“Oh, yes, Miss Chase. I’m sorry. Has he not called you back yet?”
“No, he hasn’t, and it’s really urgent that I speak to him. I really don’t want to go into detail, but I, uh, found out something that he really needs to know. It could be terribly damaging to him and everyone who works for him.”
There was a moment’s silence; then, confidence strong in her voice, Marie said, “You can tell me anything, Miss Chase. I’ve been Mr. Aiken’s right hand for twenty-seven years now. I know everything that goes on in this office. And if I know what the problem is, I can be sure it’s presented with the importance it deserves.” A phony little laugh. “You’d be surprised what some of our clients consider urgent. A parking ticket, an ex being a day late with his child support, a daughter getting suspended for one day from middle school. Not that I’m trivializing your problem, but you understand, it’s my job to prioritize Mr. Aiken’s calls so I’m not bothering him halfway around the world with truly minor issues.”
“Well…” Ellie wrapped the phone cord around one finger. “I hate to make accusations, but…I think someone who works for him is blackmailing me.”
There was utter silence for a few seconds; then Marie, sounding hollow, said, “Oh my God. Of course I’ll contact Mr. Aiken right away. It may take a while. He’s traveling, you know, and there’s the time difference, and cell service isn’t always reliable. But I’ll get your message to him and—”
Ellie interrupted. “You know, Marie, I shouldn’t have involved you in this. After all, these people are your friends and coworkers. I’ll just call Mr. Aiken myself. We’ve got some mutual friends. I can get his cell number from one of them, and if not, there’s always Andrew. I’m sure he would be happy to help once he knows what’s going on.”
Another brief silence, then urgency: “Please don’t do that, Miss Chase. I’ll reach Mr. Aiken, and he’ll call you right away. I promise.”
“Thank you, Marie.” Ellie hung up and wiped her sweaty palms on a napkin printed with Ellie’s Deli.
“Who is Andrew?” A.J. asked as Galvez dismantled the equipment.
“Randolph’s nephew.” Deliberately misleading the detective, she glanced at Robbie. “It helps to know people who know people.” Let him assume that her knowledge of one rich lawyer’s family came through another rich lawyer.
“I’ve got a friend in Athens keeping an eye on Jensen. If she leaves, he’ll let us know.”
“You have friends everywhere, don’t you?” she asked, trying to ease a little of the tension in the room.
A.J.’s shrug was accompanied by what might have been the beginnings of a smile if it hadn’t faded so fast. “Did her voice seem at all familiar?”
Ellie shook her head. She’d listened hard, but any recognition more likely would have been from talking to the woman on the phone last Friday, not in the bar on Saturday. She’d studied the photograph of Marie Jensen the day before, but had drawn a blank there, too.
“Petrovski’s out back, and DeLong’s out front,” A.J. went on. “Don’t set foot out of this building without one of them or Maricci, understand?”
“She’s not going anywhere,” Tommy said from behind her, and she felt no need to disagree. She could stay here in the deli, with both doors guarded, for days if necessary.
She could stay with Tommy forever.
As the conversation went on around her, she stared at the crumpled napkin, unable to focus on it. Marie Jensen was, by all accounts, an ordinary woman. She’d had a good job and made a comfortable life for herself and, in recent years, her mother, and yet she’d dug through her boss’s files to locate people who were vulnerable, to use their misfortunes for her gain. After half a century of ordinariness, she’d turned to crime, to betrayal and murder.
Ellie could more easily understand Martha’s greed. Oliver had never been a great provider, but in the last few months without him, she’d seen that a tough life was about to get tougher. No doubt, she’d really believed that Ellie owed her; she’d justified her actions as merely claiming what was rightfully hers.
But Marie Jensen didn’t need Ellie’s money to survive. A.J. had told her Marie owned a nice house and a two-year-old car. She took vacations twice a year and had money in savings and in a retirement plan. She didn’t know Ellie, as Martha had. She didn’t hate her, as Martha had.
And yet she was willing to destroy Ellie—first, for money; now, if Tommy and A.J.’s theory was correct, to cover up her crimes.
What turned an ordinary woman into a killer?
If the guys’ theory was correct, she might get the chance to ask the woman herself.
Less than an hour after everyone cleared out of her office, A.J. called Tommy with the news that Marie Jensen had, indeed, left her office soon after the phone call. His friend had followed her to the post office and the bank before losing her inside the mall. He’d returned to watch her car, but after three hours with no sign of her, the consensus was that she’d left by some other means.
The news made Tommy look grim and heightened Ellie’s queasiness, even though every cop in town had Marie’s description. There were officers stationed outside the deli’s doors, and Tommy was never more than a shout away. She was safe.
The hours dragged past. Business was better than good—they served lunch to two buses of senior citizens who’d driven over from Augusta to tour Calloway Plantation and River’s Edge—but she just wanted the day to be over. She wanted to go home, curl up in bed next to Tommy and sleep as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
She wanted all of this to be over and done.
As long as she came out of it alive and free.
