by Jada Ryker
“Althea.” Clay held both of her hands. “I must make a further confession. My friend was in pain and he was suffering. He begged me to end his life. During the turmoil of that last night, I took the syringe that was intended to murder you, and I used it to take my friend’s life. Moira not only tracked me here, but she put together the pieces of the puzzle and figured out I killed my friend.”
“How fortuitous!” trilled a bright and happy voice.
Althea’s skin crawled. She turned her head, but she already knew who would be standing there.
Her hair bright red and her face not quite as perfect in the unforgiving afternoon sunlight, Moira Peters stood several yards away from them. Dressed in skinny jeans and a short-sleeved royal blue shirt, she was coolly confident.
Clay stiffened. “What are you doing here?”
Moira held up a small object and waved it in triumph. “Do you know what this is? It’s a recording device. It picks up sound from fifty yards away. It enabled me to stand far enough back that you couldn’t see me, yet capture every word of your fascinating conversation.” She threw back her head and laughed. When Clay started to rise, she sobered.
Moira slid her other hand into her shoulder bag, and kept it there. “I have a loaded gun. I won’t shoot you, Clay, but I will shoot your little paramour.”
Like a tiger rethinking his spring, Clay sank down on the bench.
Moira turned to Althea. “When I hand this over to the authorities, your boyfriend will go to prison for murder. At his age, twenty years could very easily turn into a life sentence.”
Althea’s mind was a jumble of disjointed thoughts and her belly was jittering. I have to buy some time! She leaned forward on the bench, and scrunched up her face. “What did you say?”
Moira yelled. “I said, I’m giving the recording to the police.”
Althea shook her head in puzzlement. “What? You’re reordering a poultice?”
Moira stamped her foot. “I said, I will put your boyfriend in prison!”
Moving very slowly, as if her joints were stiff, Althea rose from the bench.
Clay tried to snag her dress. “Althea!” he hissed. “Sit back down!”
Althea pulled free of his clutching hand and lurched, as if she had balance problems. “You got your friend a prism? Is it pretty in the sun?”
Staggering a bit, Althea inched her way closer to Moira.
“For God’s sake, can’t you get the deaf bitch a hearing aid!”
Althea cupped her ear with her hand, and waveringly closed the distance. “A spearing aid?” She pointed to the lone fisherman at the pond below. “Land sakes alive, give me a cane pole anytime. Spearing fish isn’t at all sporting.”
When Moira raised her eyes to the sky, as if seeking divine intervention, Althea knew she had to act, or lose her chance. Althea plucked the device from Moira’s hand, and lobbed it toward the pond. She balled up her other delicate little hand into a fist, and smashed it into Moira’s surprised face. The redhead fell backward to the ground.
Clay materialized next to the fallen woman. He snatched her purse off her shoulder.
A man who had been helping his child feed the ducks ran up the slope to them. “What’s going on?”
Althea pulled herself up to her full height, and stared haughtily at the man. “This lady lost her balance. I reached out to help her, and she teetered backwards to the ground.”
The young man frowned. “Wow, from down there, it looked totally different. There was a splash in the pond, I looked up, and it sure looked like you cold-cocked her.” He shook his head as he reached down to help Moira to her feet.
Moira furiously slapped his hands away, and scrambled to her feet.
She opened her mouth.
Clay gently shook her purse at her. His hand was inside.
She closed her mouth.
“Thank you, young man,” Althea said graciously, like she was the queen thanking a helpful serf.
Still frowning in puzzlement, he saluted them and ran down the slope to his child.
“You won this battle, but you won’t win the war.” Holding her blazing cheek, Moira turned to Althea. “Mrs. Craft was sitting in my normal seat on the patio. We both have long, red hair. I know too many of your boyfriend’s secrets. He would like nothing better than to see me dead. And when he stabbed Mrs. Craft in the back, that’s exactly what he thought. He mistook her for me, and killed the wrong woman. Your lover is a killer, Mrs. Flaxton. I believe it, and so will the police.” She turned furiously on her heel, and strode back along the path.
