The Cards of Life and Death (Modern Gothic Romance 2)

by Colleen Gleason

  “Dammit,” he swore. Four bright red streaks colored the back of his hand. “I ought to blow your head off you little shit.” He’d barely got the words out when he hopped back with another cry of pain. Motto darted from beneath the table and launched himself onto the kitchen counter.

  He sat there next to the telephone, and Arty remained on the table, and they stared at Jonathan with unblinking eyes. “Stop that,” he said to them. “You’re giving me the creeps.”

  But of course, they didn’t move. They just stared.

  Every time Jonathan made a move toward her, or once when he tried to drag her out of the room, one or both of the cats jumped at him. They were much too agile and speedy for him to catch, and their claws and teeth were sharp. And when they weren’t attacking him, they sat and watched. And watched.

  If Diana wasn’t so worried about what would come next, she would have laughed.

  As it was, she tried not to think about what the setting sun would bring. It was low, and casting long shadows across the lawn.

  ~*~

  Ethan and Joe Cap were behind the double swinging doors of the Grille’s kitchen, waiting for Marc Reardon to make his appearance. But their attention was refocused when Pauline Whitten burst into the restaurant.

  “I’ve got it!” she cried, waving a scrap of paper. Her fire-engine red manicure added much-needed color to the wood-toned decor, and her long, pudgy legs moved with surprising speed, carrying her over to the quilting ladies. “I figured it out!”

  “Hush up, Pauline,” Helen ordered from her position slumped in one of the booths. She jabbed the cane at her friend. “I’m having a heart attack.”

  “We’re waiting for Dr. Reardon to get here and save her,” explained Martha.

  “What?” Pauline said, looking down at Helen. “You don’t look like you’re having—”

  “Of course I’m not. My blasted ticker’s stronger’n a mule. But that quack’s going to be here any minute now. Something’s up with Diana, and Bee, and—”

  “Yes, I know that. I’ve got it all figured out. I don’t have a 1500 Scrabble ranking for nothing,” she boasted. “If I’d seen Bee’s notes before, I would have known immediately, weeks ago. It’s an anagram! Marc Reardon is Cameron Darr. And Cameron Darr is—”

  “I know who Cameron Darr—ohhhhh!” Helen moaned suddenly and gestured toward the restaurant door as she slumped back dramatically. “Arrghhhh ….”

  Dr. Reardon rushed in, looking, Ethan thought, much more formal and official than he had the last time he saw him. He ground his teeth, hoping to bloody hell that Helen was right about all of this. As soon as he had the chance, he was going to be putting his hands around Marc Reardon’s neck and squeezing a lot of red into the bastard’s face—whether Joe allowed it or not.

  Helen gave another groan that sounded obviously fake to Ethan, but Reardon didn’t seem to notice or care. He bustled over to the elderly lady, medical bag in hand, and pushed everyone out of the way.

  “Please, move away. She needs air,” he ordered, leaning forward as he put his stethoscope around his neck. “This is terrible, Mrs. Galliday.”

  Ethan bunched up his muscles, ready to launch from behind the swinging doors of the kitchen, but Joe’s fingers around his arm held him back. “Wait,” he hissed.

  “Yes it is terrible, Dr. Reardon,” shrieked Helen, popping into an upright position with the alacrity of a kid on Christmas morning. “Or should I say … Cameron Darr!” she added dramatically, her cane swinging into view.

  As Ethan and Joe watched in horrified amusement, she whipped it up and thwacked Reardon soundly on the back, then with surprising speed, she came back around and whacked him again on top of his head. “Who is wanted for” —thwack!— “murder in Oregon. And” —smack!— “breaking into Belinda’s house and murdering my friend!” This last was punctuated by the sharpest, hardest, blow yet, and even Ethan winced.

