She, Belinda Hennessey, had done a very good job of not only getting her life back on track, but was on her way to making a name for herself.
The trunk popped open with enough force to send Belinda stumbling back. Good thing, too, since it put a tad more distance between her and the load that filled her trunk to capacity.
Margo.
Dead.
Belinda opened her mouth to scream, but she couldn’t draw enough air into her lungs to make noise. Gasping, she acted out of sheer impulse to erase the unbelievable scene in front of her and slammed down the trunk lid. She sobbed into her hand, then wildly looked around to see if anyone had witnessed the fact that she’d found her boss’s body in the trunk of her car.
But no, it was a lovely, quiet day in the Atlanta suburbs—birds sang and flowers bloomed. In a yard across the street and up a gentle rise, children jumped on a trampoline and screamed with laughter. She looked toward Perry’s place, but the one time she might have called on the man, his truck was gone. He was at work, of course, like most everyone. And what could he do anyway?
What could anyone do? Blood rushed to her head, and she felt a faint coming on. She couldn’t faint, she told herself—she had to summon help. She bent at the waist until the tingling in her brain subsided enough to stand. Walk. Run to her house. Margo was dead. And in her trunk.
How?
She skidded into the foyer. Hysteria pulled at her, and she pressed her fists against her eyes. This could not be happening. She was in the twilight zone. What to do first? Her mind raced, the people she knew spinning like a roulette wheel. Who to call?
The wheel slowed, and the ball settled on Wade Alexander. He would know what to do.
She frantically dumped the contents from her purse to find her organizer. The few seconds it took for her to call up his cell phone number seemed like an eternity. Her hands shook as she punched in his number, and she gulped for air. The phone rang once, twice. Her heart pounded in her ears.
“Alexander.”
“Wade, this is Belinda Hennessey.” She shook uncontrollably.
“What’s wrong?”
“You t-told me to call you if anything unusual happened.”
“Right.”
“S-something unusual happened.”
Chapter 20
“Belinda,” Wade said, his voice fortified with concern. “Talk to me.”
She gulped air, searching for appropriate words. Finding none, she blurted, “My b-boss is in the trunk of my car, dead.”
Silence. Then, “What? Slow down, and say that again.”
Belinda clung to the kitchen counter for support. “My boss, Margo Campbell. I just found her in the t-trunk of my car. She’s dead. I d-don’t know how she got there, and I’m on the v-verge of completely freaking out.”
“Take a deep breath,” he said in a soothing tone. “Are you at work?”
“No, I’m at home.”
“You’re at home? Where’s your car?”
“Parked in my driveway.”
“Are you sure you saw what you think you saw?”
“Yes.”
“And how do you know she’s dead?”
Belinda started bawling, and she never bawled. “The woman is crammed into my trunk—believe me, she’s dead!”
“Easy now. Have you called 911?”
“N-no, I called you first.”
“Give me your street address.”
She couldn’t remember, so she walked to the table, grabbed Vince’s envelope, and read her own address aloud. Then she dropped into a chair, trembling all over. “I’m so scared, I don’t know what to do.”
“Don’t do anything until the police get there. Except…do you have a lawyer?” His voice was erratic, as if he were on the move.
She hiccupped—she didn’t even know a lawyer. “I have nothing to hide! I’ll tell the police anything they want to know.” She wet her lips. “Wade…will you come?”
“I’m on my way. Hold tight.”
Belinda didn’t want to hang up—the man’s voice was like a lifeline. But she knew he had to take care of business. She disconnected the call and set down the phone with a hand that still vibrated. She sat frozen in place, trying to make sense of the awful scene she’d just witnessed.
Margo, still wearing her raincoat, curled up as if she were sleeping, although her chalky pallor told a different story. What had happened to her after Belinda had left her office, and how had she gotten into the trunk of the Civic?
Belinda swallowed and gagged—she’d been driving around with a body in the trunk of her car. Another stomach roll sent her running to the bathroom, where she heaved the remnants of the stromboli sandwich into the commode.
Afterward, she splashed cold water on her face until she was somewhat revived, then sank to the floor in the dark and pulled her knees under her quivering chin. Downey, who hadn’t seen so much emotion commotion since…since Vince, yowled and rubbed against her legs frantically. Belinda reached out to stroke the cat’s fur. It felt good to have another living thing nearby.
She’d never felt so alone in her life. She ached to reach out to someone who could make her feel better, but who would that be? She couldn’t deliver a bomb like this to her parents. Sure, they’d cut short their cross-country trip and be here before she could say AARP, but to what end? Her mother was losing sleep over her daughter’s un-orthodox sofa purchase—a body in the car trunk would send Barbara Hennessey over the edge. And her dad would find a way to blame it on the fact that she drove a foreign car.
Libby was at work, and how traumatized would she be knowing she’d driven home last night with a body in the boot, even if Margo was the woman’s nemesis. A crazy notion that Libby could be involved came into Belinda’s mind and left just as quickly. Libby wasn’t a murderer, but if Belinda called her, the news of Margo’s demise would spread through Archer faster than the speed of sound, and that wouldn’t help the police.
