Chagrined, he turned toward her, slipping one arm around her waist and shaping his palm to fit her cheek. “No, Liv, you can’t, and you shouldn’t. You’ve got all you can do just to bring that baby safely to term. Don’t worry, I didn’t plan on beating the kid to a senseless pulp. We’ll have us a nice father-son chat on the way to school, how’s that?”
Both parents had risen this morning feeling in not the best of health: Olivia, for the obvious reasons of bloat and backache, high blood pressure and swollen ankles, blotchy skin and exhaustion; Jeff, because he was catching a late summer/early autumn cold, with the sore throat and stuffiness that goes along with it. He, at least, could swallow a couple of tablets to stave off the worst symptoms, but she could not.
Bruno, sensing tension in the air, was wisely staying out of the line of traffic. After a few gulps of water that he managed to drip halfway across the kitchen’s tile floor, he disappeared into the family room where his favorite hidey-hole behind the couch called him.
By the time Nicky came stomping back downstairs, loaded backpack in hand, his father had calmed down enough to begin speaking even as they headed out to the garage. Olivia heard, “Look, son, we have to—” before car doors slammed, the engine started, and the garage door rolled slowly down into place.
Olivia sighed with relief to have the two whirlwinds gone.
Peace. Harmony. Utter, overwhelming quiet, other than the quiet ticking of the kitchen clock, an occasional distant groan from the sleeping dog, and the chatter of birds out in the maple tree.
Tossing aside the towel, she poured herself another cup of decaf coffee, added cream and sugar with a liberal hand—what the hell, another pound would make no difference when so much extra weight was already padding her frame—and tottered to the most comfortable chair she could find on feet whose arches had completely vanished.
Kicking off her shoes, she settled into the wooden rocker, with its inviting textured cushions, on another sigh.
Dirty laundry had piled up in the basket, the kitchen floor should be swept, and all her plants were crying out for water. No matter. Housekeeping chores could wait.
Using the remote to turn on her flat-screen, she leaned back and took a few healthy sips from the morning’s brew. Ah, Nirvana! On the screen, some nameless game show host was ragging a contestant; it was the perfect sort of inanity she could lose herself in, and sleep.
Soon, ensconced comfortably in mid-morning sunshine, Olivia had dozed off.
The clock ticked on.
* * * * * * * * * *
What brought her out of a sound slumber, some time later, was a soft, unfamiliar noise in the kitchen, and a low growl from behind the couch. It took a minute or two to come to full consciousness, to be aware of her surroundings. The framework of buildings did occasionally stir to a life of their own: floorboards creaked, walls settled, cooling or warming appliances pinged or groaned or grated.
With a deep breath, Olivia heaved herself upright and padded slowly, barefoot, across the plush carpet, intending not only to investigate but to find something to eat. Because she felt suddenly ravenous, and a leftover bowl of mac and cheese from last night’s dinner was calling her name.
Bruno, too, emerged from his den, yawning and stretching, to traipse along behind her. If his mistress was going to be rummaging in the fridge for food, she would probably find a tidbit for him, as well. He could count on that.
Except that something just didn’t feel right or smell right.
Halting dead, the dog put his nose in the air, sniffed voraciously, and then let out another low growl.
Olivia turned with a laugh and a hand outspread in welcome. “Come here, you silly animal. What’s the problem? You’re always—”
“The second Mrs. Quinley—” With those initial words, out of the blue, Olivia let go with a shriek. “—as I live and breathe.”
There stood the first Mrs. Quinley, elegant and arrogant as always, in a white silk shirt and casual brown khakis, with her blonde hair curled becomingly behind ears adorned with diamonds that glittered as cold and as hard as crystal doorknobs.
Heart stuttering with terror, breath caught halfway between lungs and throat, Olivia sagged onto the support of an easy chair’s arm, while Bruno lay back his ears and growled again, softly, warningly.
“You!” she finally managed to gasp. “What are you—doing here? How—how did you—get in?”
