That Last Weekend

by Laura Disilverio

  Should she tell him Evangeline was dead? She studied him. He seemed a decade older than he had on Saturday. She’d put it down to fear of his upcoming undercover mission, but now she decided it was grief, at least in part. She didn’t need to tell him. She suspected he’d known before they found her body. “You knew Evangeline from high school,” she said, not making it a question. As she talked, she moved into the living room and perched on an ottoman, not wanting to risk sinking into one of the squashy leather love seats. She needed to be able to spring up quickly and have some range of motion if things went south.

  “Hell, I knew Van from elementary school.” He rolled his glass between his palms. “Know-it-all little brat with braids and socks with a lace band around the top. We lived on the same block. It wasn’t until high school that we became friends, though.” His gaze grew unfocused, as if he were looking into the past, and a reminiscent smile softened his face.

  Laurel wondered if he was remembering a slow dance at the prom, a first kiss, or something more …

  “We were friends,” he said, dashing those visions. “I could talk to Van in a way I never could with my girlfriends. We were tight through high school. Then she went off to Grissom, and I … well, let’s just say I opted to stay in town and pursue entrepreneurial opportunities.” He gave a humorless laugh. “That paid off better for me than school did for her. Well, it did until recently. We stayed in touch, saw each other summers. When she decided she wanted to buy the castle, she even worked for me for a while. When she had enough, she quit.”

  He paused to take another swallow of tequila, and Laurel fought the urge to ask what Evangeline had done for his business. She remembered how surprised they’d all been when Evangeline had announced she’d “come into money” and had a contract on the inn, how coy she’d been about where the money came from. As a flight attendant she had opportunities to transport drugs, Laurel was sure. Had Evangeline been a drug mule for Ray? Sold drugs? Laurel squeezed her eyes tightly closed against the thought, but opened them when Ray spoke again.

  “Then, of course, she came back to live with her mother after the accident and we hung out sometimes. It was tragic what happened to her. She didn’t deserve it.” He scowled. “I offered to have some of my crew beat the crap out of all of you when she told me one of you pushed her off that balcony, paralyzed her, but she wouldn’t have it. Back then, she was sure she would walk again.”

  “She never did though, did she?” Laurel asked gently.

  He shook his head and downed the last of his tequila with a snap of his wrist. “Nah. When the treatments in Mexico failed … ” He grimaced and strode past her, stumbling over the transition from the carpeted living room to the tile-floored kitchen, to retrieve the tequila bottle. With his glass topped up, he said, “She changed then. She’d used up most of her money on those quacks, and she didn’t have anyone to help her. She was in pain all the time. I helped her out with some pharmaceuticals when her insurance ran out, but she still hurt every minute of every day. I tried to get her to see a counselor—can you imagine it? Me, trying to talk her into therapy?” Ray shook his head, amazed. “But she wouldn’t. With her mother dead and her money gone, and no job, she was looking at having to go on welfare, maybe even into a state facility of some kind. Her face when she told me that anything was better than that, that she wasn’t going to rely on some stranger to help her to the crapper … it was then that she started to get mad at you all.” He paused, and his thick tongue licked his lips. His expression, as he looked down at Laurel, was unreadable. “She got me out of some tight spots. I owed her.”

  Laurel sensed an opening in his last statement. “Pretending to be engaged—that was payback?”

  His mouth twisted. “She always said you were the smart one, that if anyone figured it out, it would be you.”

  His esses were starting to slur, and his eyes seemed more bloodshot. Laurel resisted the urge to ask what else Evangeline had said about her, and how she referred to the others. “She decided to kill herself and frame us.”

  “I tried to talk her out of it, but she said helping her was the last, best thing I could do for her, that her mind was made up. I did what she asked. I drove her out to the castle and made like we were the happiest couple who ever lived. She said it was important that everyone believe she was happy, that things were working out for her.” He made a choking sound and turned away to stare out the window again. The glass reflected his face, eyes screwed up against tears, and Laurel looked away. “I offered to marry her for real,” he said tightly, “to take care of her. I’ve got plenty of money, but she wouldn’t have it. Said she couldn’t do that to me, keep me from finding a ‘real’ wife. She meant one I could have sex with, have kids with. I didn’t care about the sex. Sex is easy to get. And kids? I admit I thought about them now and then, but I’m getting too old for them anyway. I’m too set in my ways, too selfish for kids. I tried to tell her that, but her mind was made up. You knew Van. Once she made up her mind, nothing was going to change it. Nothing.”

