Ladies' Night

by Andrews, Mary Kay

  She pointed to a house at the end of the street. “That’s it. That’s her place.”

  “What … what are you planning to do?” Grace checked the rearview mirror. No sign of the truck.

  “I’m just going to talk to her, that’s all,” Ashleigh said, her voice singsongy. “Make her see that she needs to step away.”

  But as they were talking, they saw a silver Audi back swiftly down the driveway. They were three houses away. As soon as the Audi was on the street, it accelerated so quickly that the tires screeched on the pavement.

  “That’s her!” Ashleigh said. She sped up, but the Audi zipped through the next intersection without slowing down.

  “She knows what my car looks like,” Ashleigh muttered. She accelerated, closing the gap between the two cars.

  The Audi made two quick turns, and Ashleigh stayed close, flying through stop signs. The Audi managed to stay two car lengths ahead, and never slowed down before making a left.

  They were back on Manatee again, heading west. The Audi sped through the thinning traffic, darting in and out of lanes, but Ashleigh gripped the steering wheel and kept on the car’s tail. They were doing sixty miles an hour now, somehow managing to make all the green lights. Grace kept looking in the rearview mirror, and when she glimpsed the red truck again, she began daring to hope. Wyatt was there, not far behind. He would think of some way to stop this crazy race.

  The Audi sped up again, and Ashleigh did the same. They were only a car length behind now, and the BMW’s speedometer was inching over seventy miles per hour.

  The GULF BEACHES sign flashed by. “She’s headed for Boyce’s beach house on Anna Maria,” Ashleigh said. “Like he can hide her. Dumb bitch.”

  Grace saw the fringe of Australian pines, white sands, and the glint of sunlight on the sparkling water of Palma Sola Bay. The Audi was still a car length ahead, but Ashleigh stomped on the accelerator, and the speedometer needle jumped. They were doing eighty-five now. The Audi wove in and out of traffic, and the BMW stayed right with it. They flew over the first causeway, and Grace held her breath, terrified Ashleigh might somehow send them both flying over the concrete bridge embankment and into the waters below. Her fears eased momentarily when they were over the bridge and into another stretch of causeway, lined on both sides by sandy beaches and the shallow waters of the bay, but not for long.

  A lumbering dump truck loomed ahead of them in the right-hand lane, forcing the Audi to slow considerably. Ashleigh veered into the left lane and passed the dump truck. She slowed, waiting for the truck to pass on the right, and laughed triumphantly when she came alongside the Audi.

  Grace glimpsed the driver as they pulled alongside the Audi—a long curtain of dark hair, and when the woman looked over and saw who was beside her, her face mirrored the look of shock and horror in Grace’s own face.

  “Gotcha!” Ashleigh screamed. She jerked the BMW’s steering wheel hard to the right, but just as she did so, Grace heard the squeal of the Audi’s brakes. The BMW veered off the road.

  Grace had the sensation of time slowing. She heard screams—her own, Ashleigh’s? She’d never be sure. She was aware of the car slamming through an expanse of corrugated metal fencing, of the windshield shattering, of the splintering of wood on metal as they glanced off a pine tree, and, moments later, of the rush of water.

  And then it was quiet.

  67

  Wyatt pushed the old truck’s accelerator all the way to the floor once he heard the one-sided conversation on Grace’s call. He shuddered at the sound of Ashleigh’s slurred speech. She was drunk, deranged, out of control. And Grace was strapped into the passenger seat right beside her, helpless.

  As he closed the gap between the racing cars and his own, he saw Ashleigh’s frenzied pursuit of the silver Audi, guessing the driver was Suchita, Ashleigh’s romantic rival. He didn’t have a clear idea of what he’d do if and when he caught up to the women, but he knew he would have to do something. He wondered, fleetingly, if Ashleigh had a gun. The only gun Wyatt owned was Nelson’s old service pistol—but it was kept under lock and key in the file cabinet in the office. And what if he did have the gun? How would he use it? Shoot out the tires of a moving vehicle? Ridiculous.

  A dozen awful scenarios flashed through his mind as he struggled to keep pace.

  He wondered if the same scenarios occurred to Grace. Her voice sounded so calm, so cool on the other end of the phone. “Keep trying, Grace,” he murmured.

