Killer Cupid
Maeve Christopher
Published by HNI Books
Copyright © 2012 Paula M. Scully
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION ®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and establishments is entirely coincidental.
Editor: Janet Hitchcock
Cover: Calista Taylor, CoversbyCali.com
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Karen Frisch Dennen, Janet Jones, Mary Ellen Latschar, Barbara LeClerc, Jeanne Paglio, Barbara Scully, Chris Senechal, and Carolyn Sullivan. You’ve helped me so much with this series—reading, re-reading, and giving valuable feedback. You’re the BEST!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Killer Cupid
Chapter One
David
Senator Joe Everett took the fighting chair, though he was not interested in fishing this trip. Perhaps it was a need to get business out of the way, so he could enjoy the holidays.
David Henning took a beer from the cooler and handed it to him. His bodyguard intervened and poured it into a glass. The Senator toasted him with a glass full of foam. “Henning, we’re both busy men, and I know you have better places to be today – judging from those lovely ladies I saw you with recently.”
He put the glass down on the cooler. “I’m thinking Albert Santoro has outlived his usefulness.”
“Really?” David took a seat on the bench across from Everett. He was surprised at the news. “Hasn’t he been paying you?”
Everett made a face. “That’s not the point, David. He’s the lowest of the low.”
David had to smile. “And drug-trafficking is such a noble profession.”
Everett grimaced. “I think with Santoro out of the way, we can both do a lot better. You’re a smart, capable guy. You could easily take over his business and grow it. I have no doubts.”
“And neither do I. But I’m not sure the time is right.”
“I am. Just do what you need to. Get him out of the way, and I’ll support you.”
David rose from his seat and scanned the deck. “I’ll start today.”
“Good. Let’s get this boat turned around. Head to shore.”
David stepped back, and Senator Joe Everett watched open-mouthed as his five bodyguards fell like tin soldiers. When the first man plummeted off the side of the boat, he conveniently dropped his gun at the Senator’s feet. He struggled out of his chair and grabbed it, as the second man landed in front of him, spattering him with blood and beer.
His last bodyguard went down. Senator Everett blinked away the droplets and raised his weapon. David shot him through his right arm, and he slumped back into his seat. The gun hit the deck, and Everett gripped his arm in an attempt to stop the blood flow.
“Cupid! You’re Cupid! You’re not David Henning.”
David took the guns and tossed them overboard. He put his weapon in his belt and removed the Senator’s foot from the guard’s back, then heaved the body into the ocean.
“There. That’s a bit tidier.” David took a seat across from Everett.
The Senator was persistent. “I said – you’re not David Henning. You’re Cupid. The assassin.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Five professionals—five bullets—right between the eyes. Who else can shoot like that?”
David grinned. “No one.”
The Senator’s attention turned to his bloody arm. “Why are you here?”
“Isn’t it obvious? You’ve upset people even more powerful than yourself. Now, have you anything more to say before you go?”
Debbie
“What’s become of my little angel?” Mama’s bellowing carried through all thirty rooms of our house. Sometimes I’d sit in my closet to get away from the sound of her voice. But not today.
I slipped out the kitchen door, as she complained to Daddy about the embarrassment I caused them with my donation to the Christmas fundraiser. I smiled at the thought of my revenge, and headed next door to my friend Cindy’s by the back way. The Bainbridges’ chauffer, Peter, was in the driveway polishing the Bentley. I was in luck—he loved peanut butter chocolate bars almost as much as I did.
“Peter, I need to go to the pharmacy and the bakery. Can you take me?” I smiled sweetly, and he opened the door for me.
“Is Miss Bainbridge joining you today, Miss Aldridge?” He always insisted on calling me Miss Aldridge. But I never let Cindy know when I was going to the pharmacy. I sometimes kept Mama’s prescription blood pressure and sleeping pills. Plus I could stock up on laxatives without a bunch of questions too.
“No. I’m in kind of a hurry. I need some baked goods for one of Mama’s charity events. Would you like a dozen peanut butter chocolate bars?”
We headed into Beverly Hills. Peter talked at me in his rearview mirror. “Miss Bainbridge was so impressed with your gift to the fundraiser. It caused quite a stir.”
I felt myself blushing. Sweat started to pour, and I squeaked out a lame reply. “Oh.” When I carved and painted hundreds of anatomically correct tiny hearts for Christmas ornaments, I hadn’t considered Cindy and her mom would see them at the charity fundraiser. I was only interested in upsetting my parents.
They forbade me to take medical illustration in college. They said it was inappropriate for a young lady of good breeding. They even went to the Dean with a list of material I would be permitted to study. I’d pretty much given up hope of ever having a life of my own.