  He turned and showed Laurel a bleak face. “I promised her I wouldn’t tell, but here I am, spilling everything to you. Too much tequila, I guess. Too much time alone, thinking about … ”

  He swayed and didn’t finish the thought. Laurel wondered if it was too much time thinking about Evangeline or about his own screwed-up life and what awaited him in Mexico.

  He whipped the gun from his waistband suddenly and pointed it at Laurel. She froze.

  “You should know you drove her to it, you and those others. You broke her. You broke her. It’s your fault—all your faults. She wanted to see you in prison, but maybe it would be easier if you died. Did you push her? Were you the one?” His voice rose until he was shouting hoarsely.

  The gun trembled in his hand, and he swayed again. He braced his free hand against the window and the shape of his fingers bloomed against the glass.

  “No,” Laurel said, her mouth dry. She couldn’t tear her gaze from the hole in the gun’s barrel, the dark, unblinking eye. “I didn’t push her.”

  He bowed his head and the gun dipped slightly. “Get out.”

  Laurel set her glass on the coffee table and rose slowly, trying to think of a way to get him to write down what he’d told her, or record it. He was going to disappear into Mexico within hours, and she had no proof of anything he’d said. While she was trying to form the request, he jerked his head up and raised the gun again. His knuckles blanched white on the grip. “Get out!” he screamed.

  Without thanking him or apologizing or telling him she was sorry about Evangeline, Laurel backed toward the door, holding her hands out from her sides in a non-threatening way. She kept her eyes locked on his, dredging up some briefing on back-country safety that said to stare down a threatening cougar or bear, not to look away. He held her gaze until she bumped into the door and had to turn away to fumble with the deadbolts. She cursed her trembling fingers that made the task take too long. She felt his eyes boring into her back, and imagined his finger tightening on the trigger. Her shoulders braced for a bullet, but the door came open and no bullet ripped through her back to shred her lungs. As she pulled the door wider, she glanced over her shoulder. Ray was no longer facing her. The gun hung limply from his hand as he stared down into the river, with its swift-flowing water, muddy and opaque, carrying bits of the North Carolina highlands out to sea.

  Twenty-Nine

  Safely in her car, Laurel took a rib-expanding breath and tried to process what she’d heard from Ray. She’d been right: Evangeline had committed suicide and attempted to frame one or all of them for her murder. She bowed her head over the steering wheel, arms draped around it, feeling stunned by grief. Evangeline had died in anger, pain, and hopelessness. She’d hated the four of them enough to want to see them in prison, to scheme and plot to make it happen. Suspicion had invaded their friendships, making them question how well they knew each other and won
der which of them was capable of murder. Of course, Laurel had to admit, raising her head and starting the car, that suspicion had been slowly poisoning their relationships for ten years.

  She put aside her sadness and thoughts, to sort out later, and pulled onto the road. Right now, she had to tell Boone what she’d learned from Ray Hernan. He’d make her tell him where Ray was. She was torn at the thought of burning Ari and his DEA source, but she’d have to tell Boone everything. Mindy! How could she have forgotten about Mindy? She might have learned the truth about Evangeline’s death, but someone had killed Mindy Tanger. She dialed Boone’s cell phone and got his voicemail. She left a brief message saying she had to talk to him immediately. A sense of urgency invaded her and the car picked up speed. Tree shadows slashed through the windows as the car swung around curves and sped down the straightaways. She reached the gates of Cygne in record time and stomped on the brakes to slow for the turn between the stone pillars.

  A cluster of people, including Dawn, Ellie, and Sheriff Boone, were gathered on the front lawn when she pulled up. She was glad to see Boone; she could tell him everything in person. She stopped her car short of the lot and got out into the gathering dusk. When she checked her watch, she was surprised to see it was already six o’clock. Ellie hurried to meet her. She seemed frazzled.