“You’re insane, Mrs. Peters, if you believe Clay killed Mrs. Craft by mistake,” Althea called after her. “You of all people should know if Clay wanted you dead, then you would be dead.”
Moira swiveled back to them. “Clay isn’t the only one who’s lying, Mrs....Flaxton. When are you going to tell him the truth?” She pivoted away and then continued along the path.
Clay pulled Althea into his arms. “That viper! She is a troublemaker! Thea, are you all right? I cannot believe you took such a risk! You could have been killed!” He squeezed her so tight, she squeaked.
He immediately loosened his hold and looked down into her face. “Thea, where on earth did you learn to throw like that?”
Althea grinned. “All of the teachers had to take our stints coaching little league.”
He took her hand into his. “I doubt if you learned to punch like that in little league.”
“No,” said Althea, “the punch was courtesy of my five big brothers.”
“Thea, my love!” Clay went down on one knee in front of her, and held both her hands. “You’re magnificent! If I had any heart left to lose, then I did today. Thea, would you do me the honor of marrying me?”
* * * * *
Clay looked up from the box of Mrs. Craft’s belongings he was rifling in Mrs. Proctor’s attic.
Althea was digging in a large box like a terrier digging under a fence. Her hair was straggling from its bun, and her cheek was streaked with dirt. She frowned in concentration.
Clay felt his chest squeeze with love. He was either madly, passionately in love...or he was having a massive heart attack.
Sensing his eyes on her, she stood up, her hands full of disordered papers. Her emerald ones caught his, and then skittered away to the papers in her hands. “Clay, I have something to tell you. I don’t know why I’ve kept it such a deep, dark secret. It’s nothing to be ashamed of but I’ve hesitated to tell you.”
Clay smiled encouragingly.
Her green eyes shimmered with unshed tears. Definitely an emerald engagement ring, he thought, to match those glorious eyes.
“Clay, I have deceived you. I am really—” The large stack of papers slipped in Althea’s slim hands. She tried to catch them, and the entire pile cascaded to the floor.
Clay bent over, and gathered up the papers.
At the same time, Althea stooped over to pick up the scattered sheets. As she tried to pull them into order, her hands stilled. She slid one out of the pile.
“Oh, my.” Althea had an odd note in her voice.
Startled, Clay moved closer to her. “What is it, Thea?”
She held out an eight-by-ten photograph.
Clay’s eyes widened in shock.
The woman in the photograph appeared to be naked. She was sitting on a stool, with her arms around her drawn up legs. She was smiling in a provocative way.
“Her face looks familiar,” mused Clay.
Althea said, “It’s a much younger Mrs. Craft.” She rifled through the photos. “It gets worse.” She held out a picture to Clay.
Mrs. Craft was completely and openly nude.
Clay shuffled his stack of photos. “It appears Mrs. Craft was a model for pornographic pictures. And there’s a man in some of the pictures, also naked. He looks familiar.” Clay gasped. “It’s Fred!”
Althea moaned, “Oh, no!”
At first, Clay thought it was her reaction to Fred’s
presence in the pictures.
Papers hit the floor. Althea was white, her green eyes huge in her face. One hand was pressed to her heart. Her lips trembled.
Clay threw down the papers he was holding, and put his arm around her trembling body. “Althea! What is it?”
She held out a picture in a shaking hand.
Clay peered at it in the dim light of the attic. In the picture, a skinny young girl, perhaps eight or nine years old, was naked.
“Oh, no! That poor child!”
“Clay!” Althea’s chest heaved. “That’s Marisa!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
When Marisa heard the roar of the motorcycle, she decided it must be one of the neighbors.
Soon after, her kitchen door rattled.
Marisa blinked.
Alex didn’t just stand in her doorway. He was motionless, yet he radiated energy, ready to be set in motion any second. He was wearing a snug black t-shirt, which showed off the muscles in his arms and chest. His waist tapered trimly into black jeans. Black boots completed his outfit. The angles of his thin face were sharp and predatory. With his short hair spiky on top and his dark sunglasses, Alex looked attractive and dangerous.