But Cindy planned to have a get-together on New Year’s Day, and she was going to introduce me to the younger brother of a friend of hers. My parents would never have to know. It’s not like I expected he’d like me. But I was still pretty nervous about it. So I figured I could slim down a few more pounds before the party. I was about 104 pounds and 5’8” tall. My goal was to get under 100.
***
By Christmas Eve I was feeling fat and bloated, despite all the measures I’d taken. I was worried that boy would be at the Bainbridges’ dinner party. A bit unsteady from worry and purging, when I saw the massive tree in the foyer, I almost fell flat on the floor. I heard Mama gasp, and Daddy swore under his breath.
The branches were adorned with exquisite tiny white lights and hundreds of delicate anatomically correct heart ornaments. Cindy and her parents hugged me and praised my incredible artistic ability. They told me there was quite a bidding war for my original ornaments. My parents kept
quiet.
The glow of the tree created a soft backdrop for the guests celebrating in the adjacent candlelit dining room. Merry conversation and laughter filled the mansion as three generations of the Bainbridge family and their guests enjoyed a sumptuous holiday dinner.
Frivolity came to a sudden end when Daddy swore at me. “Damn it Debbie! Can’t you behave like a normal young lady and eat the food on your plate? What’s wrong with you? It’s Christmas for – Pete’s sake. There couldn’t be more food on the table. You’ve got to like something here. You haven’t eaten a bite.” His temple visibly throbbing in anger as he yelled, Daddy was forced into silence as he choked on his words.
Mama slapped him on the back. “George!”
I cowered over my plate. The fork trembled in my hand. Daddy wouldn’t forgive me for instigating his outburst in front of all these people. No matter the Bainbridges had been their best friends forever.
Red-faced, Daddy took my plate and added mounds of vegetables and potato. “Here now, young lady. Eat this!”
“Yes Daddy,” I whispered.
I carefully sliced a piece of meat into tiny shreds and pushed them around the plate. I tried to focus on the little pieces, blending them into the colorful vegetables. But I could see Daddy’s face deepen to purple watching me.
Mrs. Bainbridge rose from her seat with the gravy boat. “Would you like some gravy for your potato, honey?”
I nodded. My voice wouldn’t work. I tried not to look horrified as drops of gravy pelted the potato. I did the best I could to scrape the meat away from the liquid. I loved Mrs. Bainbridge, and I didn’t want to upset her. I could feel everyone watching in an uncomfortable silence.
Gradually hesitant conversation resumed at the table. I focused on my plate, examining the color and texture of each vegetable. The fork and knife kept moving, occasionally testing their consistency. I felt the pain and tightness in my throat dissipating as I drew myself into my own world.
I was startled by my best friend’s melodic voice telling a story of a Christmas long past. I listened intently. Cindy Bainbridge was the older sister I never had. Through the years, I’d often wished Cindy’s family could adopt me. Now, at age nineteen, that would be ridiculous, though it remained one of my fondest desires.
I wondered why such a beautiful young woman would have anything to do with me. Cindy was the epitome of the All-American girl, the athletic blonde, blue-eyed cheerleader with the perfect smile. Her thick wavy hair was cut in a sophisticated style that framed her face, falling just below her chin. At twenty-three, she had a youthful glow, though there was an agelessness about her manner. She carried herself with an air of elegance and aristocracy. Cindy looked every inch the princess – her gracious demeanor commanded the attention of the entire table.
I swallowed a lump of squash with an embarrassed cough. It served only to remind Daddy of my poor progress with my meal. As the maid reached for my plate, Daddy grabbed the woman’s wrist. The plate and silverware hit the table with a loud clatter.
He growled, “No! She’s not finished yet! Leave it. She needs to finish her dinner.”
I felt the blood drain from me, and I froze in the seat. I couldn’t move to wipe the tears. I was vaguely aware of the bitter cold at my core. I felt so much I could feel nothing. It was better that way.
Mrs. Bainbridge interceded. “There’s plenty of time, dear.”
It seemed I sat there for an eternity. Slowly, deliberately I forced the food into my mouth as the others again fell into conversation, and shared their scrumptious desserts.
Daddy sternly monitored my progress, wagging his finger at me, uttering threats. He was satisfied only when the plate was completely clean. I felt ill.
Why had I been so excited about the holidays this year? Why would this Christmas be different from any other? It would always be the same. There was no hope. The table and its dinner guests blurred into a watercolor haze.
I fantasized my death, as I had often done before. I could see the white light, a vibrant silver white melting into pastels. Heaven would be a beautiful, peaceful, comforting place. Then my parents would be sorry. At last they would see the error of their ways.
***
“Debbie?” I felt Cindy’s hand on my shoulder.
“Honey, let’s go sit by the tree for a while.” Cindy’s voice was always such a pleasure, and it stirred me from my daze.
As she helped me up, I noticed Glori still chatting at the table. I wondered why Cindy would invite just me. Glori was always entertaining, and I was pretty sure Glori was really Cindy’s best friend. How could I ever compete with Glori Coulson, the most popular girl in Beverly Hills?