Annajane’s chuckle sounded more like the scraping of nails across a blackboard. “Please, do give me some credit for ingenuity,” she adjured pleasantly, as if this were some high society tea at which both were honored guests. Then, “Olivia, be a dear and shut that dog up now. His noise is getting on my nerves, and I should hate to shoot him immediately.”
Horrified, in that instant Olivia saw what she had missed earlier: the sleek, shining, menacing black barrel of a weapon, clutched in one amazingly steady hand alongside the woman’s hip.
“Bruno,” she whispered, after unsticking her tongue in a mouth dry as dust. “Bruno, come here, boy, come here.”
Tail wagging, though still watching the interloper with wary eyes, he slunk over to the warmth of Olivia’s touch. Thank God, he obeyed unquestioningly. Murmuring, she rubbed the top of his head and massaged his silky ears.
Another frightening, derisive chuckle. “Look at that, you’re such a saint that even the lowly animals bow to your will. So impressive, darling. Hymns ought to be sung to you, and poems of praise written.”
A hard, lusty kick across Olivia’s middle reminded her that even her unborn infant was not immune to the tension and fear all around. Straightening to draw in some deep restorative air, then a little more, she pulled up a reserve of courage from somewhere. She had confronted this evil woman too many times already. For both their sakes, and the sake of her own family, such terrible strife had to end. But how, without tragedy?
“So, tell me, Annajane, how did you get into my house?”
“Did you really hope to keep me out?” A burst of ragged, cackling laughter that sent shivers up the spine of her victim.
Incredibly relieved for the momentary comfort of the padded chair arm beneath her, Olivia nodded. “Of course we did. We wanted you out of our lives. We don’t understand why you can’t take a hint. Or is that beyond your capability?”
Annajane’s piercing blue eyes narrowed. “It isn’t wise of you to antagonize me just now, Olivia, dear. As you may have noticed—” An upward wave of the handgun that brought its deadly intent more into perspective, “I hold all the cards. Sweet, isn’t it? As you may have guessed, from my father’s cache: a Smith and Wesson revolver, small, lightweight, and very, very accurate. Well, well, so you want to know how I got in.”
Keeping firm hold on Bruno’s collar, Olivia set her teeth and agreed. Yes. She wanted to know.
“I’ve been watching your house, and your silly routine, for days. Did you think you could fool me by varying times? The kid has to be in school by 8:30. He has to be picked up by 3:30. Parameters. Ridiculously easy to circumvent, when anyone of average intelligence puts their mind to it. And, believe me, baby, I am above average intelligence.”
No doubt about that at all. Intelligence—or simple animal cunning.
Walking forward a few steps, then back, as if unable to contain nervous energy, the intruder continued with relish.
“I parked my rental in the next block over. In a church lot, imagine that, along with a number of other vehicles, so mine wouldn’t stand out. Good, yes? Then I hid in the bushes alongside your garage until those two fabulous males left. Before the door came all the way back down, I was able to shimmy in underneath. And no one noticed. One of the advantages of being so naturally slim, you see, instead of being the fat cow I see before me.”
She was right; Olivia was fat. For a reason that, it could be hoped, crazy Annajane Kendricks would never experience.
“You really ought to sweep out your garage floor more often, how
ever; I was covered in dust and grime. Not attractive on my designer outfit, let me assure you. After that, my entry was a piece of cake. I simply slipped in here, saw you dead to the world, and had a cup of your putrid coffee. Ugh. No caffeine? But I suppose you have to give in, for that—that ankle biter you’re carrying.”
“Yes, you—you do have to give up a lot. Sometimes I wish I—I had never—started this…” Childishly Olivia crossed the fingers of her hidden hand, to negate the lie, hoping the infant couldn’t hear. Or, if aware, would understand the reason. Was it possible to pretend understanding of, and sympathy with, this sociopath’s logic?
“Hmmmph. Well, too late now.” Judgmental as always, Annajane stood hipshot, staring down, surveying the dejected figure and the unhappy dog. “All right. I’m hungry. Kick that animal outside and fix me something to eat.”
