See No Evil

by Gayle Roper

  “Too good,” he said, his voice deep. He gave my nose a quick kiss, then stepped back. “Way too good.”

  I knew just what he meant. Temptation for more had never been so strong. I stepped back too.

  “We’d better go.” He gestured toward the open back panel.

  I nodded, wondering how many women got the kiss of their lives in a construction trailer. I have to admit that I’d dreamed of candlelight and soft music rather than hardware and tools, but I’d just learned that it wasn’t where. It was who.

  As I climbed outside, I couldn’t stop smiling. He’d ignored his cell phone for me. Did it get any better?

  Gray slid the panel closed. “Tomorrow we’ll fix this so that if the kids try again, which I don’t think they will, they won’t be able to get in.” He turned to me, hand out. I slid my hand in his, and we began to walk around the shed. I thought that I’d be happy to walk beside this man anywhere.

  I glanced at him, strong and handsome, all that I’d dreamed of. Too good to be true? Did he truly care for me, or was it just the intensity of the night? Did he and I have a potential future, or was I just the woman he felt honor-bound to protect?

  I thought it was more. Oh, Lord, please let it be more! And let me mean more to him than his work. But what if What’s-Her-Name, his old girlfriend, came back? Would he leave me for another as Glenn had, and would I find myself once more embarrassed, alone and heartbroken?

  The romantic music playing joyfully in my head began to sound off-key and tinny as it ground to a slow stop. Danger, danger, Will Robinson.

  But the warning was too late. Gray had the power either to make me incredibly happy or to rip my heart out. And I knew that if he left me, the pain would eclipse the hurt of Glenn’s defection as the brilliance of the sun eclipsed the light of the moon.

  Gray stopped when we were still in the lee of the building, pulling on my hand to keep me in the deep shadows with him. My heart lightened as I turned to him. Another kiss?

  “Do you hear that?” he asked.

  I frowned. No kiss. “What?”

  “Shh. Listen.”

  I listened as instructed and heard a car engine. It came closer and closer until it stopped not too far away. A door slammed.

  “What’s a car doing here at this hour?” I asked quietly. At least we knew it wasn’t Skip returning for a second try at supplies. He wasn’t old enough to drive even if he’d managed to escape his sister.

  We peered cautiously around the end of the building and saw a tall, slim person leaning against the side of a car, waiting.

  A black car, I thought, though I couldn’t be absolutely certain in the darkness. A sedan as opposed to a van like mine or a pickup like Gray’s. A BMW? Skip might be an expert at recognizing car makes, but I was the class dud. I needed to see the words written on the car to know for sure what any vehicle was.

  Another motor purred in the distance, drew closer, and headlights cut the night before they were quickly doused. In that brief moment of illumination, I saw the waiting car was indeed black though I still couldn’t tell if it was a Beemer or not.

  “Is it a BMW?” I whispered.

  Gray nodded.

  In the brief flash of headlights I hadn’t seen the face of the slim individual who waited because he looked toward the approaching vehicle and that meant looking away from us.

  The second car parked, and another person climbed out, easily as tall as the first but heavier, bulkier. I could make out no facial features in the darkness, just the general body shapes. Both appeared dressed in black, which wasn’t surprising for a night meeting in a supposedly deserted construction site. Even their body language suggested clandestine.

  The two began to speak, and I felt incredible frustration because we were too far away to hear.

  Gray breathed in my ear, “The two Skip saw?”

  I nodded. I’d been thinking exactly the same thing. But why were they here tonight?

  The stockier of the two turned and stalked toward the second car.

  The slimmer one moved quickly, and the stockier one stopped. They talked again briefly. The slim one had his elbows sharply bent as if his hands were stuffed into jacket pockets. The stockier one stepped back quickly, reaching behind him.

  I stiffened automatically. I’d seen that move before.

  A shot tore the silence.

  I jumped even though I wasn’t surprised. Then I frowned. The stockier man’s hands were still behind his back. The slim individual now had the gun out in the open, and a red light shone on the chest of the stocky man.

  Another shot.

  The stockier of the two began to go down as his knees buckled.

