’d both just lost our spouses. For me, it was hardly a beginning. It was a vast, unacceptable ending. But I held myself in check, didn’t respond, and took a small sip of the wine, which was remarkable. Then I looked up at him. “Let’s see the list.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The list. Let me have a look.”

  He seemed puzzled.

  “The list of things your sister-in-law wanted you to find for Evelyn’s mother.”

  He reached into his pockets and started pulling things out. “I know I have that damn list someplace.” He grinned and started patting his pockets like a guy trying to dodge a dinner check. Then he looked at me sheepishly and shrugged.

  No list, I thought. Great.

  My panic alarms were all blaring. If there was no list, then the whole trip up here was bullshit.

  I was now beginning to think I might actually be in some physical jeopardy, when he suddenly snapped his fingers and crossed the room, picked up the car keys on the hall table, and opened the door.

  “Left it in the car,” he said as he walked outside.

  I stood there wondering what I should do next. The elk and bears hanging on the walls glared down at me. Since they were former victims, they offered no sympathy.

  After a few minutes he returned, list in hand. “Got it,” he smiled. “I forgot, I stuck it up under the visor while I was driving over to the hotel to pick you up. Come on, most of this stuff is out in the garage.”

  He picked up the wine bottle, then led the way through the house into a large game room, where more stuffed animal heads hung on the walls.

  “Bagged that big guy over the fireplace in Oregon last year,” he said conversationally, gesturing toward a huge dusty-looking elk head.

  “Mmm … ” I answered.

  He continued through the kitchen, opened the door to the garage, and turned on the light.

  The garage was almost floor-to-ceiling junk. I’d rarely seen a space with so much discarded stuff piled randomly. There were boxes jammed up on the rafters, stacked in precarious disarray. The shelves contained more labeled boxes: old linens, tools, and household goods. Discarded furniture and scraps of broken lumber were stacked in both parking stalls.

  “I told you it was going to be a big project,” he said brightly.

  “My God, Chick, what is all this stuff?”

  “We redecorated last year. This is what we didn’t keep. I wanted to just throw it all away, but Evelyn wanted to clean it up and donate it to the homeless shelter down in Longview. That was Evelyn, always looking out for the less fortunate.” He sipped his wine and smiled. “Boy, this really is smooth. Hard to believe it’s a California red. I bet it’s almost decanted by now. Let me pour you another and see if we can spot any difference.”

  “I’m fine. Let’s get started.”

  He looked down at his list. “A box of her baby and high school pictures from the summer house in Michigan. Should be up there, somewhere.”

  He pointed to a shelf full of boxes, then found a stepladder, carried it over, and climbed up. “We brought a lot of this stuff up here when we ran out of storage space in town,” he said, starting to pull out cartons and hand them down.

  As I took the first box, I glanced out the window and noticed a shed of some kind behind the garage, which I hoped wasn’t full of more junk. I placed the box on the floor behind me.

  We worked steadily for an hour. Chick had opened the second bottle and kept topping off my glass. Even though I was trying hard not to drink, I have to admit it was a great wine, and after a glass or so, I was feeling much better. The more we worked, the more harmless it all seemed.

  When we had taken quite a few boxes down, we started going through them and pulling out the things he wanted to load into the trunk to take back to L.A. Then we carried those items out of the garage and stacked them on the kitchen counter. Once we got organized, it went quicker than either of us had imagined. After an hour and a half, we were almost finished.

  Chick was up on the ladder, pulling out a big box of Evelyn’s journals. I picked up the list that he had left next to the wine bottle. I read the last item: “E’s paintings.”

  “I didn’t know Evelyn was a painter,” I said to Chick, who was up on the ladder with his back to me.

  “Yeah, she wasn’t real accomplished, like you are, but she used to like working with watercolors. Still lifes mostly. She said painting relaxed her. There’s a slew of them up here somewhere.”

  I glanced down at the list, and then turned it over to make sure there were no more items on the reverse side. That’s when my heart froze. The list was written on the back of an invoice from the Fawnskin gas station. The date on the top was today’s. It was the receipt he’d just gotten for putting the chains on the Mercedes.

