Deadly Appraisal

by Jane K. Cleland

  “When Maisy said ‘around the world,’ I guess she meant it!”

  “She sure did,” Pam agreed.

  “Do you know which ship she was thinking of?”

  “Yeah. What was its name?” she asked herself. After a sip of her drink, she shook her head. “I don’t remember the name, but I have the brochure somewhere. I could give it to you if you want.”

  “Thank you. That would be great.” I dug out a business card and wrote my home address and phone number on it. “Would you send it to me at home?” I asked, thinking that Gretchen, who opened my mail at work, would have a field day if an expensive travel brochure arrived in the mail.

  “I’ll look for it first thing in the morning. I’m pretty sure I know exactly where it is.”

  I nodded, then turned to look out the window. Gazing into the deep darkness of the moonless night, I couldn’t see anything but my shimmering reflection. I didn’t know what else to ask.

  “Would you tell me something?” Pam asked softly.

  “Sure.”

  “Do you think Maisy was putting on an act for Walter, or do you think she really had fun at the Gala?”

  I had no idea, but I inferred that Pam would find some comfort in believing that Maisy had had fun. “Given that there’s no way of knowing for sure, I can tell you my strong impression.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Did Maisy have fun? Absolutely. She had a ball! She genuinely seemed to be having a good time. Right up until the end.”

  “That’s great to hear. Really great. I thought so, too.” Pam picked up her purse and said, “I’ve got to go. Did anything we talked about help?”

  “I don’t know. It’s all pretty confusing.”

  She nodded, pushed her half-full drink aside, and fixed me with her eyes. “Maisy was a good woman. Strong and kind. She was a good friend to me.”

  I nodded. “She was lucky to have you as a friend.”

  “Thank you.” Pam blinked away a tear.

  I insisted on paying the check, and after Pam left, I sat alone, watching the flames consume crackling apple wood, thinking about Maisy until my drink was gone. Envy. Fear. Money. Love. I felt as if I knew less about Maisy’s murder than when I’d walked into the Blue Dolphin, and that uncertainty was terrifying.

  Outside, I swung my cape over my shoulders, extracted my car key from the pocket, and ran. It had begun to sprinkle. “Great,” I said aloud, “I get to run in heels in the rain. A fitting end to a stressful day.”

  The rain grew steadier and I ran faster and tripped on a crack in the sidewalk, almost going down, but righting myself at the last moment. Just as I reached to open the driver’s-side door, I heard a car motor gunning. When I looked up, I was blinded by headlights on bright and froze until I realized that a car was heading straight at me.

  I reacted in the only way I could think of. I slapped the palms of both hands on my car and catapulted myself over the hood, landing on the grassy edge of the sidewalk and rolling away from the curb just as the oncoming vehicle slammed into mine.

  I screamed, covering my head with my arms, and curled up in a ball.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  F

  irst a man arrived, then the police, then an ambulance. Then I stopped screaming.

  I struggled to sit up, but before I could, I was lifted onto a stretcher and whisked away. When we arrived at the emergency room in a frenzied rush, with lights flashing and the siren shattering the night, I thought I saw Ty, but since I knew that was impossible, I wondered if the man I saw was a look-alike or if I was hallucinating.

  Every part of me ached or throbbed and the noisy pandemonium added to my anxiety. The commotion didn’t stop until X-rays were taken and I was wheeled back to the ER. An aide left me alone in a big room with an opaque white curtain pulled halfway around my bed, explaining that someone would be in after the radiologist reviewed the X-rays. Apparently, the examining physician thought there was a chance that my left ankle had broken when I landed on it.

  Broken or not, I felt thoroughly battered, as if I’d strained every muscle and scraped every inch of flesh. I felt emotionally beaten, too, worn and weary and without the internal fortitude to fight on. Tears seeped out of the corners of my eyes and I didn’t have the strength to stop the flow. The terror that had electrified me the moment that I realized the car intended to hit me was with me still. I closed my eyes.