  The slim one watched as the red bead appeared again, then fired a third time. Three point-blank hits, one apparently fired from the pocket for surprise, two sighted with a laser to the chest. By now the stocky man lay on the ground. The slim one reached down, straightened, then turned and climbed into the first car. He did a quick U-turn and drove away.

  As Gray and I raced to the fallen man, Gray had his cell at his ear, reporting the shooting. We skidded to a stop beside the victim, and Gray shone his penlight.

  It was the assassin, as I expected. His black hair was still neatly combed straight back, his jaw was slack below his beak of a nose, and he’d fallen awkwardly on his hands, still behind his back. Seeping slowly from three chest wounds was crimson blood turning his black T-shirt deep red.

  Someone had cold-bloodedly shot the shooter, murdered the murderer.

  My feelings were mixed. I felt horror that I’d actually witnessed a murder this time, not just the murderer leaving the scene of the crime. I felt relief that I didn’t have to worry about every shadow, every unexpected noise. He was dead. I was safe. And I felt guilt that I could be glad a man was dead.

  Gray knelt, and for the second time in a week felt for a pulse. The very lack of significant bleeding already told the tale, but we had to be certain. Gray shook his head.

  I wrapped my arms about myself to ward off a bone-deep chill.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “The police are on their way.” Gray flipped his cell phone shut and grabbed my hand. “Come on!”

  “Where are we going?” I yelled as I ran after him.

  He dropped my hand at the foot of the drive three lots down. “Keep an eye on those headlights. Tell me which way they turn.” He raced into the garage and got his truck. He backed out with a screech. “Get in!”

  I did as he threw the shift into Drive and floored it. I grabbed my seatbelt and buckled up for what was going to be a bumpy ride.

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Left out the service entrance toward town.”

  Gray took the left out of the development at way too high a speed. I grabbed the dashboard to steady myself and bit my tongue to keep in my gasp of fright. We tore down the road, but we didn’t catch the BMW. There were too many turns it could have taken, too many garages it could be parked in. After a few minutes, Gray’s foot eased on the accelerator, and we proceeded at a sane speed.

  “Was that Ken Ryder?” I rubbed at the tense muscles in my neck. “In the BMW, I mean.”

  “I don’t know.” Gray glanced at me. “Want to find out?”

  I blinked. “How?”

  “Go to his house. See if he’s been anywhere tonight.”

  “You’re not going to confront him, are you?” The last thing I wanted was Gray shot again.

  It took him a long second to answer, and I started to sweat. “Gray, promise me.”

  He sighed. “I’m not going to confront him. If he is the killer, he’s a dangerous man, too dangerous for me.” As he spoke, he turned onto a tree-lined street with lovely but small homes, well-tended lawns, and window boxes filled with red geraniums and white petunias. Gray pulled to the curb and cut the engine.

  “That white Cape Cod with the green shutters is the Ryders’ home.”

  I looked at the house two down from where we sat. The azaleas lini
ng the front would be a blaze of color in the spring, and a weeping cherry drooped leafy boughs almost to the ground. Light streamed from the living-room windows, reflecting off the dark, shiny surface of the black BMW in the driveway.

  Gray turned off the interior lights of the truck cab before he opened the door. He looked carefully up and down the street and studied the houses between us and Ken’s.

  I slipped out my door and joined Gray as he walked hunched down the sidewalk. Quasimodo.

  I walked as straight as I could, refusing to assume a dowager’s hump before my time. We reached Ken’s place and hurried up his drive.

  “Down.” Gray signaled to me with his hand.

  We hunkered behind the car and crept carefully forward. I could feel the heat radiating from beneath the hood when I was back at the support between the doors.

  Gray laid his hand flat on the hood, then drew it back quickly, shaking it. “Hot. It’s been driven very recently. Like minutes ago.” He pulled out his cell and hit 911.

  “They’re going to be tired of hearing from us,” I said.

  “Right,” Gray told Dispatch. “325 Sycamore.” He hung up. “They’ll be here shortly.”

  “They’re probably at Freedom’s Chase wondering where we are.”

  “Well, they know now.”