  “Laurel, thank God. One friend missing is more than enough.”

  “Missing? Who?” Geneva. She was the only one not here. Icy liquid sluiced through her veins. “Have you looked for her? How long has she been gone?”

  “We were just starting out. When she didn’t meet me for a walk like we planned, I checked her room. Her phone’s there, her purse is there, but she’s not.” Ellie blinked hard. “It’s just like Mindy.”

  Boone and Dawn came alongside them. Laurel shot a look at Boone. “I need to talk to you. I found out—”

  “Later,” he said. “We need to find Ms. Frost. When women disappear around here, it doesn’t turn out well.”

  Dawn put a hand to her mouth and Boone made a moue of apology. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve called for more officers to help us look. They should be here within ten minutes. “

  “She said she was going to talk to Mr. Abbott about the cradle she wanted,” Laurel said. “Has anyone checked to see if the Abbotts have seen her?”

  They looked at each other and shook their heads.

  “You go,” Boone told the women. “I’ll wait here and split my reservists into teams when they arrive. Call me if you find her. I’ll have an ambulance standing by, just in case.”

  The gravity in his voice made Laurel shiver. He wasn’t sure they’d find Geneva alive.

  She started toward the house with Dawn and Ellie. Of one accord, they headed for the kitchen. They crossed the threshold together, and found Mrs. Abbott applying a Band-Aid to her husband’s arm. He sat in a ladder-back chair at the kitchen table, sleeve rolled up and hairy arm extended. The tea kettle emitted a thin stream of steam, as if it had recently boiled, and several potatoes awaited slicing on a cutting board by the sink.

  “Enough already,” Stephen Abbott was saying. He brushed his wife aside. “It’s a scratch, not a stab wound.” He became aware of the women and scowled. “What do you lot want?”

  Mrs. Abbott shot him a placatory look. “Now, Stephen … Can we help you with something? Tea or coffee?”

  “Have you seen Geneva?” Laurel asked, addressing Mr. Abbott. “She said she was going to talk to you about buying a cradle.”

  “Haven’t seen her,” he said, rolling down his sleeve. He stood.

  Mrs. Abbott’s brows twitched together. “Did she not find you, then? I told her to check for you down by the shed where we stored the furniture for the auction house people to pick up.”

  Something about her precision, the way she met her husband’s eyes as if trying to convey a private message, struck Laurel as off.

  “I wasn’t there. I was mowing by the lake. That’s how I got scratched.” His eyes didn’t meet his wife’s and the way he held himself reminded Laurel of a coyote she’d surprised in the backyard once. The dun-colored creature had frozen at sight of her, but the muscles in his thin flanks quivered and she’d sensed the spring-loaded energy that would explode into movement if she so much as flinched.

  Mrs. Abbott continued, in a voice that sounded like she was trying to excuse herself. “Since the furniture was collected already, I didn’t see any harm. I thought you were cleaning—”

  “I said I didn’t see her!”

  Abbott’s vehemence rang warning bells for all of them, Laurel could tell. Ellie took a step toward him, hands balled into fists. Before she could say anything, Mrs. Abbott breathed, “She’s pregnant, Stephen. You didn’t—”

  “Shut your mouth, Nerys.” He sprang for the door and collided with Dawn, who had started for it as well, perhaps headed for the shed to see if Geneva was there. “Oof.” They both staggered, and then Abbott crunched one forearm across Dawn’s throat and groped for the potato knife on the counter with the other. His fingers closed around it and he held it aloft triumphantly. The overhead light flashed on the blade. “Stay where you are.” He backed toward the door, towing Dawn.

  Her eyes were big with fear and her fingers scratched at his arm where it pressed against her throat. She made a coughing noise and Laurel knew she couldn’t breathe right.

  “Stephen, stop,” Mrs. Abbott commanded. “It’s over. Too many people know.” She made a weary gesture toward all of them.

  Abbott’s gaze bounced off his wife, hit each of the other women, and darted toward the door beyond them. He looked at the knife in his hand and pressed it to Dawn’s throat. She squeaked. A thin cut opened under her chin and oozed blood. “It’s your damn fault, Nerys, for letting them come this weekend. We’d have been okay otherwise.”

