"I said, did you get the note?"
She fought the urge to snap the phone closed, to throw it as far as she could. Considering she'd always thrown like a girl, chances were she couldn't get it past the mailbox anyway.
"Yes, I did," she said past her throat, which was threatening to close. Keep him talking, she told herself. See if you recognize his voice. "You must know that Steve's dead."
"Yeah, so?"
White noise on the line hummed in the silence. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, sending a sharp pain to her temples. "Did you kill him? He was murdered, you know. P-poisoned."
A few seconds of silence passed, then he said, "Don't talk, just listen. Put five hundred cash in small bills in an envelope and leave it in Chasen's mailbox tomorrow morning before seven o'clock. If you do, no one has to know about your folder."
She wet her lips. "And if I don't?"
"Then your story will be on the front page of the Post."
Fear lodged in her throat.
"I'll be watching you make the drop," the man rasped, his voice almost unintelligible, "so don't go telling your boyfriend Chief Riley about this phone call."
The call was disconnected abruptly. Gloria gripped the tiny handset with slippery hands, taking deep breaths to ward off a Meniere's attack. She looked around, wondering if she was being watched. Was the man on the other end of the line the reporter Daniel Guess? Or someone even more dangerous?
Chapter 16
With the blackmailer's voice ringing in her head, Gloria drove toward the bank, her nerves jumping. She hadn't decided exactly what to do, but it seemed to make sense to have the money on hand at 7:00 a.m. tomorrow morning... just in case.
The Bank of Mojo was located in a former Dairy Queen and still boasted red tiled roof and dormers. It was the kind of quirky detail that Mojo residents seemed to thrive on, and, she had to admit, the conversion was appealing in a retro sort of way—although it had been a little off-putting to sit on a red swivel stool at a counter when she had opened an account.
She pulled up to the drive-through speaker, noting someone had done an admirable job of covering the menu of Blizzards and ice cream cakes with certificate of deposit rates of return and the offer of free coupons to the Forever Sun Tanning Salon for opening an IRA.
"May I help you?" a woman's voice blasted into the air.
A little perplexed at this part of the transaction—except for the fact that it added to the whole Dairy-Queen-turned-financial-institution experience—Gloria looked into the camera and said, "I have a new account, but I haven't received a debit card and I'd like to make a withdrawal."
"Okay. You want fries with that?"
Gloria blinked.
"Ha! Just kidding. I'll need to see identification. Pull around."
She did as she was told. Withdrawing her wallet when she pulled up to the second window, she was surprised to see Brianna from the doctor's office.
"Hi, Gloria!" the plump girl said, leaning out and flashing a huge, lip-lined smile. "I thought that was you." Her eyelids sparkled, and her dark hair fanned out around a thick headband like a turkey's tail.
"Hi, Brianna. Are you no longer working for Dr. Whiting?"
"Oh, yeah, but the office is closed on Wednesdays, so I work here one day a week to get free checking."
"Ah. Here's a counter check and my driver's license," Gloria said, handing them over.
"Wow, five hundred smackers—are you in some kind of trouble?"
Gloria started. "No. Why would you ask that?"
"It was, like, a joke," Brianna said, deadpan.
"Oh." Gloria gave herself a mental shake. "Could you make that small bills please?"
"Wow, what's up with everyone withdrawing hunks of cash and asking for small bills? First Guy Bishop, and now you." The brunette shook her head as she turned away.
Gloria's mind raced. Was Guy still being blackmailed too? She pulled her hand over her mouth, thinking how dangerous it was for someone with Brianna's loose lips to know the medical and financial matters of everyone in town. Gloria shook her head—what had she been thinking when she'd moved here?
That somehow this quaint little town and its people would right the tilt of her world?
Instead she was sitting in the drive-through of the Dairy Queen Bank & Trust withdrawing money to pay an anonymous blackmailer who might have murdered Steve Chasen, and keeping it all a tidy secret from her long-lost boyfriend who had no idea they had a history together.