  The list was less than three hours old.

  CHAPTER 37

  I SET THE PAPER DOWN AND TOOK A STEP BACKWARD, trying not to let my voice convey anything. “Find the paintings yet?” I asked.

  “Yep, right here. Got ’em.” He pulled a box out and climbed down the ladder backward, then turned and carried it into the kitchen, setting it down with the others.

  “That’s all of it. Come on in and we’ll uncork the French Bordeaux to compare and celebrate. This is thirsty work.”

  I moved into the kitchen and stood as far away from him as I could.

  He must have noticed my stiff posture because he asked, “Something wrong?”

  “I forgot to tell you, but I need to call Peter Ellis. We’re redoing some things with the learning foundation. Peter’s attorneys need to know where I am. They’re working through the weekend because we have to file all this stuff with the e Corporations Commission on Monday. I’m supposed to check over some of the redrafts this evening. Since the phones are working now, I’d better give them your number.”

  “First, let’s crack another bottle,” he persisted, blocking my way to the phone in the living room as he opened the bottle of Bordeaux. He refilled my glass without asking me.

  “To a job well done,” he said, clicking rims.

  I pressed the glass to my mouth and let the wine run up to my lips, but didn’t swallow. I didn’t want any more alcohol. I was now in a full panic.

  “So what was the deal with you and Chandler anyway?” Chick suddenly said, leaning back and studying me, a sly smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that.”

  “What was the deal?” I said, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you guys seemed so different is all. I could never quite figure what that was all about—how it worked with you two. He didn’t seem to have your ambition, your sense of adventure.”

  The statement was so out of line I didn’t answer.

  Chick smiled. I’d had about a glass and a half of wine, but he’d had at least five. I was standing there, calculating my odds, preparing for battle.

  “Yeah. Guys like Chandler really baffle me,” he went on, obliviously. “Kind of like a John Kennedy Jr. type, if you ask me. Money, nice to look at, but you gotta admit, these guys pretty much had life handed to them on a platter. John Jr. knew he was hot looking, and the press called him an American prince. But he crashes his plane in a whiteout, which was just plain stupid. I was always thinking why is everybody bawling? What it boiled down to was the guy didn’t know what he was doing and he killed himself.”

  Then he gave me a little smile. “People magazine puts out a special edition. Entertainment Tonight couldn’t run enough profiles. If I killed myself flying in zero visibility with no instrument rating, they wouldn’t sing my praises; they’d open up a fucking accident investigation. See what I’m saying? Totally outta whack.”

  “Why are we talking about JFK Jr.? And what the hell does his death have to do with Chandler’s?”

  He took another sip of wine, then turned and focused his gaze out the window. It was now dark outside and I
could hear the wind howling. He was quiet for about thirty seconds before he said, “People magazine was going to do a profile story on me when bestmarket.com made the Forbes list. But the fucking entertainment editor killed it. Not newsworthy enough.” He turned back to me. “I popularized a whole new form of Internet commerce and they say it’s not newsworthy. Instead, we get a story on Cher’s plastic surgery. See what I’m saying?”

  “Chick, we’ve cleared out this stuff. I think you’ve had enough to drink. Let’s get it in the car and go.”

  Chick’s eyes were shining. There was sweat on his upper lip. He cleared his throat and then said something so inappropriate it actually staggered me.

  “I know you loved Chandler, and hey, there was a lot to love about the guy, I’ll grant you that, but giving away his fortune to help L.D. kids? If he’d earned that money himself, I could maybe respect the gesture. But he didn’t earn it, he inherited it. Unlike Chandler, I know what it means to earn a dollar. Chandler never had to go out there and struggle to survive.”

  “Let’s check on those lodge reservations again,” I said, a surge of adrenaline hitting my bloodstream.