  They crossed the first bay bridge, and he managed to catch up to within two car lengths when a lumbering old dump truck forced everybody to slow down.

  But in the blink of an eye, everything changed. He saw the BMW switch lanes, saw it pull alongside the Audi, and then deliberately try and sideswipe the other car.

  The Audi’s driver slammed on the brakes, and seconds later, to his horror, he saw the BMW veer off the road and plow through the metal fencing. He saw the cloud of sand spewed by the spinning tires, heard the crunch of metal on metal, and, worst of all, heard the hair-raising chorus of screams from inside the BMW.

  And then nothing, except the pounding of his own blood in his ears, as he saw the car skimming into the jade green waters of Palma Sola Bay.

  * * *

  Wyatt was out of the truck almost before it stopped, with the only tool he had at hand, the heavy Maglite flashlight he kept under the front seat. He ran through the jagged opening in the fencing left by the BMW and waded into the warm, shallow water. The BMW was immersed up to its hood ornament. He cursed himself for not removing the thick-soled leather work boots that made his trek to the car take what seemed like hours.

  Finally, he reached the car. The windshield was shattered, and water was seeping in. He could see that the air bags had deployed and were already deflated. He splashed over to the passenger side, and his heart leapt when he saw Grace’s brown hair. He yanked furiously at the door, until he remembered that Ashleigh had locked it.

  “Grace!” he shouted. “Grace. Are you all right?” She turned her head slightly to the right, and he could see a thin trickle of blood oozing down her face.

  “Turn your head away,” he shouted, and began hammering at the center of the window with the butt of the flashlight. He slammed it against the glass again and again, until finally the window seemed to crinkle into a million pieces and fall away.

  “Give me your arms,” he told her, but she stared at him, dazed or in shock; he wasn’t quite sure. “Your arms!” he repeated. “I’m going to pull you out. Come on, Grace. I need to get you out of this water.”

  “I can’t,” she said, her voice weak. Wyatt grabbed her by the shoulder. “Come on, honey. You can do this.”

  She shook her head violently, fumbling with something in her lap. Wyatt stuck his head in the window and saw that her seat belt was still fastened and that water had reached her knees. He leaned in until his torso was in the car and, with shaking fingers, managed to unbuckle it.

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay. You’re good now. Let’s go, Gracie. Let’s get you out.”

  Finally, she nodded, turned, and knelt on the seat, reaching her arms for him. He wrapped his own arms under hers. “Put your arms around my neck,” he urged. He tugged while she wriggled, and, finally, she came free of the car, collapsing against him in the waist-deep water.

  Wyatt stood there for a moment, holding her tightly against his chest, unwilling to let her go. “Are you hurt?” he asked. “Your head, legs, arms, anything?”

  “I’m okay,” she said shakily. And then, unbelievably, she laughed a little, whispering in his ear. “But I think maybe I peed my pants.” He laughed, too, then. “Don’t tell anybody, but I might have peed mine, too. Just a little, when I saw the car go airborne.”

  “Ashleigh,” she said urgently. “Get Ashleigh out.”

  “I need to get you to the shore,” he said, starting for the beach, but she pulled away.

  “No. I can walk by myself. Get Ashleigh. Please, Wyatt.”


  He nodded grimly and turned back toward the BMW.

  Ashleigh was slumped over in the driver’s seat. He broke the window out with his flashlight, calling her name. “Ashleigh? Ashleigh? Talk to me. Come on, Ashleigh. It’s Wyatt. Talk to me.”

  He reached in and touched the base of her neck. She was warm, and he could feel a pulse, but her breathing was shallow. Water was up to her lap and streaming in through the windshield and the passenger window. He wriggled halfway through the window and saw that, unlike Grace, Ashleigh hadn’t fastened her seat belt. Which shouldn’t have come as a surprise. He grasped the unmoving woman under the arms, in the same way he had grabbed Grace, but she was a dead weight. He backed out a little, trying for the door handle, already knowing it wouldn’t open.

  The water was still rising. It was chest-high. He grabbed Ashleigh again and tugged, inching her body in an agonizingly slow process. At some point, he was aware of the sound of sirens, of voices coming from the beach.

