Love, Doris
Ah, thought Betsy, Doris signed on as a guest and used her own account, that’s why it came from Dorie101. She was glad Doris thought to e-mail her. She’d been worrying a bit ever since she’d heard the weather report on tonight’s news. The snowstorm that was supposed to roar through fast had stalled and there were blizzard conditions all over Hennepin and Nicollet counties.
Secure in the knowledge that her friends were not stuck in a ditch somewhere, she signed off and went out to dust her furniture and mop her kitchen floor.
DORIS came half-awake when she heard stealthy footsteps outside her room. Then she heard the door to her room open very quietly, and that alarmed her into complete wakefulness. Could it be Phil? Of all the nerve! Then a voice—a woman’s voice—said softly, “Doris?”
Doris reached across the bed for the lamp and snapped it on. A woman, tall and slim, dressed in a long, dark coat, stood in the open doorway with a gun in her hand. Doris found she could not look anywhere but at the gun.
“Where’s the silk?” demanded the woman.
“What? What silk?”
“Don’t pretend, all right? The Thai silk, where is it?” Doris looked up and saw a young woman’s face clenched in anger.
Drawing a shaky breath, she managed to say, “At home.”
The woman’s voice went high with hysteria. “No, it isn’t! I looked and I looked and it isn’t there!” The gun was pointing at Doris’s face, although the hand that held it was trembling.
“Honest, I don’t have any silk with me!”
“Liar!”
“No, really—” started Doris, but she could see the woman’s trigger finger tightening. Without thought, she flung a pillow backhanded as she plunged off the far side of the bed.
The gun went off and wood splinters flew. A terrified Doris, deafened by the noise, rolled to her feet and ran toward the woman—there was no other way out of the room. She slammed straight-armed into her and pushed her out into the hall. The woman grabbed at her, pushing back.
“Help!” Doris screamed. The woman swung the gun and hit Doris on the side of the head. Then Doris grabbed her gun arm and tried to push it up. “Help!” she screamed again.
As the woman moved her arm sharply to shake Doris off, Doris clung with both hands and shoved a bare foot behind the woman’s boot to trip her. But the boot was cold and wet, and her foot slipped. Both women were making wordless sounds of effort.
The woman was taller than Doris, and stronger. She smelled of perfume and leather. It was dark in the hall, and Doris could barely see. The woman suddenly moved sideways, stepping on Doris’s toes. “Owwwwwww!” howled Doris. But she did not let go of the arm.
When the woman moved sharply again, Doris realized that someone else had grabbed her. “Drop it!” ordered a man’s voice—Phil. Thank God, Phil.
The woman choked out, “Let me go!” and kicked backward as she twisted in Phil’s grip.
“What’s going on?” someone called. Bershada.
“Oh my God, what are you doing?” exclaimed someone else. Shelly.
The gun went off again, and there was a sound like pottery shattering.
“Get out! Get away!” Phil shouted. He was pulling the woman by the shoulders, trying to turn her away from Doris, who was still trying to hold on to the woman’s arm. The gun went off a third time, and Doris screamed as the flash blinded her. Her cheek burned and she choked as she inhaled burnt powder.
She couldn’t clear her lungs, her arms were losing their strength, she was blinded, choking. The woman, as if sensing victory, growled, “I’ll kill you!” Doris, with all that was left in her, pushed hard.
The woman’s arm swung up and she disappeared.
Astonished, Doris fell against Phil and the two of them staggered into the wall near the top of the stairs.
At the same time, there was a big thump, then a tumbling sound, a single groan, and finally, silence, except for Phil and Doris’s panting.
As they looked down into darkness, a light suddenly came on. At the foot of the stairs lay a figure, ominously still.
“Is she dead?” rasped Doris.
“I dunno,” Phil gasped. “Are you all right?”
Doris coughed and drew a small, painful breath. “I . . . think so.” She coughed again. “You?”
