“Do him—do him!”
Patty charged forward and scooped up a knife from the floor. I opened my eyes and saw the shiny blade arc—shut them, and sensed rather than saw the knife come crashing down.
Ray screamed, letting go as another gush of scarlet spattered my cheek.
The heel of Patty’s palm slammed against my throat.
“Leave. My. Brother. Alone!”
I squirmed away. The knife plunged into Ray—again and again. His screams changed to a sickening gurgle.
Patty’s mad screeching cut the air.
His arms and chest sodden with blood, Ray pitched back—disappearing out the shattered window.
Even with her prey gone, Patty’s arm came down like a pile driver, the wooden sill splintering under her gouging thrusts.
“Patty, stop!”
I threw myself at her—and caught her arm in mid-swing. Her stricken face crumpled and her legs wobbled. She buckled and I eased her to the floor. Prying the bloodied knife from her fingers, I tossed it aside. She curled into a fetal ball, weeping like an abandoned child.
Taking a couple of ragged breaths, I pulled myself over the gory sill. Amid the remains of a broken chair and chunks of glass, a blood-soaked Ray lay in a heap on the winter-faded grass, his neck twisted at an impossible angle, sightless eyes staring at the gray cloudy sky.
Just like Marty Concillio.
Something fluttered at the edge of my vision. Brenda’s bloodied nightgown. She hung from the gutter, feet dangling.
Richard hovered beneath her. “I’ve got you! It’s okay, I’ll catch you,” he coaxed.
She lost her grip.
He caught her, momentum sending them into a tangle of arms and legs. Then she was in his arms, whimpering, her face buried against his chest.
Maggie rounded the corner, Richard’s cell phone from the Lincoln clutched to her ear. “My God! My God!” she cried, taking in the carnage.
I slid down, turning so I faced into the room. Wetness—more blood—soaked into my jeans. It was everywhere. The place looked and reeked like a slaughterhouse.
I sat there, trembling from adrenaline in the god-awful quiet. Not silence, thanks to Patty’s sniffles. What had been a killing machine only a minute earlier was now a huddled, child-like form on the floor. I reached for her, brushed the hair from her face, smearing Ray’s blood on her forehead.
Patty’s haunted, watery eyes met mine. “Oh Lord,” she breathed. “What have I done?”
“You saved Brenda. And me.” I gathered her in a tentative embrace. Her whole body quivered as the tears started once again. I patted her heaving back. “It’s over, Patty. It’s all over.”
In the background, sirens wailed.
The cavalry—at last.
CHAPTER
24
The icy wind burned my cheeks. The gray sky, thick with clouds, waited, as though for some mystical signal to tell it to let down another crystalline blanket of snow. But the bleak day hadn’t kept me from accomplishing something I’d been meaning to do for weeks.
This was my second graveyard stop of the day, a repeat of only weeks before. Only now I was at a different section in Mt. Calvary Cemetery. It wasn’t exactly how I’d planned to spend Christmas Eve afternoon.
The dual headstone was polished pink marble.
ALPERT
John and Elizabeth
Joined in marriage
Separated by death
United for eternity
Underneath were the dates of their births, marriage, and deaths. Richard had chosen the words. I never knew he was such a romantic.
I didn’t protest when he’d asked my permission to move our mother’s casket to another grave site. I didn’t even care that the name on the tombstone was his, not mine. I was certain our mother would have approved.
I set up the metal easel, attached the bow-bedecked wreath of evergreen boughs and stood back. The seasonal colors gave the grave a festive air. Well, as festive as a grave can get. Maybe I’d come back in the spring, plant some begonias. My mother had liked the variety named after liquor: gin, brandy, whiskey and vodka—apropos for an alcoholic, I suppose.
Nice thoughts, I chided myself. If only things had been different.
If only John Alpert hadn’t died in a car crash.
If only my mother had been more mentally stable.
If only Chet had loved her—and me—just a little more.
If only . . . .
The wind gusted, bringing with it a scattering of dry leaves. I thought about the sister I really didn’t know. She’d saved my life—twice. It was a debt I didn’t know how to repay. But I had to try, if only for our father’s sake.
I’d seen her a couple of times since that awful day. Hollow-eyed and silent, she’d retreated into her own private hell, looking small and fragile. Forever changed by what she’d seen—and done.
She’d gone to stay with Ruby for a while, pending the grand jury’s decision. No charges, of course. I didn’t think there would be.
My gaze wandered to the left of the grave. I bent down to brush the snow from the flat buff-colored granite embedded in the ground. Only the year and a name were etched on the stone: Charles John Albert. Richard’s and Brenda’s son. They hadn't asked Maggie or me to attend the burial. It was something they’d wanted to do for themselves, and we’d respected their wishes.
I straightened, staring at the tiny grave. “I’m sorry, baby Charles. I’m so sorry.”
A silver Lincoln pulled up behind me. The engine died and Richard stepped out. “Looks like we had the same idea.”
I had to clear my throat before I could speak. “You know what they say about great minds.”