Vince? He would help her if he could, because he wasn’t particularly mean-spirited, just chickenhearted. But she didn’t relish the thought of calling to admit that her grand experiment of starting over had failed rather hugely.
Julian…now there was a thought. Since he worked for a news organization, he would probably hear about the incident as soon as it hit the police scanner airwaves. But she might have inadvertently involved him when she’d accepted his offer to drive her home last night—she didn’t want to implicate him further by asking him to hold her hand through this unthinkable situation. He had a reputation to protect.
The faces of acquaintances from Cincinnati flashed through her mind. Lunch companions, yes—confidantes, no. Libby was right, she had no true friends of her own.
Because you are arrogantly independent. You’ve never wanted to need anyone, and now that you do, no one is there for you.
A wave of crushing panic loomed large. She felt herself begin to succumb when the phone rang. Belinda stared at the portable unit, then answered in case it was Lieutenant Alexander. “H-hello?”
“Belinda, it’s Libby,” the woman whispered loudly. “Girl, the shit has hit the fan here.”
Belinda put her fist to her mouth—so they already knew.
“The police are in Margo’s office, getting ready to question everyone. It’s like a lockdown.”
Her stomach dove.
“I bet Margo wishes she’d been here to see this. She’d probably fire anyone she remotely suspected.”
Well, if anyone could reach back from death and issue pink slips for her own murder, it would be Margo.
“Personally,” Libby whispered. “I think Clancy did it.”
Belinda choked. “Clancy?”
“I never trusted that man. I wanted to warn you, because the police will probably want to talk to you since you’re indirectly involved.”
“Th-thanks.”
“But don’t worry, you’ll still get your couch—the truck was already loaded and on its way before anyone found out.”
“I didn’t tell you? When Brita stopped by Clancy’s desk to get the couch money to deposit, the bag was empty. Over five thousand bucks in cash, gone.”
Belinda exhaled—no one knew about Margo. Yet.
“Clancy says someone stole it, but everyone thinks he took it and is trying to blame someone else. Brita called the police. You’re missing out on all the excitement.”
Belinda stood and walked into the living room. “Sounds like it.” Stepping around the boxes she’d prepared for Goodwill, she peered out the bay window to the rear of her clover green car, where her boss lay in eternal repose.
“I heard they might strip-search everyone.” Libby sighed dreamily. “Where’s Officer Goodbody when you need him?”
Belinda was thinking the same thing. Panic licked at her neck. “Listen, Libby, I really need to go. I’m expecting…someone.”
“Ooh, sounds mysterious. Well, you can tell me all about it in the morning. Remember, Rosemary’s driving the car pool. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t,” Belinda murmured absently, then disconnected the call.
A headache had landed behind her eyes, but she wasn’t about to tempt her stomach with painkillers. Downey’s insistent meowing and figure-eights, however, were dancing on her nerves. Belinda lured her into the bathroom, then closed the door in anticipation of the impending activity. The cat complained loudly.
Belinda was drawn to the bay window again, hoping that it was all some kind of macabre hoax, that the trunk would open and Margo would climb out yelling, “Gotcha!”
While Belinda stood staring at her car, a mail van pulled up. She chewed on her thumbnail, heart pounding, as the driver lowered the lid on her mailbox, shoved in her mail, closed the lid, then drove on. He would never realize how close he’d come to a dead body.
Who would want to kill Margo?
A lot of people, her mind whispered. But who would actually do it?
And frame her?
Her thoughts were derailed by the appearance of Wade’s cruiser. He pulled alongside the curb, blue lights flashing, but without the siren, thank goodness.
She ran outside without bothering to close her front door. He was already out of the car, striding toward her. She couldn’t help it—she threw herself into him, sobbing and pressing her cheek against the warm wall of his chest. His arms came around her, and he made shushing noises.
“Easy now, don’t come apart on me. Tell me what happened.”
She pulled away, embarrassed at her uncharacteristic collapse, and wiped her eyes. “I was going to t-take some things to Goodwill, and when I opened the t-trunk, there she was.”
He frowned and put his hand under her chin. “What happened to your face?”
She touched her cheek—she’d forgotten about her black eye. “I fell in the stairwell last night when I left the office.” She held up her left arm. “Sprained my wrist, too.”
“Pretty wicked scratch.”
“M-my cat did that.”
He didn’t seem to be in a hurry to move his hand, and he smoothed her hair back on the side of her bruise. “You’re accident prone.”
“Thank you for coming.”
He finally dropped his hand. “You’re welcome.”
She bit her tongue and glanced toward her car. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Belinda.” His voice held the timbre of a warning. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, but you need to be strong. When the homicide detectives get here, they’re going to have plenty of questions for you.”
She sniffed and nodded. “Will you stay?”
He searched her eyes for a few seconds, then said, “I’m not going anywhere. Meanwhile, why don’t you wait inside and let me take a look at your car.”
“I’d rather be…here.”
“All right, but give me some room.”