  I turned to Ken’s place. “Gray, look!”

  Standing right in front of the living-room window was Starr Goodnight. She was again wearing her Hula Hoop gold earrings, and her blond hair was gathered in a wilting ponytail on top of her head. She’d traded her black catsuit for the kind of jeans that cut off the circulation to the lower extremities and a red knit top cut so low it was a wonder she didn’t get pneumonia even if it was the end of August. Her hands were gesturing wildly as she talked to someone out of sight, undoubtedly Ken.

  The porch light flicked on, and the front door opened. We ducked, then raised up enough to peek through the windows. Ken walked out, a suitcase in one hand and a garment bag over his shoulder.

  “He’s running!” I hissed. I was almost glad Dorothy wasn’t alive to see what a truly despicable person her husband was. Though philandering with Starr would never win Ken any points in my book, it seemed a mere peccadillo compared to the cold-blooded murders. “What do we do now?”

  We watched Ken cut across his lawn to the car. He went to the trunk and lifted it.

  Gray stood, rising from the shadows beside the car. “Hello, Ken.”

  Ken dropped his suitcase and grabbed his heart. He staggered. I thought for a minute that he was headed for cardiac arrest.

  “G-Gray,” he finally managed.

  I popped up, and Ken once again and understandably looked startled, though a heart attack didn’t appear threatening this time.

  “You remember Anna Volente.” Gray had the aplomb of a maître d’ at a classy restaurant.

  “Uh, yes.” Ken nodded uncertainly at me. I nodded politely back.

  “Wh-what in the world are you doing here?” he asked. “Were you hiding behind the car?”

  “Going somewhere?” Gray asked, not bothering to answer Ken’s questions.

  “Vacation. I’ve got to get away. Too many sad memories around here.” He managed to look the picture of sorrow. If the guy was going to Hollywood, an Oscar was definitely in his future.

  “With all those suitcases?” Gray asked. “Guys usually manage to travel a lot lighter.”

  I peered over Gray’s shoulder to look in the trunk and saw one mammoth red case, the size no woman can handle by herself once it’s filled but that many use anyway, and two smaller ones.

  “I, uh, I plan to be away for quite a while.”

  “A trip all by yourself?” Gray asked.

  Ken shrugged, shoulders bowed down with despair. “I just have to learn to be alone, hard as that will be.”

  “Hey, Kenny.”

  We all turned to see Starr standing in the open front door.

  “Do you have the tickets?”

  Ken blanched. “My-my cousin. She’s taking me to the airport.”

  Right.

  “Hi, Starr,” I called. “Where are you and Ken going?”

  She started down the front steps in her stilettos. “Grand Cayman,” she burbled happily. “Kenny’s got a house there.” She tiptoed across the lawn lest her heels sink into the ground and never come out. “Do I know you?” she asked, squinting at me.

  “I’m Anna Volente.”

  “I’m Starr.” She giggled. “But you already know that.”

  Gray pushed the lid of the trunk down and leaned casually on it. “Been out driving this evening, Ken?”

  Ken, still reeling from Starr’s inauspicious appearance and generously offered information, said, “Uh.”

  “There’s been another murder at Freedom’s Chase,” Gray said.

  Ken stared at Gray wide-eyed. He looked surprised, but he’d looked lonely too.

  Starr was shocked. “Oh, no. Not another lady! I felt so bad about Dorothy.”

  “You knew Dorothy?” I asked.

  “Oh, no.” She flapped her hand as if Dorothy were a wisp of smoke she could wave away. “I just knew about her. Kenny told me stuff, you know?”

  I nodded sagely. I just bet he did.

  “Did you know her?” Starr asked.

  “Starr, I don’t think you should talk about Dorothy. It doesn’t seem appropriate.” Ken was sweating big-time. I eyed him with interest. Maybe they’d planned the murders together, and he was afraid Starr would spill the beans.

  Starr smiled lovingly at Ken. “Oh, Kenny, you’re just too nice.” She turned to me. “Dorothy made his life a living—”

  “Starr,” Ken pleaded.