Surprised, Olivia struggled to get herself upright. “You’re not going to—I mean, why exactly are you here?”
Annajane’s smile blazed brilliant as a bomb’s flare. “Why, to take you out, of course. All of you. Can you imagine Jeffrey’s expression when he walks into the house to find everyone that is important to him, completely dead and gone? Now get rid of that damned dog.”
* * * * * * * * * * * *
It would stretch anyone’s nerves to the breaking point, watching while pretending not to watch the deranged criminal who was watching you.
Silently Olivia had obeyed every order. At the moment, under these circumstances, she had no choice. In her condition, she could hardly tackle the woman and wrestle the gun away. So she had moved an unwilling Bruno to the back yard, with his food dish and water bowl and a couple of toys. Out of range and safe, for the time being. Then she had set about preparing an early lunch.
It didn’t matter what she fixed. The reheated mac and cheese, the sliced tomatoes sprinkled with sea salt, the buttered toast—none of these met with Annajane’s approval. Seated imperiously at the table, with her Smith and Wesson laid within hand’s reach, she complained about the paucity of the fare and the humbleness of the room in which it was being served.
To all of this Olivia paid no attention. Refusing to come any nearer than necessary, she stood beside the sink and stoically consumed what she was able to get down without choking on every morsel. She needed the nutrition; she needed her strength.
Because somehow her moment would come. Somehow, some way, she would be able to gain the upper hand. She must be ready.
“I presume you have no decent wine?” was the woman’s next gripe.
Still silent, Olivia took a recently opened bottle of good red from the refrigerator, stretched to take down a goblet from the cabinet, and poured out a generous portion. It was as she reached over to place her offering beside Annajane’s empty plate that a sudden sharp pain ripped across her distended belly, so sudden and so sharp that she couldn’t stifle a little cry.
Immediately Annajane wrapped her fingers around the weapon. “What?” she demanded, eyes slitted with open animosity.
Olivia had bent slightly forward, panting, with one arm cradled underneath her pregnancy’s full weight. “Don’t—know—” she whispered. No, dear baby, not now; please, God, not now!
The eyes, so like a snake’s staring at its prey, narrowed still further. “Are you in labor?”
“I don’t—know…”
The pain, which had snapped across her insides like the breaking of a rubber band, eased as suddenly as it had come, and Olivia was able to straighten and draw breath. Somehow she managed to pull forward the two-step kitchen stool and sink down upon its padded seat, grateful in small measure for the release of weight off her aching feet and ankles.
During the couple of minutes’ interim, Annajane had snatched up her goblet and hastily swallowed every last drop. Then, grabbing the bottle by its neck, she poured more.
Wonderful, Olivia thought dispassionately, as if observing the scene from outside her own body. Not only insane, but soon drunk, as well. And possibly, according to Jeff, with easy access to all sorts of street opiates. Can there be any worse combination? Or would that, in some way, aid her own cause of escape?
“How are the repairs on my former house coming along?” the woman asked, impromptu.
“T-t-the house—?”
“Yes, the house, you ninny. Where we used to live, Jeffrey and I. I loved that house,” came the surprising, thoughtful admission. “I hated to give it up. But Daddy forced me to put it on the market.”
“Uh—a shame. That must have been—hard to do. Why?”
“Why on the market, you mean? He insisted, as, of course, so did Roger, that I no longer needed the place. After all, I had moved into Roger’s castle by then. But—I don’t know, I never felt at home there. I loved that house,” she repeated, musing, with another ladylike slurp of wine.
Yes, drink it all, put yourself out of commission, and maybe I will finally get my chance…
“Damned cheap stuff.” Annajane lifted her goblet to the light, studying its deep burgundy color. “I might have known Jeff wouldn’t be able to afford a better grade. I never figured out how he could afford to buy my house.”
Just how much more trouble would be caused by admitting the truth? Or was it better to stall, to lightly prevaricate?
“There was a lot of damage done on the inside, from what I’ve heard?”
Olivia could take it no longer. “You should know,” she burst out.
