by Jada Ryker
Althea’s hand clenched the paper.
Moira moved directly in front of Althea. “What an interesting little friend you have there on the couch with you.” Her tone was exactly as if she’d found a dead rodent moldering next to Althea. “It certainly didn’t take you long to replace Clay. I must admit, I did think you could do better.”
The old man slumped next to Althea was dressed in lime green knit pants. His yellow-and-white-checked shirt was neatly tucked in. The waistband was hiked up to the bottom of the shirt pocket. The gray head of messy curls was bent forward, the chin resting on the barely rising chest.
Her face stiff, Althea forced herself to smile. “Mr. Johnson normally holes up in his room. He ventures out on occasion to the sitting room. However, once he’s here, he generally falls sound asleep on the couch.”
Moira’s lip curled. “Ewwww. There’s drool on his chin.”
She settled on the couch arm next to Althea. She cocked her head. “I honestly don’t know what my husband sees in you. A retired little anemic schoolteacher.” She tossed her head, causing her long red hair to cascade around her bare shoulders. “They say once a man finds the love of his life and loses her, he will then seek the opposite. He had me…fun, exciting, absolutely fearless. Now he has you…drab, insipid, boring.”
Althea forced herself to relax. “Perhaps he sees me as honest, loving, and faithful. As you said, he must be seeking the opposite of yourself.”
Moira’s chest swelled in outrage.
Althea allowed herself a tiny smile. “In spite of the plastered on makeup, I see your eye is turning some interesting colors…oh, dear, yellow does clash with your skin tone.”
Moira’s face hardened. “You’re very proud of yourself for catching me off guard. Had I been ready for you, I’d have killed you with my bare hands.”
Althea raised a calm brow. “You’re very good at killing, aren’t you? You had no compunction blowing up your friends and co-workers thirty years ago. You were a terrorist for hire. At least I can understand the religious fanatics. They act according to their beliefs. You sold your expertise with explosives to the highest bidder. You’re a cold-hearted bitch, addicted to excitement and danger.”
Moira’s delighted laugh slithered down Althea’s spine.
“How absolutely thrilling! Clay broke his vow of secrecy for you! He told you all about his years as a...government worker.” Moira trailed a long, red fingernail down Althea’s arm.
Althea shivered in revulsion.
Moira smirked. “The man you call Clay married me because he loved me. He was so besotted with me, it was positively embarrassing.”
Althea resisted the urge to smack Moira with her newspaper. She made herself relax and smile. “You’re beautiful, Moira. Your skin is pulled so tight over your cheekbones it can’t possibly wrinkle. Your hair is carefully colored that wondrous shade of red, like the sun sinking into the ocean. Your eyes are like green emeralds. You’re painfully beautiful to look at, but what happens if anyone tries to touch you on the inside?”
Althea pulled her arm away from Moira’s caressing fingers. “I believe you’re cold as a glacier beneath that red-hot exterior. If anyone tries to touch it, he will be frozen by it. Like a child sticking his tongue to a cold metal pole, he will try to pull away from you without losing several layers of skin. Nothing good is gained by touching you. Frostbite, freezer burn, lost fingers or toes. You are hell, Moira. And hell isn’t hot, it’s frozen, just as you are. Clay loved you thirty years ago, until you froze his love and it splintered into a million tiny shards of ice.”
Moira’s teeth clenched. A muscle twitched in her jaw. “Nonsense. Clay was too soft-hearted. He simply couldn’t deal with my need for an exciting lifestyle.” She crossed her legs and swung her foot, deftly balancing her shoe on her toes. “You’re mistaken about one thing, though. I didn’t blow up the government agency where we worked for only money.” Moira leaned closer. “I did it for the thrill.”
“You killed for the thrill of it.” Clara was incredulous.
Althea braced her thin shoulders. “And you killed Mrs. Craft.”
Moira clapped her hands. “Finally! I didn’t think you’d ever get it! I was beginning to wonder if your reputation as an amateur detective was very much inflated.”