  Laurel wasn’t sure what they were supposed to know, but she suspected it had to do with Cygne’s antiques and their disposition. The Abbotts must be stealing them. Her mind flashed to the “Drummond” on the side of the van that was removing the furniture. She’d seen that name before in connection with the Abbotts but couldn’t immediately dredge up where. Mentally reviewing what she’d learned about the Abbotts, it came to her. Ari’s report had mentioned their daughter being “Alice Drummond.” She’d bet her next paycheck that Nat was their son-in-law, and that he was helping them transport the antiques. To Texas? To some other destination where they could sell them and pocket the profits? It didn’t matter.

  “The prison time for theft is a lot less than for kidnapping or murder,” she said levelly, catching Abbott’s wild gaze. Her pulse drummed in her ears and she rocked forward onto the balls of her feet. If he was already guilty of Mindy’s murder, he might think he had nothing to lose. “You don’t want to do this. Let Dawn go.”

  For answer, he shoved Dawn toward her. Dawn’s weight knocked Laurel off balance and she staggered, her arms automatically going around her friend. In the confusion, Abbott flung the door open and took off in the direction of the parking lot. A cloud of dark hair momentarily obscuring her vision, Laurel separated from Dawn, steadying her with hands on her shoulders. “Are you okay?”

  When Dawn nodded, putting a trembling hand to the small cut on her throat, Ellie sprinted out the door, yelling “Geneva!”

  Mrs. Abbott stood where she’d been when Abbott left, fists pressed to her mouth, mumbling, “He wouldn’t hurt her, he wouldn’t do that. My Stephen isn’t like that. He wouldn’t hurt a baby. It’s not as if they didn’t owe it to us. Oh, Stephen.”

  Ignoring her, Laurel slapped her cell phone into Dawn’s hands. “Get Boone,” she said. “Tell him to have the ambulance meet us at the shed down the hill.” Barely waiting for Dawn’s nod, she took off after Ellie.

  Ellie raced down the hill, hair flying. She stumbled some, now that twilight obscured the ground, and almost couldn’t stop herself from plowing i
nto the shed where they’d seen the furniture a couple days back and Mr. A had read them the riot act. A length of chain and a padlock secured the doors. She rattled them. “Geneva, Geneva!”

  Was that a voice? She stilled.

  “The baby.” Geneva’s voice was thin and panicky and sounded a long way away. “The baby’s coming.”

  “Oh my God,” Ellie breathed. She pressed her lips to the crack between the doors and shouted, “An ambulance is on its way.” She hoped it was. “We’re going to get you out of there. You and Lila will be fine, just fine, you hear me?”

  Voices made her look over her shoulder. She could make out Laurel sprinting from the house, arms pumping, and Sheriff Boone jogging around the front corner, talking into his cell phone. Dawn trailed him. Thank God. When they reached her, she said, “She’s in there. Geneva’s in there. She says the baby’s coming. It’s locked.” She pointed to the padlock. “Can you shoot it off?”

  Backing off a step, Boone brought his booted foot up to waist height and slammed it into the wood near where a thin metal plate with a loop for the chain was screwed into the door. It splintered slightly and one of the screws loosened. He did it again, and again, and a fourth time, his face grim and jaw set, and finally the wood disintegrated around the plate, freeing one half of the door. Ellie yanked it back. Blundering into the shed, she was thrown off-stride by the emptiness. A second later, she spotted the crumpled shape slumped against a cabinet on the far wall. “Geneva.”

  With the others close behind, she hurried to Geneva, using her phone screen to light the way until someone found the light switch and a single bulb lit up. She sank to her haunches and stroked Geneva’s face. “Hang in there, honey.”

  Geneva was arched in on herself, apparently in the throes of a contraction, but she looked up and tried to smile. “Hey.”

  Memories of the twins’ birth, the fear and pain, leached into Ellie’s thoughts. It remained the most painful experience of her life, and she’d been in a hygienic military hospital, not a grubby shed crawling with who knew what bacteria. Laurel, Dawn, and Boone crowded around.