He opened the trunk, took out another wreath and easel. I moved mine to one side, making room for his.
He nodded toward the stone. “What do you think? I had it done at the same time as . . .” His gaze moved to the other granite stone. He didn’t elaborate.
“It’s a pretty place. It would’ve made her happy.”
“We should’ve done this years ago,” he said quietly. Somber-faced, he stared at the monument.
I wondered what else he was thinking. I was thinking how damned grateful I was he hadn’t joined his parents in eternity. He and Brenda. As it was, they’d lost a child.
I thought back to three weeks before, when I’d sat with Brenda for a while at the hospital. Bruised and bandaged, we were okay, but we had to bully Richard to go get his chin stitched.
The ever-unflattering fluorescent light made Brenda look haggard and traumatized. Could she ever go back to that house? What she needed was a shot of hope. Only I didn’t know how to approach the subject of the blue-eyed, dark-skinned child who’d stayed in the back of my thoughts since I’d visited Emily Farrell the day before.
So I reached for and took Brenda’s hand. She looked up at me, puzzled, and something tugged at my soul. Regret, I think. She would always be, after all, Richard’s wife.
Clearing my mind, I closed my eyes and thought about the little girl. Concentrated first on the red polka-dot dress, working up to the mop of unruly curls and finishing with the mesmerizing blue eyes, like those I’d come to know so well.
Brenda gasped, her hand convulsing around mine.
I opened my eyes. She stared at me with what looked like distress.
“Did you see?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “But . . . how?”
I shrugged. “I don't know.”
Her grateful smile was full of hope and promise for the future. She threw her arms around me, and I held on, savoring the rush of affection she felt for me. It would be enough. And I knew then she’d be okay, that she wouldn’t let this whole, terrible nightmare rule her life.
I don’t know if she told Richard. It wasn’t something I could talk to him about. And Brenda and I haven’t spoken of it since. But every now and then, she gives me a knowing smile.
“I know you've been torturing yourself over this, Jeff,”
Richard began, “but it wasn’t physical trauma that caused Brenda to lose our son. There were chromosomal aberrations.”
I frowned, unsure what he’d just said.
“There was something wrong with the baby. Something Brenda and I caused.” He let out a shuddering breath. “He would have died anyway.”
I wasn't sure how to react. Was he just trying to spare my feelings?
I studied his face. There was acceptance in his expression.
“Sometimes,” he continued, “these things just happen.”
Richard cleared his throat and shrugged deeper into his topcoat. “Damn cold,” he said.
“Cold as the grave?” I asked.
His smile was pained. “I got the results of my last blood test this morning.”
I held my breath.
“Negative. Looks like I can get on with my life.”
Relief flooded through me. It was the best Christmas gift I’d ever received. Now we could all get on with our lives. Well, mostly. “Congratulations,” I managed.
He smiled and glanced at his watch. “I’d better get going. I still have a few more errands to run and gifts to wrap.”
“Me, too.” I said, thinking of the five little red, polka-dot dresses with white pinafores that Maggie and I had bought, ranging from newborn to size six. But first I had to deliver belated Hanukkah gifts—the last photos of my father —to Patty and Ruby.
Richard slapped me on the back. “See you at home, kid.”
Yeah. Home.
I watched the Town Car head down the narrow ribbon of asphalt. Huddled in my jacket, I turned back to the grave.
“Merry Christmas, Ma.”
~About the Author ~
A native of Rochester, NY, L.L. Bartlett honed her characterization and plotting skills as a frequent writer for romance magazines and was a finalist in the St. Martin’s/Malice Domestic contest.
In addition to the Jeff Resnick Mysteries, Bartlett also writes the New York Times Bestselling and Agatha-nominated Booktown Mystery series under the name of Lorna Barrett. Bookplate Special, the third book in the series, was nominated for an Agatha Award for best novel of 2009.
Bartlett’s Victoria Square Mystery series will debut in February of 2011.
Visit her website at: www.LLBartlett.com
(You can also find her on Facebook, Myspace, and Twitter.)
Also by
L.L. Bartlett
The Jeff Resnick Mysteries
Murder On The Mind (2005)
Dead In Red (2008)
Cheated By Death (2010)
Bound By Suggestion (2010)
Short Stories:
Abused: A Daughter’s Story
Cold Case–A Jeff Resnick Story
Lorraine Bartlett
The Victoria Square Mysteries
A Crafty Killing (2/2011)
The Walled Flower (2/2012)
Short Stories:
Only Skin Deep
What I Did For Love
We’re So Sorry Uncle Albert
Lorna Barrett
The Booktown Mysteries
Murder Is Binding (2008)
Bookmarked For Death (2009)
Bookplate Special (2009)
Chapter & Hearse (2010)
Sentenced To Death (2011)
Murder On The Half Shelf (2012)
Table of Contents
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CHAPTER
CHAPTER
CHAPTER
CHAPTER
CHAPTER
CHAPTER
CHAPTER
CHAPTER
CHAPTER
CHAPTER
CHAPTER
Cheated By Death Page 26