  “They’ll call if the rooms are available.” He drained his wineglass in two long swallows and immediately poured himself another. Then, apropos of nothing, he said, “You ever notice that everything in America seems be about nothing or about just getting laid? We don’t have dipshit royalty to fawn over like the Brits. We’ve got Gwyneth Paltrow and Johnny Depp. Who cares if Rosie is gay or who these celebrity airheads are cheating on each other with? Yet there are forests being cut down so we can read this shit.”

  My back was flaring up from the long ride in the car and from moving boxes. I figured I’d better do something about it because I wanted to be in top form and pain-free if this got any loonier. I moved away from him. “May I have some water? I need to take a pill for my back.”

  He crossed to the refrigerator, talking over his shoulder all the way. “Americans are focused on all the wrong things, Paige. We’ve made celebrity more important than accomplishment. It’s better to be Kevin Federline than Charles Best Jr. You can’t get any respect in America if you don’t own the right stuff. What kind of car do you drive? Is your house on North Elm? We don’t read about the guys who invest in the future—guys like me, who pioneer whole new areas of Internet commerce. Instead, it’s all about the lucky sperm club. Guys who were born looking like Calvin Klein models, or who inherited their position and wealth.”

  “And you’re saying Chandler was in that category?” My voice was shaking with anger.

  “Chandler?” He stopped and looked at me, then came over and handed me the water.

  “No,” he replied. “No … ” Then the condescending smile appeared again. “Okay, maybe. That’s what I was saying about not getting you two as a couple. You don’t seem like a woman who would just give it up to some greatlooking guy with perfect teeth who never did anything but clip stock coupons. You deserve so much more than that, Paige. It’s why I’m glad we finally got a chance to get away and be together.”

  I was praying he was drunk, because if he wasn’t, then he had to be insane.

  CHAPTER 38

  I TOOK MY PAIN PILL, WASHED IT DOWN WITH water, then turned toward him, subtly giving him my right side and settling into a open-legged, karate-ready stance. A soto-hachiji-dachi. I was trying not to telegraph it, but if Chick went to the next level, if he tried to even so much as lay a finger on me, then I was going to unleash some dojo whup-ass on him. Or at least try.

  “… Life should be about more than good times and a great backhand, don’t you think?” he rambled on.

  “We should get this stuff loaded into the car and get out of here,” I repeated firmly.

  “I was hoping we could sit and talk.”

  “Why don’t we talk in the car on the ride back to L.A.?”

  “There’s things I really need to discuss with you,” he pressed. “Things we need to sort out. A few conditions for our relationship.”

  My heart was now slamming inside my chest. Conditions for our relationship? This was totally nuts.

  And then, he took a step toward me. I flinched and dropped the bottle of pills. It rolled across the floor and settled between his feet.

  He stooped and picked it up. Then he squinted at the label. “Percocet?” he said, reading it. “I thought you took Darvocet for your back.”

  “I need to pee,” I said and picked up my purse. I had to get to the bathroom and collect my thoughts. “Where’s the loo?”

  “Right through there, off the living room. Or you can use the one upstairs in the master bedroom.”

  “This one’s fine.” I crossed to the guest bathroom, and carrying my wineglass, went inside, closed the door, then locked it.

  The first thing I did was dump out the wine. Then I looked at myself in the mirror. The eyes staring back at me were frightened and tense.

  Of course the new big question was: How had Chick known about the Darvocet? It had only been prescribed once—the night Chandler had gone out to the drugstore to get it for me, the night he was killed. I had never told anybody but Bob Butler about having changed medications. So how did Chick know? How had he found out?

  Then a chilling thought hit me. Had Chick been there the night Chandler went to the store to pick up my prescription? Was it Chick who had run my husband down?

  Then another thought. Seven months after Chandler was murdered, Evelyn was shot to death in her car. Could Chick have …?

  I stopped in mid-thought as the enormity of that possibility overpowered everything else. Was I trapped in this house with a monster? A serial murderer?

  I stood in front of the mirror hyperventilating. If you don’t calm down, you’ll never be able to deal with this. I began to pull myself back together. So far, all of it was just conjecture.