  Reardon was on the floor by now, having been driven there by Helen Galliday and her lethal cane. He held up his arms to cover his head and face, taking the brunt of her violence in the shoulders and hands, all the while shouting, “Call her off! Get this old bat off me! She’s insane! Where’s the damned police?”

  “And there’s our cue,” said Joe, stepping out of the kitchen a half-step behind Ethan.

  “Hurry up, you fools!” Helen shouted, thwacking and smacking with hair-raising enthusiasm. “I can’t hold him off much longer.”

  “All right, now, Mrs. Galliday,” Joe said, gently pushing her aside. “You’d better step away for a minute here, or we might have another problem on our hands.”

  “You insane bitch,” Reardon was saying as he wiped a trickle of blood away from his mouth and struggled to his feet. “What the hell are you doing, standing there, Tettmueller? Arrest this termagant. She attacked me!”

  Helen copped her soft old-lady face and said querulously, “I’m so sorry, Captain Tettmueller, but I must have tripped. These old eyes don’t see too good anymore. Hope I didn’t hurt the fella with my cane.”

  “It was terrible,” Rose Bettinger said earnestly, “how she just tripped and fell right on top of him. What a horrible accident!”

  “And then they got all tangled up with her cane,” added Pauline Whitten with genteel malice. “Poor Dr. Reardon. Or should I say, Dr. Darr?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Reardon said, brushing off his clothing. Blood streamed from his nose. “And I didn’t murder anyone.”

  “Where’s Diana?” Ethan said, grabbing the physician by his collar. “I don’t know what was going on at her house today, when I saw you—”

  “I thought it was rather obvious,” he replied with a smirk. “I had my hands fu—”

  Ethan didn’t remember exactly what happened—it was a blur—but the next thing he knew, Tommy and Joe were pulling him off a much bloodier Marc Reardon, who, true to form, was cowering in a corner, gasping for breath.

  “That’s enough there, cowboy,” Tommy said, holding onto Ethan.

  Ethan’s hand throbbed and he suspected he might have broken something, but that didn’t deter him from wanting to take another shot. Or two.

  Joe Cap stepped forward, pocketing a small device he’d been perusing—presumably to get the details on the warrant for Cameron Darr. “Marc Reardon, also known as Cameron Darr, you are under arrest for the murder of Marjorie Gaunt, Belinda Lawry, for vandalism, breaking and entering, assault and—”

  “It wasn’t me! I didn’t touch Belinda Lawry,” Reardon said, stepping back. “You can’t pin that one on me—I have an alibi that night.”

  “Then who did it?” Ethan said from between clenched teeth. He grabbed Reardon’s shirt, himself suddenly, amazingly free from Tommy’s grip.

  “Wertinger. It was Wertinger. And he’s up at the house with her right now—ready to send it up in smoke as soon as it gets dark. You might be too late.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  For the second time that day, Ethan drove pell-mell along Belinda’s driveway. This time, however, he was speeding toward the house, not away from it. And this time, Cady’s head was hanging out the window in delight. God, please let me get there in time.

  It was too dark to see much and Ethan prayed he wouldn’t hit a deer as he roared along the narrow, gravel drive. But as he drew closer, he smelled smoke. His heart began to race, adrenaline spiking through his body.

  Before he even reached the clearing, he saw the orange blaze in the windows that would have been Belinda’s den. Diana’s Lexus stood in the drive and Ethan felt his heart leaping into his throat.

  Jesus, God, Diana.

  He tore out of the truck, leaving the keys in the ignition, and ran toward the house, calling—screaming—her name. Cady was on his tail, barking frantically in her high-pitched tone of alarm.

  He dashed around to the bedroom window and tried to peer in, but he couldn’t see anything. The window was too high for him to reach from the ground. At least there were no
flames inside that room yet. Cady was still charging in circles around and around the burning home, running toward the woods and back again, barking non-stop.

  Ethan tore around to the back entrance, where the fire seemed to be less furious. He turned on the water and ripped off his t-shirt, then held it under the hose until it was soaking. Cady ran up to him, barking and whining with the same desperation he felt, but he ordered her away. He had to go in.