“After we’d left the police station and returned here, you overheard Clay and me discussing the murder of the dancer,. You decided to try and tie that murder in with the one here at the assisted living center. You thought if you could frame Clay for a murder here, the police would automatically suspect Clay of the dancer’s murder.”
Moira inspected her long, scarlet nails. “How utterly fascinating. You do have a vivid imagination.”
“However, you were missing one important thing. A dead body.”
Moira yawned and idly jiggled her shoe on her toes.
“You had to act fast. You stole one of Clay’s suits from his room while he and I were still discussing the events of the evening. You put it on, along with a gray wig. You saw Mrs. Craft sitting on the deserted patio. You waited for the arrival of one of the staff, so that ‘Clay’ could be seen by a witness. You stabbed Mrs. Craft, and hid the suit in Clay’s closet.”
Clara interjected, “You left a note on the body, implicating Clay Napier. Unfortunately for you, I took it from the crime scene.” She casually pulled herself up from her chair, adjusted the blind, and moved back to her seat.
Moira tapped her chin with a brilliant nail. “Let me get this straight. I killed Mrs. Craft. And now, your boyfriend will go to prison for it.” She applauded. “Very good, Mrs. Flaxton. You’re absolutely correct. You’ve solved your little puzzle. I stabbed Mrs. Craft and I framed Clay for the murder. Unfortunately, no one will believe you.”
Clara clenched the arms of her chair. “You won’t get away with this. We’ll go to the police and they’ll arrest you. You’ll spend the rest of your life in prison.”
Moira laughed so hard she nearly fell off the arm of the couch. “Oh, dear. You’ll go to the police. How droll.” She abruptly stopped laughing. “The girlfriend of the accused.” She looked at Clara. “A broken down old woman.” Finally, her gaze moved to the figure on the other end of the couch. “An old man drooling in his sleep.”
The old man raised his head. He blinked and smacked his lips. He pulled himself up from the couch and removed the gray wig.
Moira gasped.
“I think they’ll believe the word of a police lieutenant.”
“No.” Moira slipped her foot back into her shoe and stood up. “You’re friends with Mrs. Flaxton and Clay…and Mrs. Flaxton’s little minion, Marisa Adair. Not to mention the bouncy little blonde who draws your gaze like a magnet every time you’re in her orbit. You would not be a reliable witness.”
Althea held up her pen. She pushed the button on top.
Moira’s voice filled the room. “I did it for the thrill.”
Her perfect face twisted with hatred and fury. She reached beside her for her purse.
“Looking for this?” Clara shook Moira’s teal purse at her. “You’re not as good as you think you are, Moira. You thought an old lady was merely adjusting a blind.”
Moira snatched the purse out of Clara's hands and furiously rooted in it.
“Or it could be you’re looking for this.” Clara brought up a gun. Her hand was rock steady.
Moira threw her purse at Clara. She ran for the stairs.
Clara sighted, taking careful aim.
Moira stumbled on the stairs just as Clara fired.
Her shot struck the wall precisely where Moira would have been had she not fallen.
Tossing away the gray wig, the lawman sprinted toward the stairs.
“Lieutenant Camden! Wait!”
Reluctantly, he pivoted toward her, his hand on the banister.
Althea urgently sprang from the couch. “Think! Why would she run upstairs and not outside? She must have explosives and more weapons upstairs! She’s g
oing to blow up the building!”
“You ladies remain here and try to stay calm. I’ll handle this.” The lieutenant pounded up the stairs. “And Miss Clara, no more shooting!”
Clara lurched to her feet. “We have to get everyone out!”
“You’re right! But…” Althea took a few steps toward the stairs. “But we have to save that young man! If he dies, Marisa and Tara will both be very disappointed in us!”
“I’ll pull the fire alarm. That will get everyone out.” Surprisingly speedy given her girth, Clara shuffled to the fire lever. She pulled it. The building immediately filled with the raucous sound of the alarm and flashing lights.
Althea hit the stairs with Clara close behind her.
Doors opened in the hallway. Elderly residents nervously prairie dogged, with male and female heads popping out of doorways.
“Fire! Everyone out!” Althea ordered.