At the trauma hospital where they both worked, he always wore suits. She had thought him skinny. Runty. Puny.
Instead, he was wiry. Muscled.
Marisa leaned against the counter. “Hi, Alex.”
He held up a brown paper bag, dangling in his fingers by its handles. “I have something for you.” He pulled off the sunglasses and hooked them on his t-shirt collar. His dark blue eyes were dancing. As he smiled, his teeth flashed white against the tan of his smooth face.
He seemed blithely unaware of the earth shifting very slightly on its axis.
“Verna was standing in your driveway, bent over to check out the Celica and its personalized license plate. The sound of my motorcycle scared Pimply—”
“Punky! That repulsive little hell hound is Punky!”
“The sound scared Punky so badly he peed all over Verna’s leg. She went hopping back into the house, dragging him along on his leash and giving him hell!” Alex laughed so hard he bent over.
Marisa couldn’t help laughing with him.
He straightened up, and glanced at Marisa. He did a double take.
Alex was perfectly still. His face was completely expressionless. His eyes were pools of water in a dark forest. “You look...different.”
Marisa glanced down at herself. Short black leather skirt, pink sleeveless top with a scooped neckline, and high-heeled pumps completed her outfit. “I thought it would be a good idea for me to try and blend in at the bar tonight. I think the clothes will help me move freely among the dancers, staff, and customers, gathering clues!” She laughed. “Maybe I can get a confession with this outfit!”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Curious in spite of herself, Marisa asked, “What’s in the bag?”
His cheeks stained with embarrassment, Alex handed her the bag. “Just a little something for you.” Laithe sauntered into the room, and immediately headed to Alex. He gracefully rubbed against Alex’s leg. “Hey, Laithe!”
Marisa reached in the sack. “A motorcycle helmet?” It was a shiny florescent pink, with a snazzy pale green chin strap. “Oh, no, there’s a hole in it!”
His face fiery red, Alex cleared his throat. “Uh, it’s not a hole. Er, it’s a hole, but it’s on purpose. You thread your ponytail through the hole, and it streams out behind you while you’re riding on the bike.”
“Oh, how cute!” Marisa maneuvered her ponytail through it, and fastened the strap under her chin. She shook her head, sending the ponytail flying around her shoulders. “I love it! Thank you, it’s perfect!”
Looking as if he was on the verge of passing out from embarrassment or a stroke, Alex bent over to pet Laithe’s russet fur as the cat twined between his ankles. “There’s something else in the bag,” he mumbled to the cat.
Marisa dug into the sack. As wide as Alex’s bowed head, the magenta bow was splotched with infectious-looking green splatters. The metal clip was the length of her forefinger. One end of the clip was a wicked point. Not sure if it was a hair accessory or a weapon, Marisa weakly murmured, “Wow.”
“If you braid your hair, you can clip the bow to the end of the braid,” Alex informed Laithe as he scooped the cat into his arms. “Or you can clip it where your hair comes out the helmet opening.”
Afraid the bow would hurt them if it was allowed to fly freely in the wind, Marisa hid a smile as she fastened the retina-burning bow to her hair at the opening. “The bright pink helmet and bow are perfect matches for my pink sweater and black skirt and shoes.”
Laithe’s meow was a mocking fashion commentary.
“You are not a reincarnation of Christian Dior,” Marisa muttered.
Alex flicked a glance at her. “Excuse me?”
Marisa narrowed her eyes at the cat. “He’ll get orange cat hairs all over you, and they’ll stand out against that black shirt and jeans!” She lunged for the cat as Alex bent to set him on the floor.
Their hands collided. Electricity shot up Marisa’s arms.
“Wow, that cat has enough static electricity in his fur to light up the neighborhood!” Unexpectedly nervous, Marisa placed him gently on the floor. “Thank you again for the helmet and the bow.” She shook her hair.
“You’re welcome.”