She thought her head might explode.
Brianna reappeared. "Twenties okay?"
Gloria nodded and watched as the woman counted out the bills and stuffed them in an envelope with Gloria's driver's license.
"Here you go," Brianna said cheerfully as she handed the bulky packet through the window. "Are you about ready for that makeover?"
"Er, maybe later," Gloria hedged.
"I was thinking I could come by the office and give you and Diane Davidson both one," the young woman barreled on. "That woman is so plain, she's transparent. It's like she doesn't want to be seen."
Gloria thought about the persecution that Diane had experienced and decided that Brianna's assessment wasn't too far off the mark. Diane didn't seem to go out of her way to draw attention to herself.
Brianna's eyes rounded. "Omigod, I almost forgot the big news—did you hear that Steve Chasen was poisoned?"
"Yes. Unfortunately, I heard."
"Who do you think did it?"
Gloria wet her lips. "I was under the impression it was random product tampering."
Brianna scoffed. "My money is on that Marie Gaston, with the freaky blue hair."
Gloria looked up sharply. "Marie? Why on earth would she poison Steve Chasen?"
Brianna shrugged. "I'm just saying." A buzz sounded, and she glanced at a monitor. "Gotta go—there's Eddie Grossman to cover his child support check that bounced."
Gloria said good-bye and stuffed the envelope into her purse. She drove the short distance to the office like an automaton, pondering Brianna's comment about Marie Gaston poisoning Steve Chasen. Was it just more of Brianna's idle gossip, or did she know something?
The photograph of Marie in Steve's desk drawer popped into Gloria's mind. Had the two of them been involved at some point? Had things perhaps gone sour on Marie's end? And if so, had Steve continued to pursue her... spy on her? Did Guy Bishop know—is that why he and Marie had argued? Or did Marie know about Steve blackmailing Guy? Did she suspect foul play?
Gloria forced herself to breathe deeply as she parked and alighted from her car. Speculating the voodoo doll had something to do with Steve's death was simply borrowing trouble. As she'd told Brianna, Steve's death might have been a tragic, random act.
Or just plain bad luck. After all, the man did own a black cat.
Cringing at her crudely painted "Lawyer Here" door, she turned the knob and walked into the office, surprised to see a stout, middle-aged man standing with Diane in front of the broken copier. Next to them, Henry snuffled at the man's pant leg as if he was on the trail of something important.
Gloria frowned at the dog.
"Tam's sent John here to service the copier," Diane said, grabbing Henry's collar and hauling him toward the bathroom. Henry resisted, sitting down and emitting sharp, hoarse barks. "John, this is Gloria Dalton—this is her law practice."
The bulldog of a man grunted a greeting, wiping his hands on a cloth as he looked her up and down.
Gloria said hello, then gestured to the copier. "Can you fix it?"
He sucked at the toothpick in his mouth. "Not on this visit. I have to order a part. Will take a couple of days."
She winced. "How much will it cost?"
"It's still under warranty," he said, gathering up his tool case. "You're in luck."
Luck? Gloria smiled at his phrasing in the context of everything that was happening. Still, at this point, she'd take what she could get.
"I'll be back now that I know what I need," the
man said, then left unceremoniously.
Diane returned, trying her best to ignore the pitiful howling and the frantic scratching from the bathroom, where she'd put Henry. She squinted at Gloria. "Are you feeling okay? You look pale."
"I have bad news—Steve Chasen was poisoned."
"Poisoned?" the woman asked, her hand to her mouth. "How?"
"The ME thinks it was a bar of fund-raising candy he ate."
"Oh, my dear Lord."
Gloria hid her surprise at the woman's outburst—apparently Diane's Wiccan religion had not overridden the habit of muttering distinctly Southern (and Christian) oaths. "The police are going all over town, gathering up the candy bars in case there are more tainted ones out there. There was half a boxful on this desk before the accident. Did you find any when you were cleaning up?"
Diane shook her head. "No. Oh, this is terrible—and more bad press for Mojo."