  Wrapping the dripping shirt around his head, with the sleeves dangling to be held over his nose, he smashed the hose into one of the windows of the kitchen. The glass shattered and heavy black smoke billowed out, catching him in the face. He stumbled backward in surprise, but forced himself back to the window. He was able to reach in and unlock the deadbolt, pulling the door open.

  Again, black smoke burst through the new opening, and he coughed, paralyzed by its venom. He pulled the wet t-shirt over his mouth and nose, and bending low, staggered into the house.

  Diana.

  It was a nightmare inside. A blanket of hot, heavy smoke darkened the room, enveloping him instantly. Though he could see no flames, Ethan felt the heat searing into his bare skin. Keeping the wet shirt over his nose and mouth, he strained to see, to hear, something. Anything.

  He couldn’t call out, for the smoke was too heavy, and it smothered any sound but the insistent blaze. Ethan took two steps and realized he couldn’t go further—it was dark, and close, and incredibly hot.

  With a sob of frustration, he turned and panicked when he couldn’t see the doorway. He could see nothing but dark and orange-red shadows. Then, suddenly, to his right he could see the faintest outline of … something glowing.

  Not orange-hot, or red with flame, but a soft greenish-white glow. Bobbing in the air.

  All at once a chill rushed over him and he felt a great force of wind. The hair rose all over his body and suddenly, Ethan didn’t feel the heat, or the smothering heavy smoke. Belinda.

  It was Belinda.

  He edged toward the greenish-white blob and it moved away, and he stepped closer, realizing he was to follow. He was otherwise blind in the darkness, desperate, and still breathing the ash-laden air. He took careful steps, following the cool light, and the next thing he knew, he was stumbling out of the house.

  Alone.

  He drew great, gulping breaths of fresh night air. His lungs seared when he drew in, and his skin was dripping sweat, but he had no time to regain composure. Diana was still in there. Cady was there, too, barking and whining and nudging him roughly.

  Why had Belinda led him out? He needed to find Diana! Frustration and fear drove Ethan back around to the bedroom window. As he stood outside, pounding on the window looking for something to break the glass with, he heard the sound of sirens.

  “Hurry!” he cried, his voice raw and desperate, ignoring Cady’s increasingly frantic sounds. Finally finding a rock big enough to break the window, he heaved it through, hoping that it would awaken Diana.

  The sirens were closer, and he could feel the ground trembling from the weight of the trucks. Ethan was frantically removing splinters of glass from the window when two trucks burst into the clearing, lights and sirens flashing.

  Running toward the vehicles, as if doing so would get them out of them faster, he shouted hoarsely, “She’s still in there! She’s sleeping in there!” A fit of coughing overtook him and he felt as if he were going to hack up a lung.

  Then he could do nothing else as the firemen suited up in their heavy gear. Cady still bounded around to and from the woods, barking like a maniac, bumping into him, even jumping up on him. What the hell? Was there a deer or something in—

  Oh, Christ.

  “Cady!” Ethan shouted, calling the lab back after she’d dashed into the thick darkness. His voice was raw, but his dog heard and streaked from the woods back into the yard. “Let’s go,” he said, gesturing to the woods.

  Just as he started into the darkness, another set of headlights roared up the drive and he recognized them as Joe Cap’s F10. Ethan hesitated. Then, prudence being the better part of valor, he ran over to his friend, still coughing from the exertion.

  “He’s in the woods. Follow Cady,” he said, grabbing Joe by the arm.

  Overjoyed that her master had finally gotten a clue, Cady tore into the darkness leaving Ethan and Joe, along with one of his cops, to follow on their less agile bipedal legs. As they made their way deeper into the woods, Ethan heard a stifled scream.

  Diana!

  “Get’em, Cady!” he shouted hoarsely. “Get’em!”