  I was a believer now—someone wanted to kill me, but I had no idea who or why, and that was almost as scary as the mere fact itself.

  My father would have agreed. I remembered the warning he issued the day he told me to find out immediately who was telling malicious tales about Trevor and me—untrue innuendos alleging an affair. An unknown enemy is more dangerous than one you know, he declared. Once you know who you’re up against, you can outmaneuver the son of a bitch.

  Taking my dad’s counsel to heart that day, I asked around and quickly discovered the source of the gossip, a vile woman named Hattie, an assistant in the restoration department, with big hair and disapproving eyes. I’d taken her aside and with a bright smile—my thousand-watter—I’d threatened her with mayhem if she didn’t cease and desist, and she did.

  I never learned what drove her to try to sabotage my career and ruin my reputation. Jealousy that I, and not she, was Trevor’s golden-haired girl, perhaps. The experience taught me that the why of things rarely mattered, and that my focus needed to be on the what. What she did was diabolical; why she did it was irrelevant.

  Lying on the too-hard hospital bed, raw and weak and frightened, I had no idea what I could do to stop whoever wanted to kill me from succeeding.

  “Are you asleep?” Detective Rowcliff asked briskly.

  “Yes,” I replied, recognizing his voice. I kept my eyes closed.

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “A car aimed at me and tried to hit me. I don’t know how I did it, but I flipped myself over the hood of my car to get away, and the other car smashed into mine.”

  “How do you know the car was aiming at you?”

  “What do you mean? Look at me.”

  “Maybe it was an accident.”

  I turned to him, cringing at the pain. I groaned a little. My neck didn’t want to rotate. Max’s words warning me to take Rowcliff’s questions seriously echoed my father’s instructions to ignore sarcasm and deal only with the content, and remembering both admonitions helped me control my impulse to address him derisively. Instead, I spoke in a serious, calm tone.

  “Someone tried to run me down, to kill me,” I said. “First, they got me full in their headlights and then I heard the car’s motor roar. It wasn’t an accident. It was on purpose.”

  “Did you see the car or driver?”

  “Not really. He or she—or they—had the car’s brights on. It was blinding.”

  “Were you able to see its shape? Was it a car or a pickup truck, for example? A van? An SUV?”

  I closed my eyes for a moment, thinking. “I can tell you that the car was medium-sized and dark. Black or deep green or blue. Now that you mention it, I do seem to recall the shape of the car. I’m pretty sure it was a sedan. Ordinary.”

  “We’ll get some illustrations in here and maybe you can narrow it down further.”

  I nodded and stopped halfway when my neck objected—again.

  “What else do you remember?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Rowcliff persisted in questioning me. His growing impatience with my short answers and lack of information was obvious, and his agitation irritated me. It was as if he were an insect buzzing in my ear, not actually biting or stinging me, but annoying enough that I had to respond. An hour later, Rowcliff had left and the doctor gave me the good news that my ankle wasn’t broken, merely badly sprained. She assured me that it was common for a person to pull ligaments and muscles when executing a fly-over-the-car move.

  “You’ll begin to feel better in a few days,” she explained, “bu
t don’t be surprised if you’re still experiencing some discomfort a month from now—and it may take as long as three months, or even a little longer, before you’re a hundred percent better. Also, you shouldn’t be alone tonight. Just in case. Who can we call for you?”

  Oh Dad. I wish you were here to care for me, I thought. The doctor looked up from the chart, surprised, it seemed, by my silence. My mind was blank. Who would stay with me tonight?

  Ty was a continent away. One of my staff—either Sasha or Gretchen—would rush to help. But I couldn’t bear the thought of my employees seeing me in this miserable state. I just couldn’t bear it. I began to cry because I was all alone and had no friends and my dad was dead, and then I thought of Zoe.

  With painkillers in hand, and with my boots in my lap, I was processed out of the ER and cleared to go home.