“Yes. Oh, hon!” He stroked her hair and her face. “Who was that?” His voice was a harsh whisper as he struggled to catch his breath.
“I don’t know. Oh, Phil, I was so frightened!”
He put his arms around her and the two clung together while they gulped air and waited for their breathing to become less desperate.
“What did she want?” he asked after a few moments.
“I don’t know. She told me—listen!” A voice came from downstairs. They looked down, fearful that the woman who’d attacked them was getting back to her feet. But she lay where she had fallen.
The voice was loud, but trembling with fright. “Yes, shooting! . . . I don’t know! At least three shots . . . Please hurry!” It was Heidi, speaking to someone on the phone. “And someone’s fallen down the stairs! . . . No, all right, I’m not going to go anywhere near him . . . What? I’m sure someone’s hurt, all that shooting . . . Yes, March Hare on Minnesota Street . . . No, it’s all quiet now—maybe they’re all dead up there . . . What? Oh, yes, I’ll turn on the lights. But, oh God, hurry, hurry!”
The police were coming, that was good—but Doris suddenly broke away from Phil. She had gone to bed in her underwear, and the idea that the police would walk in and see her, not slim, not young, and indecently exposed, shifted her focus with a shock.
Phil was also nearly nude, standing there in his boxer shorts, the hair on his skinny chest standing up in a silver mist. His broad smile was no comfort.
“I’m going to go put something on!” she whispered, and hurried to her room. She pulled on the slacks and sweater she’d taken off—how long ago? What time was it, anyhow? She picked up the delicate little watch she’d bought herself last Christmas and held it close to the low-watt bedside lamp to read its tiny face. Ten after three. She didn’t feel the least bit tired; amazing how being shot at gave one that wide-awake feeling. Fearing the police were already at the door, she finished dressing by slipping her cold and clammy boots onto her bare feet and hurried out into the hall.
Phil had turned the light on. He was standing near the top of the stairs, fully dressed, with that scared grin still on his face. She went to join him, and they looked down at the woman lying ominously quiet at the foot of the stairs.
Eight
WHEN the racket started, Bershada pushed Alice in the shoulder. “Wake up, something’s happening!”
Alice grumbled, “What?” then sat up, alarmed. “What’s all that noise?”
“Someone’s fighting. And I think that was a gun going off.”
“Where’s it coming from?” asked Alice, climbing naked out of bed, grabbing at a blanket. Her voice was frightened.
“It’s down at the other end.” Bershada went to the door, felt for the light switch, and flipped it on.
Then the door opened, bumping against her. She gave a shriek, which Alice echoed.
“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s just me,” said Shelly. “Let me in, for God’s sake! Was that a gun?” She was thickly wrapped in a duvet.
“Yes,” said Bershada, who pulled the top sheet from her bed to wrap herself in it. Then she picked up a big pottery pitcher that was sitting in a painted bowl on the nightstand near the window.
“Come on, let’s go,” she said.
“What?” said Alice. “Are you crazy?”
“I’m going.”
“Well, I’m not. For one thing, none of us is dressed!”
“Fine. My cell phone’s in my purse. Call nine-one-one.” She opened the door went out, with Shelly right behind her.
There was only a very dim light in the front part of the hall. Once they’d made it down the two steps, it was ve
ry dark. They felt their way along, toward the sounds of struggle.
A small lamp was glowing feebly through Doris’s open bedroom door. By its light they could see three figures tangled in a rapidly shifting mass.
“What’s going on?” demanded Bershada.
“Oh my God, what are you doing?” exclaimed Shelly.
Bershada tried to discern who was where in the fight, and raised the pitcher over her head, prepared to strike.
A shot rang out and the pitcher blew into fragments as a bullet went through it and struck the wall beside her.
“Get out! Get away!” shouted Phil.
The two women hastily retreated back down the hall.
“Oh my God in heaven!” gasped Bershada, brushing fragments out of her hair. “Someone’s gonna get killed, someone’s gonna die!”