Again that menacing squinty-eyed look that would cause anyone nervous palpitations. Especially with a firearm involved. Had the woman ever experienced a kind or compassionate feeling toward fellow human beings in her life, a sense that “we’re all in this together”?
“And just what is that supposed to mean?”
Be careful. Be very careful. Do not antagonize.
“The vandalism. It was—uh—extreme.”
“Oh, and you think—I see, you think I was responsible.”
“Weren’t you?” Shifting position on the stool, Olivia longed for this cat-and-mouse game to be finished. How much more could she endure? Was she going to be shot down, she and her helpless innocent child, trapped in her own house?
Another deep quench of thirst at the goblet, and a refill. “Want some before I consume every last drop?” Annajane asked generously, pointing the wine bottle toward her victim. “No? Well, it’s far from being something I would ordinarily buy, but it’ll do.” She paused for a second swallow. “I’ll tell you something that you probably won’t believe, Mother Teresa. I didn’t do it.”
Caught off guard, Olivia could only stare. “But, you—the damage, the way in, everything seemed so—so—”
“Why would I destroy my own house?” the woman countered reasonably. “I told you, I love that place. No, it wasn’t me. It was Roger.”
“Roger!” Now Olivia nearly fell off the stool in shock.
“Roger. Surprised? He considered hiring out the job to some goon but decided he didn’t want anyone else getting involved. And that way,” a dark, macabre chuckle, “I was in the clear. My alibi stood safe and sound, remember?”
Olivia was shaking her head with bemusement. “But why would he even consider…”
“Oh, he knew I wanted some sort of revenge for having my house stolen out from under me. So—the dear man took care of it. Clever, yes?”
Clever. Dear God in Heaven. Olivia shuddered.
“All right, enough jabberwocky. Call the school,” Annajane ordered abruptly.
A minor spasm had been making itself known here and there in Olivia’s middle for the past little while. Still recovering from the first, she rose to lean against the counter with both hands clenched along its rim, waiting for more to hit. Her forehead was damp, and her gaze had turned inward. “Do—what?”
Having drained her second glass, Annajane was waving the revolver around like nobody’s business. “I said, call the school. And this is what you’ll tell them. Say there’s a family emer
gency, and you need to pick up your son.”
The horror of what she could now see coming reached Olivia, even in her extremity. Bring her precious Nicholas into the presence of this abomination, to endure whatever torment she planned on inflicting? “No. No, I will not.”
Swift as a striking cobra, the woman was on her feet and across the room. The fingers of one maniacal hand clamped down on Olivia’s forearm with a grip that would leave bruises; the other jammed the barrel of that wicked shiny weapon directly into flinching ribs. “Oh, yes, you will, you despicable little slut. Or I’ll kill you where you stand, and I’ll pick up that damned kid myself.”
“Then go ahead and do your worst right now, Annajane Kendricks,” Olivia, backed up helplessly hard against the sink, gritted out. “I will not subject my son to your terrorism.”
“Terrorism! Oh, Mrs. Quinley, you have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
“So you say. What is it you want, anyway? What exactly do you want?”
“As I have already told you, I want all of you dead!” Annajane spat out. “I want—I need—to have all of you in one room, together: you, your kid, the dog. Together.”
“Why?” Olivia, ever the conciliator, couldn’t help pleading. “What have we ever done to you, that you should stalk us, and frighten us, and cause so many problems? We just want to raise our children and live in peace!”
The muzzle of the handgun moved from ribs to abdomen, shoving with such force that Olivia’s wrenched body quivered in protest.
“Peace. You fool, there is no peace. There won’t be peace for anyone until you’re off this planet forever.”
“You could leave now,” Olivia pointed out through trembling lips. “I would never say a word to anyone. You could go away, wherever you wanted, and—and be free. Just you and Roger. You love him, don’t you? Imagine, the two of you, on some—some romantic hideaway island…”
“And leave all my social engagements behind, to slink off into obscurity? Leave all the comforts of my life here? You’re even more stupid than I thought.”
Romance: He Done Her Wrong (Cuddlesack Queens #2) Page 12