From the bathroom, Henry began to bay as if his doggie heart was broken. Gloria massaged at the headache she'd been fending off for most of the day.
Diane looked sheepish. "Sorry—he can't stand being alone."
Gloria pursed her mouth. "Most males are like that."
Except for Zane... he seemed to be a confirmed loner, detached and distant. Did his life choices have anything to do with her disappearance when they were teenagers? Had it shaken him? Made him less likely to trust people?
Or was it simply wishful thinking she'd meant that much to him?
"Maybe you should sit down," Diane offered. "You don't look well."
Gloria sighed. "Actually I think I'll call it a day. Will you lock up?"
"Absolutely. Feel better, okay?"
The warm sincerity in the woman's voice stopped Gloria. Diane seemed to be reaching out to her, and while the urge to reciprocate was strong, Gloria couldn't help the suspicion that tickled her neck at the woman's colorless eyes and quiet demeanor. If she responded to Diane, the woman would expect something from her in return. Friendship? Help with her case against the school board? Both things that she probably wouldn't be around long enough to fulfill. So instead of investing in one more relationship that she'd have to abandon, she simply gave the woman a professional nod and left.
Her purse, she noted as she walked to her car, was getting heavier and heavier—first with the weight of her .38 automatic, and now with the bulk of the blackmail money.
Or was that the weight of guilt dragging down her shoulders?
Clouds had gathered, low and brownish-gray, thick with the promise of rain to further dampen the spirits of the residents of Mojo. She shivered as she scanned the ominous sky, struck by a foreboding that the worst was yet to come. All signs seemed to be telling her to cut her losses (financial and emotional) and get out of town.
Her nerves were strung tight as she drove home, her hands gripping the wheel at the two-and-ten-o'clock position. She drove so slowly an elderly woman driving an aged Lincoln behind her leaned on the horn. Just as she approached Goddard's Funeral Chapel, the sky opened and unleashed a torrent of rain that hammered the hood and roof of her car. The noise alone splintered her head, but the feeling of isolation and gloom was so intense that she flipped on the radio for the comfort of knowing that she wasn't the only person in the world.
Static blasted into the car until she found a station. Unfortunately, the topic of conversation appeared to be Mojo and its poisonous candy bars.
"...the candy bars were being sold to raise money for the families of the victims of the Mojo Instruments of Death and Voodoo Museum, and now comes word that the candy itself may have led to another death in Mojo. Earlier we spoke with Chief Zane Riley of the Mojo police department about this tragic incident."
Gloria pulled into the driveway and waited for the garage door to raise while Zane's voice sounded over the speaker.
"The medical examiner's office in New Orleans has informed me the cause of death of Steven Chasen is cyanide poisoning, most likely laced in a chocolate bar the man had consumed shortly before wrecking his car."
His baritone voice was so authoritative, so... safe. She pulled into the garage, and the sound of the rain battering her ear was replaced with the dull thud of the rain pounding the garage roof.
"In the event this isn't an isolated incident," he continued, "we're taking the precaution of recalling the candy. If you purchased any of the fund-raising candy, place it in a plastic bag and call 911 so that it can be retrieved. We will get to the bottom of this."
Gloria's heart expanded in her chest. Zane sounded as if he considered injury to a Mojo resident a personal affront.
"Chief," a reporter's voice asked, "does this have any connection to the voodoo culture that has made Mojo so infamous?"
"No, it does not," Zane bit out. "That's all."
"That was Chief Zane Riley of the Mojo Police Department," the announcer said, "as we cover the latest bizarre development coming out of the little town where people go in, but don't always come out alive."
She frowned and shut off the engine. Leave it to her to seek out the Bermuda Triangle of the South.
Steve Chasen was dead, and she had evidence that people might have wanted him dead. And she was being blackmailed by his partner, who, despite his denial on the phone, also might have been involved in Steve's death. Oh, and there was a chance that Bernard Riaz was looking for her and her mother.
And she had no idea where her mother was, or if she was dead or alive.