The thought triggered another tumult of negativity racing through my brain, quaking my body. I worried Glori would be angry if Cindy didn’t include her. It took all my energy to walk into the parlor.
We settled into the overstuffed love seat by another tree.
“I want to tell you again how much I love that painting you did for me. And I know you put a lot of time and effort into it. It will go perfectly in my room. All my favorite colors—it’s just beautiful!”
“Thank you. I – I’m glad you like it.” I wiped my sweaty hands on my dress.
Cindy reached over and pointed to the tree. “Remember these? These are all the ornaments you made for us over the years. Look. Remember you took some old pictures of everyone and put them in cookie dough frames? And look how you painted the frames. The colors are still bright.”
She went to the tree to retrieve one of the ornaments. “Look. Remember you had a crush on Doug? And you’ve got his picture framed in a heart shape.” Cindy examined a child’s red scrawl. “It says ‘I love Douggy.’ Ha! That’s great. You were such a fantastic artist, even when you were tiny. And look, here’s one you did for me. Remember I asked you to do a Christmas unicorn? It’s the cutest green unicorn I’ve ever seen!” She reached over to hug me.
I took an ornament from the tree. “Well… I remember this one.” I fingered an ornate dough frame colored pink, decorated with dainty sculpted poinsettias, and lettered in holiday red and gold. I held it up so Cindy could see. Two beaming girls looked out from the picture, arm in arm.
Cindy took my hand. “You’re the best, Debbie. Don’t ever let anyone tell you differently. Do you hear me?” Her voice was thick with emotion, and she cleared her throat.
I looked down, unable to speak. That little voice deep inside told me Cindy was surely mistaken.
***
Though dinner was over, the older generation remained around the table discussing business and current events. Children ran to play with new toys; their parents besieged with requests for assembling them.
Glori sauntered into the parlor. I couldn’t help staring. A swimsuit model, Glori Coulson had a thin curvaceous body, the envy of all her Hollywood friends. She always boasted her full breasts were untouched by any surgeon. Long sandy hair sparkled with blonde highlights, falling in waves over her shoulders. Perfectly applied makeup accentuated her eyes, a rare shade of blue green.
Glori acknowledged me with a brief look as she plopped onto the opulent cushions of the couch and removed black strappy spike heels. Her feet were impeccably pedicured. She frowned at the tree. “Glad I missed this whole decorating thing you did this year. Looks like it’s gonna take till next Christmas to put everything away.”
Cindy’s lilting laughter always made me smile. “Don’t worry Glori – you won’t have to do anything. I’m used to your attitude by now.” She winked at me.
Glori yawned. “Well, I thought I’d try getting more in the spirit this year. After all, it’s been almost ten years since your parents took me in. I told my therapist I should be over my traumatic childhood by now.” She grabbed the remote to turn on the television.
Cindy rushed to take it from her. “Glori! Let’s not put that noise on. Why don’t we put on some Christmas music?”
Glori wrinkled her nose. “I can’t take too much of
that Silent Night stuff. Let’s save it for next Christmas, okay?”
Glori picked herself up from the sofa, tugged her tight black mini-dress down over her hips, and ambled over to the tree. I silently admired her – confident and glamorous. I looked down at the voluminous pink dress that billowed modestly to my mid-calf. Mama had picked it out for me. I could feel myself withdrawing again into my own little world.
Cindy sat beside me and handed me a business card she took from the end table. I looked down at it, but my vision was blurry. I re-focused on Cindy’s face, trying to blink away fogginess. I was so nauseous from dinner, I couldn’t think straight.
“Debbie, you know Mom was bidding against five or six people who were determined to have your heart ornaments. They sold for more than any other item in the auction. And there were some well known artists represented there.” She tugged at my sleeve to make sure she had my attention, and I blinked at her.
“Cool,” I heard Glori say.
“Debbie, this business card is from the owner of Hill’s Gallery. He wants to do business with you, honey. You know as well as I do, this is big.”
“Wow,” I heard Glori say.
Cindy was almost face to face with me. “Honey, are you okay?”
Maybe this medical illustration thing could work out. Maybe I could make money with my art. Maybe I could stand on my own two feet for a change.
I gasped. “Oh, yes, Cindy. It is big. It is. This could be my ticket out of Beverly Hills.” The nausea was getting worse.
“Out of Beverly Hills?” Cindy’s face went from concern to distress.
I thought I was going to vomit, so I pushed myself up and out of the seat. I made it to the grand tree in the foyer. My legs gave out, and I grabbed a heart off the tree as I collapsed to the floor. I noticed it was the ornament with the myocardial infarction. My thumb fit perfectly into the ventricle that blew out.
Killer Cupid (The Redemption Series: Book 1) Page 1