The gun went off again, and the two women fled back to Bershada’s room, where Alice was talking frantically on the cell phone. “Yes, shooting! Hurry, they’re shooting all over the place!”
But even as she said it, a heavy silence fell.
PHIL looked around Dorie to focus on the body at the foot of the stairs. It lay with one booted foot on the bottom step, one arm flung outward, the other shoved under the body, elbow sticking up. An uncomfortable, even painful, pose, but there was not the slightest effort being made to straighten out.
On the other hand, the figure’s long coat was shoved upward. Phil couldn’t see the face, which for all he knew contained open, frightened eyes.
Who the devil was she? A lunatic who had picked this place for a random attack? Maybe. It had been dark in the hallway, Phil hadn’t gotten any kind of look at her. Dorie probably hadn’t seen much, either. Now that the lights were on, maybe Dorie or even Phil might recognize her.
He started down the stairs, moving slowly, with one hand on the banister—the stairs were impressively steep. He reached back with his other hand, in an invitation for Dorie to join him. After a few steps he felt her hand slip into his. He could feel her cold fingers trembling, poor kid—not that his own nerves weren’t quivering, his heart pounding. This had been a heckuvan experience.
He was pretty sure he knew all, or most, of Dorie’s dark secrets—as she knew his—but this? First the burglary, now attempted murder. What in the hell was going on?
Downstairs, out of sight, he could hear Heidi’s voice, talking more softly this time, so softly he couldn’t understand the words she spoke.
About halfway down the stairs, another thought occurred to him: This couldn’t be a deliberate attack. Who knew they were going to stay at the bed-and-breakfast? Not even they knew they’d be here. But then Phil thought of the fury in the woman’s voice when she said she’d kill Dorie. That had sounded personal. She’d seemed to be angry at Dorie, not some stranger. Maybe she’d known they were here because she followed them from Amboy. But why? And how, in that blizzard?
He nearly fell going down the next step because he wasn’t paying attention. “Whoops,” he said softly as Dorie took a sharp breath. “All right, it’s all right, hon,” he said.
To his ears, faintly, came the scream of a siren. Thank God. As he took the last few steps, he could hear what Heidi was saying. She was on the phone again; this time, apparently, to the owner of the house.
“Yes, that’s right,” she was saying. “I called the police, they’re coming right now, I can hear sirens, but they’re moving so slow—what? What? Yes, it’s snowing like crazy here, too . . . Oh, no, I don’t think you should try to drive down, I think all the roads are closed . . . Okay, Mr. Toohey, I’ll call you again as soon as I find out what this is all about.”
UPSTAIRS , Shelly, hearing the sound of a siren, went to look out the front window.
“I think I see flashing lights,” she said.
Alice said, “I think we should stay here until the police actually arrive.”
But Bershada said, “Honey, I can’t stand just waiting. It’s gone quiet out there, and the police are closing in. I think one of us should go see what’s going on. I’ll go, if y’all want to wait here.”
Shelly said, “Now wait, now wait, the shooting may have stopped because someone is reloading. Maybe right this minute he’s sneaking up the hallway looking for someone else to kill.”
That brought an anxious pause. They all held their breath and listened hard for the sound of footsteps. When no one heard any, they breathed again.
Alice muttered, “Still, I’m staying in this room until a policeman comes knocking to tell me it’s safe to come out, and I don’t want to be alone, so you both better wait here with me.”
PHIL stooped beside the still figure on the floor. He reached out to touch her hand very gently. It was still warm, tanned but flaccid. A gold ring, set with a deep blue square-cut stone, gleamed on one finger. By the look of it, it was real gold and a real sapphire.
“Is she . . . dead?” asked Heidi.
Phil remembered a trick a nurse told him. He reached out and took the top of the woman’s ear between his thumb and forefinger and pinched really hard, using his thumbnail. There was no response.