Gloria rested her forehead on the steering wheel. What should she do about the five hundred dollars in her purse—ask for the marshal's help? Ask for Zane's help? Or try to quiet the blackmailer by giving in to his demands? Compared to picking up her life and relocating, five hundred dollars was a relatively small price to pay. Maybe the blackmailer would be satisfied and she wouldn't have to leave town.
Wouldn't have to leave Zane.
She sat until the dome light in her car timed out and dimmed. The semidarkness spurred her into action; she hated the dark and had always dreamed of living in a home that was mostly glass to let in as much sunlight as possible... but then windows presented another kind of security threat. And windows with bars over them were less appealing.
She opened the car door and climbed out, shimmying around stacks of boxes by the light of the bare bulb overhead.
She practically fell into the laundry room in her haste to get inside, and she scanned each room as she moved through the house. The blackmailer must know where she lived—had her security measures kept him out?
She went from room to room, checking the locks on windows and doors until she was satisfied everything was secure. Reasoning that the blackmailer wanted money, not to harm her, she tried to relax. She needed a clear head to face the decisions before her. A stress-induced Meniere's attack would only make matters worse.
The rain landed as hard and fast as it could fall out of the sky, insulating the little house in a wet cocoon. She fixed herself a mug of tea and turned the television in her bedroom to a soft music station. Then she retreated to the bathroom and stared at her reflection, the choreographed look that she had groomed over the years going against nature. She had thinned and arched her eyebrows to a fine point, had had a small mole on her cheek removed. Zane had always called it a beauty mark, but the marshals had warned her that it was too distinctive, as her pale curtain of hair had been, and her penchant for bright-colored clothing.
Over the years she had made herself plainer and plainer to blend into the background.
It was no wonder that Zane didn't recognize her—she didn't recognize herself.
Gloria sighed. It was times like this she missed her pragmatic mother most. In a crisis, real or imagined, her mother would allow her a few minutes to cry, then she would wipe her tears and say, "Put it behind you, sweetie. Life marches on."
"Life marches on," Gloria murmured, accepting with a tight chest that she couldn't undo the past and couldn't involve Zane in her future without putting him in danger and subjecting
him to having his life uprooted again and again.
Assuming he'd even want to be a part of her future.
She groaned and shoved her hands into her hair, then leaned forward to stare at her pale roots. She couldn't solve her big problems tonight, but she could solve a little one.
From the drugstore bag she withdrew the box of hair color. In between sips of tea, she followed the directions for a root touch-up. With a towel around her shoulders, she applied the color and noted the time on her digital clock. Then Zane's green scarf, which was still lying on her nightstand, caught her eye, and she gave in to the pull of it.
Pulling its softness against her cheek, she knew how a child felt about the comfort of a favorite blanket. Somehow the velvety feel of the scarf was a substitute for Zane's touch and reminded her of all the warmth they had generated. And the fact that he'd left it in her bedroom after a makeout session made her warm in long-neglected places.
They used to lie on her bed, with textbooks open to whatever pages they were supposed to be studying, both keenly aware of the heat vibrating between their bodies. Invariably their hands or their hips would touch, and they would turn to lie face-to-face, hands and legs twining, their studies forgotten.
He would swirl his tongue around the shell of her ear and sigh as he slipped his hand under the hem of her shirt, splaying his warm fingers over her back. She would press closer to him until her tingling breasts met his wall of chest muscle, until his erection branded her thigh.
Slowly, slowly they would tease each other and undress as much as they dared. She had felt safe with Zane, knowing no matter how high their lust ran, he wouldn't push her to have sex. When they had reached a fever pitch, they would stroke each other to climax and cling to each other, pulsing and sated. Before Zane, she hadn't known such physical bliss was possible. After Zane, she had learned what they'd shared was rare.
"Zane," she murmured, loving the feel of his name on her tongue, then closing her eyes against the intense surge of desire to be with him, to make love with him, to finish what they'd started so many years ago.
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