  Finally, a rough arm grasped his. “We got this, buddy.”

  He turned and saw a pair of uniformed paramedics. “She’s breathing, but she’s unconscious.”

  “Thanks,” one of them said. “You can step away now.”

  * * *

  He found Grace sitting on the tailgate of the ambulance, wrapped in a blanket. A Band-Aid had been applied to the cut over her eyebrow. Sitting beside her, also wrapped in a blanket, despite the August heat, was a stunning brunette, who was shaking and crying uncontrollably.

  It was Suchita, the driver of the Audi.

  A female EMT had fastened a blood-pressure cuff to Suchita’s upper arm. “You’re all right,” the woman said in a soothing voice. “Your blood pressure’s a little high, but not off the charts. And your baby should be fine, too. But we can transport you to the hospital, if you’d like to get checked out.”

  “No!” Suchita said. “I want to wait for my fiancé. Boyce is on the way. He should be here soon. He’s a doctor; he’ll take care of me.”

  Wyatt nodded in Grace’s direction, catching the EMT’s eye. “Is she all right? Nothing broken?”

  “She’s good,” the EMT said. “You’re gonna want to watch her overnight, make sure she’s not concussed, but otherwise the cut over her eye is the only thing. She was damned lucky.”

  Suchita turned and stared at Grace. “You’re her friend? Why? Why did you let her come after me? She tried to kill me. She wanted to kill me and my baby.”

  “I didn’t,” Grace said, her voice a whisper. “I tried to stop her. But she’d been drinking…”

  “She’s crazy,” Suchita said flatly. “I told Boyce she was dangerous. After she painted my house? I wouldn’t stay there again. Not by myself. But she wouldn’t leave me alone. She followed me, watched us if we went out together. And then she got my phone number, and she started leaving me messages. I told Boyce. I played him the voice mail messages she’s been leaving me. He thought she was just trying to intimidate me. He said she wasn’t dangerous.” She shivered. “I only went home today to pick up my mail. And that’s when she showed up.”

  Grace looked up at Wyatt. “Is Ashleigh…?”

  “She’s breathing, but she’s unconscious,” Wyatt said. “She wasn’t wearing her seat belt. I think maybe she hit her head.”

  “It all happened so fast,” Grace said. “And I was so scared. I kept looking back, hoping you were there.”

  “I got there as quick as I could,” Wyatt said. “But that damned SUV had the street blocked, and then, once she got out on Manatee and she was speeding, my old truck couldn’t keep up. The whole thing starts to shimmy and rattle after I hit sixty.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Grace said, clutching his hand. “You got here. You got me out of the car. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

  “I’m here, and I’m staying,” Wyatt said, his voice choking with emotion. He looked over at the EMT. “Okay if I take her home now?”

  Just then, a short, balding, middle-aged man came rushing up to the ambulance. Wyatt stepped back, but the EMT put out a hand to stop him from coming any closer.

  “I’m a physician,” he said, puffing out his chest. “Dr. Hartounian. This is my fiancée. Have you checked her vital signs? Did she tell you she’s five months pregnant?”

  “She checked out perfect,” the EMT said. “Not a scratch on her. Physically, anyway.” And she stepped aside.

  “Suchita? My God! Are you all right?” Hartounian gestured toward the pair of EMTs who were bundling a stretcher into the second ambulance. “Is that really Ashleigh?”

  “I’m … I’m…” Suchita’s voice trailed and broke off into sobs as she threw herself into Boyce Hartounian’s arms.

  “It’s okay, baby. I’m here. Boyce is here,” he crooned tenderly, rubbing her back and arms. She was two inches taller than he, but his arms were tanned and muscular. He glanced over at Grace and his eyes narrowed.

  “Who are you?” he asked, all business. “You’re Ashleigh’s friend? I just spoke to one of the police officers. They say the two of you had been drinking. What the hell were you thinking letting her get behind the wheel of a car? If anything happens to our child…”

  “My name is Grace Davenport,” Grace said, feeling her temper flare. “I wasn’t the one who was drinking. That was all Ashleigh. And I didn’t let her drive. In fact, I was trying to talk her into letting me take her home. She called me earlier, upset after your lunch with her…”

  Suchita looked up. “You took her to lunch? Without telling me?”