“I’m pretty sure she is,” he said.
“What happened up there?” asked Heidi.
“We’re not sure,” said Dorie. “I was asleep and she came into my room with a gun—”
“Where’s the gun?” interrupted Phil.
“There, by her hand,” said Dorie. It was a black revolver that looked much smaller now than it had when pointed at her. Phil rose, caught the toe of his boot behind it and shoved it into the kitchen. Heidi hastily moved out of the way as it turned once on the vinyl and thumped gently against a counter.
“What did she want? Money?” asked Heidi.
“No,” Dorie replied. Her voice was puzzled. “She wanted silk. She asked me where the silk was. I think she must’ve been insane.” Phil stooped over the body and she said, “No, Phil, we should leave her alone, the police won’t like it if we move her.”
“I’m not going to move her, but I want you to take a good look at her face.” He pressed the shoulder of the coat down to expose her face. It belonged to a beautiful woman in her middle thirties, with shining, dark brown hair. If it hadn’t been mussed up, her hair would have fallen into that style that made curves like parentheses to just under the ears. Her eyes were closed, and above them her eyebrows were so perfect they looked combed.
“I don’t know her,” said Dorie. “I’ve never seen her in my life.”
The woman’s skin looked flawless. She was wearing makeup, but it’s the kind you don’t notice on a woman until you realize her skin looks too nice to be real. He could see a golden earring with a dark blue stone that matched the one on her finger. Her hands were thin and beautiful even though the fingernails were short and painted with clear polish. The brown coat was real leather, thicker under Phil’s hand than it looked—well, for heaven’s sake, look there by her leg, it was lined in mink! He straightened. “Who gets all dressed up like this to go shoot someone?” he wondered aloud.
Dorie took it as a real question, directed at her. “I don’t know. Why would a stranger come and ask me a stupid question, and try to shoot me, unless she was crazy?” She leaned over to look at the body from a different angle. “Oh, Phil, look at the way her head is.”
Phil moved to get a better look. “Yes, I see.” The dead woman’s head was bent at an angle no intact spine could assume. It confirmed his belief that she was thoroughly dead. He stood up, his fingers rubbing against themselves as if to dust something off. He grasped Dorie’s hand again and took a big step over the body, bringing Dorie with him into the dining room. The siren was getting louder, but slowly—the streets must be really bad out there.
“I killed her, didn’t I?” Doris said in a scared voice. “The police are going to arrest me.”
“No, they won’t. This is clean self-defense. She came here with a gun, and we got into a fight to keep her from killing you. And she fell.”
“I pushed he
r.”
“Well, dammit, so did I.” Phil didn’t think that was true, but Dorie needed reassurance.
“Did you? Well, that’s good. And thank you.”
“The question about the silk—was it the silk you brought home from Thailand that she wanted?”
“She said she looked and looked and didn’t find the silk. But the burglar took my biggest piece of silk. So if that was her in my apartment looking for silk, she found it. That’s why this doesn’t make any sense.”
“Maybe she’s not the one who burgled your apartment.”
“No, she said she looked . . . Maybe she came after the first burglar left? But why are they after that silk? There were half a dozen panels of it hanging on Ming’s wall in the market.” Dorie thought for a few moments then frowned. “She knew my name, Phil. She called me by my name and said, ‘Where’s the silk, the Thai silk?’ And she was really, really mad at me, she said she was going to kill me.” Dorie shivered.
“God, I wish I knew what this was all about,” Phil muttered, as he put his arms around her.
The siren’s wail came closer. “I wish it were over, I just wish it were over and we were safe at home,” she whispered.
Nine
THE siren had been growing louder and louder, and now red and blue lights flashed into the windows as a vehicle, bigger than an ordinary squad car, pulled partway into the driveway at the back of the house. More sirens could be heard screaming from farther away. Seconds later, Phil caught a glimpse of a figure at the side door, holding a gun. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” he called.
Thai Die Page 9