Wade went to the trunk of his own car and removed a few items—namely, stakes and crime scene tape—which he used to block off her yard. The kids across the street had stopped jumping on their trampoline and were now staring, along with their mother. Wade made another trip, removed a tarp and a camera, then snapped on plastic gloves.
“Is the latch still broken?” he asked, stepping over the taped barrier he’d erected.
She nodded and inched closer, hugging herself.
He snapped several photos of the car and the surrounding area, including the box of items bound for Goodwill she’d abandoned on the driveway. Then he carefully lifted the trunk lid. From her vantage point, she could see Margo’s gray face and dark hair. A shiver started at her neck and slid over her entire body.
Wade peered into the trunk but didn’t touch anything, proceeding to take several pictures from different angles. Then he unfolded the tarp and draped it over the opening. He returned the camera to the cruiser, then withdrew a clipboard and walked her way, his expression grave. “I’ll start a report. How do you know the deceased?” He was all business now.
The deceased. “Margo is—was—my boss at Archer.”
“You didn’t know her in any other capacity—as a friend?”
She shook her head.
“How long have you known her?”
“Almost three months.”
“When was the last time you saw her alive?”
“Last night, I went by her office to discuss a work issue before—” Belinda stopped and collected herself. “Margo was leaving for vacation.”
“What time were you in her office?”
“Around six o’clock, I believe.”
“Do you know where she was planning to go on vacation?”
“Hawaii. For two weeks.”
“Alone?”
“I don’t know.” The comments the girls had made about Margo flitting to exotic places with her “tadpoles” came to mind, but she didn’t want to speculate.
“How long were you in her office?”
She squinted, trying to recall. “Ten minutes maybe.”
“Did you argue?”
Belinda hesitated. “No.”
He glanced up, then down again. “Was she acting strange? Upset?”
“No, just trying to get out of the office. Said she still had to pack for her trip.”
“Did you leave together?”
“No. Her phone rang, so I went on.”
“Do you know who called?”
“No.” Belinda bit into her lip. “But I do remember it was an internal call—I could tell by the ring.”
“Did you see anyone else in the area?”
“I can’t say for sure, but I left by the back stairwell, and I didn’t see anyone.”
“That’s when you fell?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone, um, see you fall?”
When he didn’t look up, a finger of fear nudged her spine. “No. I was alone.”
“And did you go straight to your car?”
“No. I stopped by the lounge on the first floor to clean up—my jacket was torn, and my hand was bleeding.”
“Then you went to your car?”
“No.” She pressed her lips together. “This is where things get complicated.”
He looked up. “Complicated?”
She was prevented from answering by the arrival of two other cars, both unmarked, one with a red light flashing.
“Belinda,” Wade said. “Are you sure you don’t want to call an attorney?”
“I’m sure.” Then her mouth went slack. “You don’t think I had anything to do with this?”
He pursed his mouth and glanced toward the grim-faced entourage. “No, I don’t. But it’s not me you’ll have to convince.”
Chapter 21
Car doors opened. A man and a woman emerged from the first vehicle, their badges gleaming in the sun. A lone man climbed out of the second vehicle, armed with a camera and a medical bag. They all approached, staring at the tarp-covered trunk.
“How y
ou doing, Lieutenant?” the woman asked, her teeth white against her mahogany skin. She was willowy, wearing chinos and a navy sport coat.
“I’m good, Salyers,” Wade said. “Belinda Hennessey, this is Detective Salyers and Detective Truett.”
Truett was a stocky fellow with a silvery crew cut and a paunch. “Hiya. This is Dr. Janney from the medical examiner’s office.”
Belinda swallowed hard and nodded a greeting.
“The victim’s name is Margo Campbell,” Wade offered. “Ms. Hennessey found the body.”
Truett grunted. “Is this your car, Ms. Hennessey?”
“Yes.”
“Did you move the body or touch anything?”
“No, nothing. I was so frightened, I slammed the lid back down.”
“And can you tell us how this woman came to be in the trunk of your car?”
Belinda expelled a pent-up breath. “No, I can’t.”
“You took the call, Alexander?” Truett asked.
“Yes, sir. I’m acquainted with Ms. Hennessey.”
The man’s eyebrows climbed. “Oh?”
“We were involved in a fender bender earlier this week.” He indicated her broken headlight and dented side panel.
“How many tickets did you write her, Lieutenant?”
Wade had the good grace to squirm. “Um, three, sir.”
“What happened to you taking the detective’s exam?” Truett asked, pulling gloves from his pocket and rolling them onto his fat hands.
Belinda watched as Wade’s color heightened. “The exam isn’t going anywhere.”
“Neither are you until you take it,” Truett said. The man clapped his gloved hands. “Now, let’s see what we got here.” He removed the tarp and winced. The M.E. set down his bag and started snapping photographs.
“The trunk was closed when I arrived,” Wade said. “But I shot pictures before I opened it. The latch is broken,” he said, pointing to the mechanism. “That happened during our collision—I remember checking myself.”
“Didn’t know you were a mechanic,” Truett muttered.
“I had to access the trunk, sir, to change Ms. Hennessey’s tire.”
Kill the Competition Page 20