Clara authoritatively shooed everyone toward the stairs, as if they were children in her lunchroom.
Lieutenant Camden pounded his fist on a closed door.
People wandered out of the rooms and hesitantly milled around. “Is it a real fire or a drill?” asked Mrs. Kenton, her fuzzy pink robe the exact color of the pink curlers in her hair.
The lawman crashed into the door with his shoulder.
Althea hurried up to him. She frantically tugged at his arm. “If you crash through that door, it will explode!”
Mrs. Kenton hovered anxiously behind them. “Is that room on fire?” She waved her hands in the air.
Clara pushed the bleating woman toward the stars. “Mrs. Kenton! Get the hell out of the building!”
“Clara! I can’t leave without my research!”
Clara frowned. “Research?”
“I’ve spent the past twenty years investigating my daughter Mayla’s death! I have statements from her friends, witnesses, interviews with the police...I’ll burn with that before I give it up! And Mayla’s things! I cannot leave those behind!” The gentle face set in mulish lines.
Each stiff with determination, the two women stared at each other.
Clara’s bosom heaved. “You have to get out right now!”
Mrs. Kenton’s face crumpled. “My investigation! Mayla’s things, Clara! I can’t leave them!”
Clara threw her hands up. “All right! Come on, let’s get them and you the hell out of here!”
The lieutenant’s slight frame hit the door again. “Mrs. Flaxton! I asked you to wait downstairs!” he ground through clenched teeth.
Terrified, Althea shook the young man. “You heard her yourself. She’s a psychopath. She’s bent on escape. I bet she foresaw her need to make a quick getaway. She’s an explosives expert. She’s been a terrorist for hire. She won’t hesitate to kill anyone who gets in her way, and she won’t care how many innocent bystanders die.”
Staggering under the weight of the large box in her arms, Clara gasped, “Althea’s right, Lieutenant!” Not waiting for an answer, Clara moved as fast as she could to the stairs, Mrs. Kenton close behind her.
Althea shook the young man. “Moira’s wired this building with explosives to slow down any pursuers. Call the bomb squad!”
His youthful face hardened. “I can handle her, Mrs. Flaxton. Now go back downstairs and stay out of the way.”
Althea looked around the crowded hallway for help. The residents were hurrying toward the stairs.
Clara pushed her way back to Althea, using her weight and her girth against the tide of elderly people. “I’ve got Mrs. Kenton headed out. Now I’ll get the rest of...”
Althea clawed desperately at her old friend. “He won’t listen to me, Clara! Moira has ensured this building will be nothing but cinders! We have to get him out of here!”
Clara shoved her bulk between the young lieutenant and the door. “You’re thinking of Mrs. Peters as a harmless older lady. Underestimating her will get you killed!”
Clara had the element of surprise. Using her sturdy body and her weight advantage, she pushed Dreamus down the hallway, toward the head of the stairs. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her, and she used the knowledge to push him as far as she could before he could recover.
Behind them, the apartment exploded, hurling heat and debris through the hallway. A wave of hot force hit them, and threw them to the head of the stairs. Clara covered both Althea and Lieutenant Camden with her bulk and pinned them to the floor with her weight.
Althea remained motionless, and tried to assess for damage. Her ears were ringing. Her only pain seemed to be associated with Clara’s weight on her body. She managed to squirm out from underneath Clara. “Is everyone OK?” She choked on the billowing black smoke. Roaring flames engulfed the far end of the hallway.
Clara heaved herself off the wiry man.
Althea saw smoke rising from Clara’s back. She jerked off her sweater, and used it to pat out the flames on Clara’s polyester smock.
Lieutenant Camden remained prone on the floor. He moaned.
“Did I squish the poor man?” asked Clara, her anxiety causing her voice to rise.
Althea bent over him.
The side of his head was bleeding profusely.
Althea held her sweater to his head, and caught something in her peripheral vision.
A jagged wooden stake protruded from his thigh.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“You’re taking me to your therapy office to kill me?” The night wind teased Marisa’s hair around her face, chilling the nervous perspiration coating her skin. “Won’t that prove your guilt?”