  Maybe Detective Butler told Chick about the Darvocet. He said he’d talked to Chick at Chandler’s funeral. But would a seasoned cop like Detective Butler reveal information like that to a stranger?

  I didn’t think so.

  Suddenly, I remembered the envelope given to me by the concierge. I’d been so upset by the Mercedes with Evelyn’s brains on the kick panel that I’d completely forgotten about it. I put my purse on the counter and frantically searched through it.

  “Everything okay in there?” Chick called through the door, jolting me.

  “Just fine. Be out in a minute. Pour me another wine, will you?” I said, trying to make my voice sound light and friendly. I found the envelope, tore it open, and sat down on the commode to read. The fax was printed neatly in Bob’s hand on a piece of New York hotel stationery dated this morning.

  Dear Mrs. Ellis:

  I have tried desperately to reach you. I’ve left message after message at your hotel and on your cell voice-mail, but for some reason I have not been able to get through, so I am putting this in a fax in the hope that it might reach you. I think I have finally solved your husband’s hit-and-run. As I wrote earlier, Top Hat Auto in New Jersey is where the Taurus was repaired. The owner remembered the guy who was driving and I’ve enclosed a much better drawing. This morning I rechecked all the Hertz agencies in New York and eventually found the car. It was rented by your friend Charles Best on April 12th and returned on the 13th. On my instructions, Hertz reexamined the car. It had severe right front fender damage that had been Bondoed up and repainted. I just found out from one of your friends yesterday that you went to Mr. Best’s wife’s funeral in L.A. That really has me worried. You must get in touch with me immediately, and Mrs. Ellis, please stay away from that man. I have notified the L.A. police and am on my way out there. In the meantime, be extremely careful. Chick Best is a cold-blooded killer.

  Very sincerely yours,

  Detective Robert Butler

  Then I dug into the envelope and pulled out a folded fax picture and opened it up. The drawing depicted a dark-haired, middle-aged man.

  It was Chick.
>
  I sat on the toilet as my whole body went numb. Sweat started beading on my forehead and under my arms. I sat motionless trying to decide what to do next.

  “Hey, Paige, what the hell’re you doing in there?” Chick’s voice came through the locked door again, shattering my thoughts and jangling my nerves. “Are you going to the bathroom or redecorating?”

  “Be out in a minute,” I sang out brightly. Then I took the wineglass, wrapped it in a towel, and held it over the sink. I tapped it lightly on the gold faucet fixture. It shattered, leaving me with the rounded pedestal base and a good shaft with a sharp, jagged point. I took this weapon, such as it was, and carefully fit it into my purse with the bottom up, so I could draw it quickly. I decided to keep humoring Chick. Stall. Delay. Find a way to make a phone call out. That was the gist of my feeble plan.

  I knew Bob Butler was, if nothing else, a bulldog. His letter said he was on his way to L.A. and had already notified the LAPD. Maybe they could figure this out in time. He would probably start with the Langham Hotel, where he knew I was staying. Since Peter Ellis had left a message for me there earlier, it would be on their computer. He would get to Chandler’s parents. I’d told them I was coming up here. However, I’d only mentioned it in passing. I prayed they would remember.

  Stall … Delay … Humor … Try and get a call out. That was my mantra.

  I looked out the bathroom window. The snow was coming down even harder than before. We would soon be snowed in—maybe already were.

  I had to assume, for the time being, that no help would be coming. This was going to be completely up to me. I was going to have to save myself. The Japanese meaning of karate suddenly flipped into my mind: Way of the empty hand … How appropriate.

  I took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped out of the guest bathroom to face my husband’s killer. It was …

  GAME ON

  CHAPTER 39

  CHICK

  I STOOD IN THE KITCHEN WAITING FOR HER TO from the can. I felt my tool tingling—filling with blood, threatening to rise. On the other hand, it was more than a little off-putting that Paige kept wanting to load up the car and head down the mountain, as if I hadn’t gone to a helluva lot of trouble to plan this romantic weekend. If I wasn’t so in love with her I might have actually been a little pissed off about the way she was behaving.