  Zoe pulled up in her old car and I saw the kids strapped into their car seats in the back. Apologizing for taking so long, she held my arm as I struggled out of the wheelchair that the ER insisted had to be used to transport me to the exit door, then guided me gently into the passenger seat.

  “I’m sorry to get you out at this time of night,” I told her.

  “Don’t be silly. I’m glad to help.” As she closed the door, she added, “I put the seat all the way back, but the car’s pretty small. Here, let me latch the seat belt for you.”

  I didn’t argue. I didn’t care. The painkiller and sedative had begun to work, and as my fear and pain dulled, I just wanted to go home and go to sleep. I dozed as she drove, lulled by the motion of the vehicle and the hum of the motor.

  I awoke with a start at the sound of her door closing and looked around. The kids were asleep. We were home.

  “Wait here,” Zoe said, and got the kids out of the car, running them inside one at a time.

  I dozed again.

  “Come on, Josie,” Zoe said. “I pulled out the sofa bed. You’ll be warm and toasty.”

  “No,” I semi-whined. “I want to go home.”

  “In the morning,” she said.

  I didn’t have the strength to refuse. Zoe settled me in the living room, where I’d never before set foot, and handed me a steaming mug of tea. It might have felt awkward if I hadn’t been three parts asleep. She encouraged me to keep sipping the tea, and when I was done, she helped me get situated under a thick down comforter.

  After she had gone, I closed my eyes and listened to the night noises for what seemed like a long time.

  I awoke at 8:00 A.M. and struggled up and out of bed, groaning and wincing.

  Zoe had placed a fresh toothbrush on the sink and taped a note to the mirror:

  Josie, I hate to leave you, but I’ve got to take Jake to pre-school. I’ll be back in a flash. Call me on my cell when you wake up. There’s some food in the fridge and coffee on the burner.

  Zoe

  Standing in front of the full-length mirror, I took stock of my condition. I didn’t look as bad as I’d expected. I couldn’t put much weight on my left ankle, but I could hobble with no problem. My muscles had stiffened, my scrapes hurt to the touch, and my joints ached. A yellowish purple bruise circled my left eye. But I was vertical and mobile, and as I swallowed a painkiller, I felt ready to get on with business.

  As I entered the kitchen, my ankle throbbing, I realized that the house was oddly dark. All of the curtains and shades were pulled. Zoe thinks that whoever wants to kill me might try shooting through a window next, I realized with a rush of panic.

  I didn’t feel up to a shower, but I used a washcloth to clean up, folded the comforter, and, with a groan, horsed the sleeper sofa closed. Borrowing a pair of Zoe’s sneakers that I found in the hall by the door, I peered deep into the sun-streaked trees across the street. Go, I told myself. Don’t think about it. Just go. I saw nothing that shouldn’t be there and, with my heart thudding, limped outside. I felt vulnerable and exposed.

  Leaning heavily on the banister, I wobbled down the porch steps and staggered across the small patch of lawn that separated our houses. Inside my own place, I sank into a kitchen chair and tried to quiet my still-pounding pulse. As the wave of dread receded, I took stock: My ankle throbbed. My neck was stiff. I didn’t know what to do. I felt terrified and overwhelmed and alone. Part of me wanted to do nothing but sink into a hot, bubbly bath, then go back to bed. But a bigger part of me knew that if I stayed home, all I’d do was fret, my reasonable fear mounting into paralyzing panic. Plus which, I reminded myself, the doctor told me to keep moving or I’d stiffen up. I decided to go in to work.

  I called Zoe. She answered on the first ring.

  “Hi,” I said. “It’s your houseguest. Thank you for the rescue.”

  “Hi. My God, you’re up early for someone who looked as battered as you did. How are you doing?”

  “Not as bad as I expected.”

  “Good. Where are you?”

  “Home—my home. Why?” I asked.

  “Keep the blinds down, okay?”

  Feathery shivers ran up my spine, and instinctively, I looked out the back window. The rain had stopped during the night, and the morning was bright and sunny. Golden meadow stretched into distant woods.