  “Now, Kenny, you know she was a terrible person. Not that I’m glad she’s dead or anything, but she made you so unhappy.” She turned to me again. “She just drove him right into my arms, and I was glad to love him.” She beamed.

  Gray pulled his cell from his belt and dialed.

  Ken’s look of apprehension disappeared, replaced by one of distrust. “Who are you calling?”

  “The police,” Gray said. “I thought they might like to talk to you before you leave.”

  Since Gray was leaning on the trunk, Ken pulled the rear door open and threw in his suitcase and garment bag. “You can’t keep me here, and neither can they. I haven’t done anything wrong.” He glanced at Starr. “At least nothing the police are interested in.”

  “We’ll let them decide that, okay? By the way, Ken, I know you and Dorothy had a hard time gathering the money for the place at Freedom’s Chase. I can’t help wondering where the funds came from for the house on Grand Cayman.”

  “None of your business!”

  “It’s okay, Kenny. Just tell him about your uncle’s legacy,” Starr urged.

  Gray looked skeptical. “Must have been some legacy. Or did you borrow against the promise of collecting Dorothy’s life insurance?”

  Gray never saw the punch coming. Ken’s fist got him in the nose, and Gray slid slowly from the trunk to the drive. I leaped forward to catch him before his head hit the ground. The punch was bad enough on top of his recent concussion. Slamming into the ground would have been terrible. I ended up kneeling with his head on my lap, watching as gallons of blood flowed down his cheek, under his ear and into his hair. And all over my slacks.

  “I’mb bleeding again,” Gray mumbled as he pushed himself up.

  “Easy, Gray. Careful. Careful.”

  He pushed my hands away. “I’mb fine, Anna.” He leaned forward so the blood ran onto the ground. He pulled his shirt from his waistband and pressed it to his face.

  “Get your purse and shut off the living-room lights,” Ken ordered Starr. “We’re leaving.”

  I watched Starr as she ran to the house with little, wobbly steps. The woman would be so much happier in flip-flops. She tripped up the steps, somehow managing to make the denim plastered to her knees bend. Mentally I slapped myself in the forehead with the heel of my
hand. What was I thinking? Starr would probably wear four-inchers to the beach.

  Ken was staring at Gray in disgust. “You actually think I killed my wife? You deserve a lot more than a bloody nose.”

  “Men hab been killing wibes for money and love forever.” Gray struggled unsteadily to his feet. I stood behind him in case he fell, arms ready to grab at him.

  “Anna, I’mb fine.”

  “Right.” I moved to his side.

  “I don’t even own a gun!” Ken shouted. “I hate guns.”

  “And I should believe that because?” Gray pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “Because it’s true.”

  The house lights went out, and Starr reappeared, a purse the size of Rhode Island slung over her shoulder. As she tippy-toed over the lawn, Ken climbed into the driver’s seat. She stopped, hands resting on her hips.

  “I can’t even drive my own car?” she griped. “I love that car.”

  “You just drove over two hours to get here from Atlantic City.” He turned the key and the motor purred quietly to life.

  “Can I get another one in Grand Cayman?” Starr asked as she tripped her way to the passenger-side door. She paused. “Oh. Here.” She threw a kitchen towel at Gray and handed a water bottle to me. “Not that you deserve it, accusing Kenny.”

  “I apologize.” The fact that Gray’s teeth were gritted may have undercut the sincerity of his contrition, but Starr seemed to be happy. She smiled and waved a few fingers, then climbed in the car.

  Ken began to back out. Gray stepped forward and knocked on the driver’s window. Ken frowned at him. Gray made a cranking movement. “Open your window.”

  With an aggrieved sigh, Ken lowered the glass.

  Gray rested one hand on the roof of the car while the other continued pinching his nose. “We need to find someone with a black BMW. You’re the sales manager at the only dealership in the area. Give me the names of tall, slim people who have bought from you.”

  Ken started to raise the window.

  “Don’t you want Dorothy’s killer found?”

  Ken hit the steering wheel in frustration, but he lowered the window again. He began reciting names, most of them people I’d never heard of. Every so often he mentioned the last name of one of my students, but one name leaped out like an off-sides lineman.