Macon swiped his card. “It’ll prove my innocence.” When the light glowed green, he shoved open the door. “Now, it’s time to play out the final scene in your colorful life, Marisa.”
The reception area was dark, and Barbara’s station was empty. Light spilled into the hallway from Macon’s lighted office. He led the way past the other two shut office doors, each dark at the bottom gap. No help there. As she approached Macon’s door, she desperately debated making her move.
“Look who’s here, Marisa, right next to your usual seat. Too bad we don’t have time for a session.”
In the doorway, Marisa staggered in surprise.
Her brother Mosely slowly raised his head from his chest. His eyes were bloodshot and sunken. With his skin stretched tightly over his bones, his head looked like a skull. His cheeks were covered with stubble, and his face was blotchy. His shaking hand grasped a Styrofoam cup. On the little table at his elbow, an open bottle of whiskey was half full.
“Mosely! How could you?”
Her brother smiled, his decayed teeth brown in the dim light. Black gaps marked the missing front teeth. “Marisa! Ha ha ha! Macon here asked me help him play a little trick on you!”
“A trick?” Marisa glanced at Macon.
He waved toward her chair, using his gun for emphasis. “Sit down, Marisa.” He turned toward Mosely. “Not quite just a fun practical joke. I also had to agree to pay him for his participation tonight. Too bad he didn’t ask for his money up front.” Macon laughed.
Mosely laughed with the therapist. “Marisa, you always think you’re so smart, just because you went to college and I didn’t. Macon said this would be a great way to prove I am just as smart as you are.”
Macon put his gun on the desk as he pulled another firearm from his pocket. “Thank you for giving me your gun earlier, Mosely. Your sister mentioned you had used it to shoot an ornery soft drink machine.”
Mosely carefully put the cup on the table and slapped his leg. “That sure was a hoot! I’m surprised she told you about it, since everything I do seems to embarrass my big sister.”
“You know, Mosely, when Marisa first starting coming to me for therapy, I actually thought she’d make a great partner.” He backed up to his desk, keeping his eyes on Marisa as he propped his behind on his desk.
“Partner?” Marisa choked. Why was she trying to carry on a conversation with him? Unless she could somehow catch him off g
uard and overpower him, she was convinced both she and Mosely were going to die.
He settled back on the desk top. “Yes, partners. The only problem was when you hit the road to recovery. Once you started to get sober and go to your twelve-step meetings, you definitely became less interesting to me.”
“Marisa and her twelve-step programs,” Mosely groaned. “What a downer!”
Macon cocked his head.
Marisa found herself listening as well. She thought she heard a stealthy sound.
Macon shrugged. He smiled at her, causing the corners of his eyes to crease in pseudo good humor. “Just the building settling.” He held the gun directly on her. “Stand up. I’m going to shoot you and then your brother is going to turn the gun on himself. That will ensure his fingerprints on the gun and nitrate on his hand.”
Reluctantly, Marisa stood up. I’ll have to watch his every movement for my chance. Once it comes, I won’t get another one.
Macon’s words seemed to penetrate Mosely’s fog. “Now wait just a minute! No way am I going to let you hurt my sister!”
Macon raised the gun and pointed it at Marisa.
“Hell, no!” Mosely unsteadily lurched from his chair and angled his body between Marisa and Macon.
An explosion shattered the air as Mosely plowed into Marisa. As they toppled to the ground, Marisa dimly heard, as if from a long distance, “Marisa!”
Was that Alex’s voice? Or was she imagining things? Her ears were ringing so loudly, she couldn’t tell. Marisa thought, why am I on the floor? Her brother’s weight was pinning her down. She pushed at him. “Mosely, get off me! I have to stop Macon!”
A familiar barking reached her ears. “Punky? What the hell?”
She managed to turn her head and look up as Alex’s wiry form burst in, Punky barking hysterically at his feet. At his elbow, Verna stretched a restraining hand toward her dog as he leaped for Marisa’s ankles.
“Alex! He has a gun!” She watched from the floor as Alex cannoned into Macon, and they crashed to the floor behind Macon’s desk.