  “I noticed they were drawn in your place,” I said, trying for a light tone. “You think there might be a sniper, huh?”

  “No way to tell,” Zoe replied crisply. “Better to be careful.”

  Her words were unnerving. “Right. Good point.” I thanked her again for her help, and as soon as I hung up, I lowered the shades and drew the curtains in all the ground-floor windows. My heart was racing. When I was done, I stood in the kitchen, leaning heavily against the counter, and waited for my pulse to slow.

  “Okay, then,” I said aloud.

  I stared at the staircase. Clean clothes and my answering machine were up there, but from where I stood, it looked like a mountain. Taking a deep breath, I started up. After only three steps, I had to sit for a while and rest. After another few steps, I rested again, taking the last several steps in one final push.

  Triumphant, I reached the top landing and struggled into my bedroom. The little lamp next to the bed that was always on as a welcome-home greeting burned brightly. I sank onto my bed and collapsed, allowing myself a few minutes to regroup. When I felt able to sit up again, I turned toward my answering machine. I had seven messages. I leaned over and pushed the Play button, my muscles protesting the motion. Mental note to self, I thought, don’t lean.

  Wes had called twice, both times wanting a quote for the article he was working on about the newest attempt on my life. His tone was pantingly curious. I deleted both messages.

  Max had called and wanted to know where I was and asked that I call him and tell him that I was all right.

  Britt, the honorary chair of the Gala, had called to express concern. Thoughtful.

  Eddie, the caterer, had called, saying he was shocked to hear from Britt that I was the intended target after all and to let him know if he could do anything—and let him know if I wanted to reschedule our meeting.

  Ty had called, saying he was sorry he missed me and he’d call me later and that I should try him, too, though he said that in the hospital he had to keep his cell phone off.

  Gretchen had called, crying, but trying to pretend she wasn’t. I dialed her number and got her at home.

  “Oh, Josie, thank God. Are you all right?”

  I was touched by her emotionalism and a little embarrassed. “You bet, Gretchen. I’m fine. Well, almost fine. When you see me, don’t faint. I’m very colorful.”

  “Are you in the hospital?”

  “No, no, I’m home. I’ll be in to work in a while.”

  “You’re able to come to work? Oh, that’s wonderful!”

  “I’m a little shook up, but you know me—I’d always rather work than sit around.”

  Once we got down to details, I told her to call Eddie and ask if he could come by in the early afternoon.

  “Of course,” she said, jotting notes. />
  I explained that she was to go over everything about the pickup at Verna’s with Eric. “Stress that he needs to tick off the items on the list one by one.”

  Eric was young, barely out of his teens. He was a willing worker, but I’d discovered the hard way that he was literal, not imaginative. If I gave him specific and detailed instructions, he did a meticulous job. But if my instructions were broad, he’d miss things and skip steps that, to a more experienced person, were self-evident.

  I reached Max at his office and told him what I knew, and he said he would call Rowcliff for an update and get back to me.

  I lay down again, wondering whether I had the strength to persevere in the face of my physical wounds and emotional distress. Apparently, Trevor was determined to kill me, and I felt utterly unable to stop him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  M

  ax called back and told me that Rowcliff would be talking to me later. “No news so far,” he said.

  “Do you know where my car is?”

  “The police have it.”

  “When will they be releasing it? Did Rowcliff say?” I asked.

  After a pause, Max said, “I think it’s pretty much totaled, Josie.”

  “Oh, wow, I hadn’t realized. I guess that means I should call my insurance agent.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And get a rental car,” I added, thinking aloud.

  “Are you able to drive?” Max asked, sounding doubtful.

  “If my right ankle was the one that had gotten messed up, it would be more problematic,” I said, brushing off his concern.

  “Before we hang up,” he said, “there’s something you need to think about.”

  “What’s that?” I asked warily.

  “I think you need someone with you,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Some security—someone to keep an eye out.”

  I paused before I responded, trying to think logically. “Can’t I just be super careful or something?”