“And thanks for offering to take me to the repair shop later to get my car. They seem confident they will be able to put it back together after its horrible, traumatic pummeling by your car.”
Alex laughed. “If I gathered witness statements from your neighbors, I’m positive they would confirm I’m the poor innocent victim of a crazed woman. Who knew road rage came in reverse?”
“Don’t force me to ask Verna if she has a camcorder set up in her window. I don’t want to know the lengths she goes to spy on people.”
Alex waggled his brows. “Maybe she has X-rated video of your neighbor across the street, totally naked in the shower.”
“Ewwww. Mr. Roberts is only about 150 years old. I really don’t want to see his junk in the shower. Especially if it’s a cold shower.” She shuddered.
“Hey, since we decided to have dinner before picking up your car and meeting Tara and the online group at the nightclub, I thought it would be fun to go on the motorcycle. But...” Alex’s eyes strayed to her bare legs.
Marisa looked down. “I can change. No problem.”
Alex’s navy eyes slid back to dark and unreadable. His voice was completely neutral. “Wear the skirt. It’s not that far. We’ll cause quite a stir on the bike, with those awesome legs wrapped around my bike. I promise I’ll take things nice and slow...on my motorcycle.” His smile was dazzling, causing the corners of his eyes to crinkle. “I double dog dare you!”
Awesome legs? Take things nice and slow...and the significant pause before he clarified “on the motorcycle”? Was he flirting with her? “How can I resist a double dog dare?”
Laithe’s meow sounded cautionary.
In the driveway, Alex’s quick, searching glances were paranoid. Marisa thought he was scanning the area for her stalker.
“No sign of Verna. Let’s get on the road before she gets her leg cleaned off.”
“Alex!” The only thing that kept Marisa from smacking Alex was her fear of knocking him off his bike.
“What?” He fidgeted on his shiny black and silver motorcycle.
“You’re more afraid of Verna than you are the psycho ex-wife who is stalking me!”
He shrugged. “I have my priorities.”
Marisa eyed Alex and his bike. “This is going to be tricky getting on without flashing the whole neighborhood.”
Alex faced straight forward. “No one’s around and I promise to keep my back turned.”
Marisa scanned both sides of the street. Then, with her hand between her legs to try and keep the skirt pinned together like
shorts, she threw her leg over the bike.
She met Alex’s laughing eyes in the mirror.
“Hey, you were looking in the mirror!” Not caring if they both fell over, Marisa smacked his shoulder blade.
“Owwww!” he yelped. “I said I would keep my back turned. I never said I wasn’t going to look!” Alex handed her a pair of sunglasses, and slipped his on. “Bug shields for your eyes. Be careful talking for the same reason.” He slipped a black helmet over his head. “The helmets will fulfill two functions, Marisa. One, protection from head injuries. Two, there are radios in the helmets. We can talk more easily.” He gave her a quick lesson in using the equipment.
Alex started the bike with a roar. Marisa held on to the back of her seat. They set off down the street.
As the bike gathered speed and Marisa felt the wind whipping her ponytail around her shoulders, Alex shifted through his gears. Marisa felt her spirits rise, and she quelled an urge to laugh.
When they met another bike with a man on it, his long hair flying in the wind, Alex gave him a cool wave with two fingers. The biker returned the gesture.
Marisa used the radio. “Hey, can you teach me how to do that?” She reached around him to wiggle her fingers in his face.
He shook his head. “No.”
“Why not? It looks so cool. I want to do it.”
“The function of the biker bitch is to perch behind the biker and look decorative. The function of the biker is to operate the bike and signal other bikers. In this world, the roles of men and women are more clearly defined than in our corporate world.” He twisted his head to grin at her. “On the bike, I’m dominant and you’re submissive!”
Another bike was approaching from the opposite direction. As they drew closer, Marisa could see it was two men. She noticed the guy sitting behind the other was careful not to touch him.
When they were a few yards away, Marisa brought up her fingers in what she thought was the cool motorcycle wave. For emphasis, she moved her hand backward and forward in quick, brisk jabs.