  Wyatt took Grace’s arm and gently steered her away from the ambulance. He meant to take her home, get her in some dry clothes, let the shock wear off. But two uniformed police officers stood beside his truck, waiting for answers.

  * * *

  An hour later, after giving her statement to the cops—and agreeing to a Breathalyzer test to prove she hadn’t been responsible for any of the half dozen empty wine-cooler bottles found in the BMW, Grace finally climbed into the front seat of Wyatt’s truck.

  He’d changed into the spare clothes he kept in a gym bag in the truck—his Manasota Maulers coaches’ shirt, shorts, and a pair of baseball cleats.

  “What do you think will happen to Ashleigh?” she asked, as Wyatt pulled slowly back onto the roadway.

  Wyatt shrugged. “I know you feel sorry for her, but at this point, I hope they throw the book at her. Ashleigh very nearly killed three people today—four if you count Suchita’s baby. She’ll be charged with drunk driving, for sure. And it sounds like if Boyce Hartounian has his way, I guess they could add attempted homicide, or whatever you call it.”

  Grace grimaced at the mention of Hartounian. “What a pompous jerk!”

  “He must have something the ladies love,” Wyatt observed. “To have two hotties like Ashleigh and Suchita fighting over him.”

  “What he has is a nice big bank account,” Grace countered. She closed her eyes and rested her head on the back of the seat. A moment later, she sat up again. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly seven,” Wyatt said. He closed his hand over hers. “Just rest, okay? I’m going to take you to the condo, let you get changed and showered. I called your mom, just to let her know what happened, so she won’t be worried. And I talked to Nelson, to let him know I won’t be coming home tonight. The EMTs told me you need to have somebody checking you through the night.”

  “No!” Grace said. “I mean, that’s sweet and all that you want to take care of me. But everybody’s meeting at the Sandbox tonight. Mitzi’s coming, too. They’re expecting me.”

  “Not a good idea,” Wyatt said. “Why don’t you just call your mom back and tell her to let everybody know you’re not coming?”

  “I can’t call anybody. Remember? My cell phone is still in what’s left of Ashleigh’s car. Anyway, I have to go, and you need to be there, too. This is important, Wyatt. If we’re going to file a complaint against Stackpole with the JQC, we need everybody to give Mitzi a statement. She’s
bringing women from Paula’s other groups, too. And there’s an outside chance Paula herself might show up.”

  “You think Paula’s going to turn against her boyfriend?” Wyatt scoffed. “Now I know you’ve got a head injury.”

  Grace proceeded to fill Wyatt in on the Honorable Cedric N. Stackpole’s not-so-honorable but very complicated love life.

  “I told Paula about the meeting tonight, about what we’re doing,” Grace said. “She’s really conflicted. But I think maybe she’s tired of being victimized by him. I think there’s an outside chance she’ll show up and help us.”

  “Doubtful,” Wyatt said, unconvinced.

  “I don’t care. Let’s go straight to the Sandbox. I can shower and change there.” She flashed a smile. “Please? I need you on my team.”

  He shrugged. “Team Grace? Okay. Sign me up.”

  68

  Rochelle was carrying a tray of drinks and food to a table of softball players at the back of the room when her bedraggled daughter came scuttling through the side door of the Sandbox, trying not to be noticed.

  She dropped the tray on the table, sloshing beer on the shortstop’s cheeseburger and sending the catcher’s order of hot wings sailing off the plate and into the second baseman’s lap.

  “Sorry.” Rochelle tossed a dry bar towel to the coach, who was, thankfully, a regular.

  “Jesus H!” she exclaimed, hurrying over to Grace’s side. She hugged her daughter fiercely. “You look awful! Are you sure you don’t need to go to the emergency room?”

  “I look worse than I feel,” Grace said. “I’ll be fine after I get a shower.” She looked over her mother’s shoulder at the table in the corner, where a dozen women chattered away. “Is everybody here?”

  “Everybody except you two—and Ashleigh. If that girl’s not dead already, I’ll kill her myself,” Rochelle said.