  There were sounds of crashing in the brush and excited, ferocious barking, and then suddenly a gunshot. Ethan’s heart stopped even as he propelled himself through the darkness, praying, praying it wasn’t either of the ladies he loved.

  The insane barking kept on, giving Ethan both hope and trepidation, and at last he burst into a small clearing. The full moon and array of stars lit the area nearly as clear as day. There was an old structure about the size of a single-car garage that even in the moonlight appeared ramshackle, and from what he could see, Jonathan Wertinger’s shiny black BMW had been parked inside.

  And standing next to it, backed up against the sagging wall, was Jonathan Wertinger, treed by the ferocious Cady. The lab snarled and growled at him, and Wertinger wasn’t going anywhere.

  Ethan saw all that in an instant, and a moment later saw a figure on the ground nearby. “Diana!” he cried, rushing toward her, confident that Cady had things well in hand. His heart was choking him so that he could hardly speak, and when he knelt next to her and she reached for him he nearly burst into tears.

  “Ethan,” she murmured. “Thank God you’re here. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. It wasn’t what you thought. I wasn’t—”

  “Christ, Diana, did you really think—of course I know you weren’t—” His voice gave out and he gathered her up close to him, heedless of the soot and ash that smeared all over her. “I was so stupid—I knew you better than that. I don’t know how I couldn’t have known something was wrong. Are you all right? Are you hurt? I heard a shot.”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine Ethan. He missed. He tried to shoot Cady and he missed, thank God.” She clung tighter to him. “He was going to shoot you,” she said, her face in his chest. “He was going to shoot you if I didn’t—I didn’t want anything to happen to you. I love you. I love you.”

  He held her close, dimly noticing the activity going on around them: Joe had extricated Wertinger from Cady, and now that her work was done, the lab galloped over to join him and Diana. To his surprise and delight, she opened her arms for the dog, hugging him and burying her face in the soft black fur. And when Cady began to wash the salty tears away from both of their faces, Diana merely laughed and allowed it.

  And then all at once Ethan heard a rustling in the bushes and Helen Galliday erupted into the clearing, her cronies trailing behind. She made a bee-line for Wertinger, who stood handcuffed next to Joe.

  “You! You fiend!” Helen screeched. Before Joe Cap could stop her, she thwacked the prisoner across the calves with her cane as hard as she could, then slumped to one side, leaning on it as though she would collapse at any moment.

  Martha Woden followed her, peering around from behind coke-bottle glasses, flanked by Rose and Pauline and trailed by two paramedics. “And him!” She peered up into Wertinger’s face. “You beast!”

  “Now, ladies, you can back off now,” Joe was saying. “We’re taking him into town. Ethan, what the hell were you doing, going into a burning building?”

  This drew everyone’s attention to him and Diana. He’d helped her to her feet and now stood, holding her against him just to feel the warmth of her body and smell her hair.

  “You went into a burning building? Are you insane?” Diana demanded, pulling away to look up at him.

  “I did, and if it weren’t for Belinda, I’d have been stuck in there,” he said, looking around at the elderly lady’s friends.

  �
�What?” Diana was looking up at him, her eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “Aunt Belinda helped you too?”

  He explained about the glowing greenish light, then said, “Too?”

  Diana nodded. “Aunt Bee was there. When Jonathan tried to put me in the bedroom—he was going to make it look like I died in my sleep during the fire—he couldn’t even go into the room. It was frigidly cold, and there was this horrible, blasting rush of wind. That’s what I felt, but I think he sensed something even worse, because he ended up taking me out of the house before he set the fire. I guess he thought he’d find another way to—uh—” Her voice cracked. “Anyway, I guess Aunt Bee wasn’t going to let him commit another murder in that same room. Thank goodness.”

  “Let me look at you,” Pauline Whitten demanded, suddenly pulling them apart. “What’s wrong with your hand, Ethan?”