“You look tired. Why don’t you go home? I’ll close up for you.”
Ellie smiled faintly at Carmen. It wasn’t even seven yet, but the assistant manager looked tired, too. With all that had happened, she’d come in early the last three days and stayed late the last two nights so Ellie wouldn’t have to. Working the extra hours, along with caring for her five children, was obviously starting to wear on her. “Thanks, but I think it’s your turn to cut out. Go home to your family.”
“They can take care of themselves for another night.”
“Go on,” Ellie urged. “I bet you haven’t even seen the kids awake since Sunday.”
“You say that as if it’s a bad thing,” Carmen retorted with a smirk. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather get out of here?”
“I’m sure.” As much as she’d like to be home in bed with Tommy, it wasn’t as if she would feel any more relaxed at home; she might as well be antsy here and give Carmen a break.
“Well, if you’re certain,” Carmen said, already heading toward the kitchen.
Ellie waited tables, helped in the kitchen and ordered supplies. She posted the work schedule for the next week; then, with Tommy’s help, she shut down the back dining room at eight, wiped the tables, refilled the salt and pepper shakers and mopped up. The whole time she couldn’t help wondering if Marie Jensen was out there in the dark, watching through the windows that stretched across the room, or if she’d decided, as Ellie herself had a few days ago, to cut her losses and run.
“Petrovski’s out there.”
Ellie saw Tommy’s reflection in the glass a moment before he bumped against her from behind. She leaned into him, taking comfort in his warmth and solidness. “Poor guy. It’s been a long day.”
“He got a two-hour break, and he volunteered for the overtime.”
She gazed at their image for a moment, then into the darkness of the herb garden. “Where do you think she is?”
“Don’t have a clue. Maybe on the first plane to Rio.”
“Or maybe here in town.”
He nodded once, his chin bumping her head. “Maybe,” he agreed. “Any chance you’ve changed your mind about bunking in a jail cell?”
“I’ve been in jail more times than you want to know. I don’t want to go back.”
“Not even for your own safety?”
&n
bsp; “I’m safe with you.”
He exaggerated his usual Southern drawl. “I’m honored by your faith in me.”
Not as honored as she was by his love for her, she thought with a faint smile as she went back to work.
At eight forty-five the last diners left. At nine o’clock, the front door was locked and by nine-fifteen, the last of the staff had departed by the rear door. Ellie and Tommy worked together, cleaning the main dining room, the bar, the bathrooms. All that was left was preparing the bank deposit. She’d just settled at her desk to start that when his cell phone rang.
He greeted A.J., and her nerves tightened. When he swore, her fingers clenched the ink pen tightly enough to make them numb. “Let me know,” he said curtly before disconnecting.
“Bad news?”
“They had a disturbance call to Stormy’s Tavern. Shots fired, a number of people down, including two officers.” His mouth tightening, he dragged his fingers through his hair.
“You should go.”
“They don’t need me.”
“But you need to be there.”
Shaking his head, he jumped to his feet and paced the length of the room, agitation rolling off him in waves. Officer-down calls were the worst, he’d told her before. He didn’t just work with these people; they were friends, partners, brothers on the job.
She laid the pen on top of a stack of twenties and moved to block his path. Outside, sirens wailed, increasing as emergency vehicles came nearer, then fading as they raced on past. “Tommy, we’re the only two here. Pete Petrovski is still out back. Someone else is out front. The place is locked up tight. I couldn’t be safer. Go help where you’re needed.”
He hesitated, clearly torn, then abruptly kissed her. “I’ll be back.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Spinning around, he left the office, his footsteps sounding oddly hollow in the quiet restaurant. The front door creaked, better than a bell at announcing customers, and the murmur of Tommy’s conversation with the officer silhouetted in the open doorway filtered back to where she stood. Apparently satisfied that all was well at the front, he secured the door, passed her again with a gentle touch, then went into the kitchen. A moment later, the back door closed with a thud, and she was truly alone for the first time in four days.
This place is spooky when it’s empty, he’d said Monday morning, and she’d disagreed. From the moment she’d walked through the front door that first day five years ago, she’d known she and this building were meant for each other. It was a symbol of how far she’d come. She felt at home there.
But it was just a little spooky tonight, she decided as she closed the office door, locked it, then returned to her desk.
An occasional siren passed as she counted out cash and coins, totaled checks and organized credit card receipts, and she said a quick prayer between tasks. It had been a very good day for the business; she was long past the point where she could turn over much of the day-to-day responsibilities to someone else and take time for herself. Spend time with friends. With Tommy.
With family.
She slid the cash into a locking bank bag and zipped it shut as a noise sounded from the rear of the building. Instinctively she started, then realized Tommy must have forgotten something; he hadn’t been gone long enough to reach the bar on the east edge of town, and Pete wouldn’t let just anyone enter.
Leaving the bag on the desk, she crossed to the door and twisted the lock. “That was quick. Is everything—”
It wasn’t Tommy who stood in the hallway, face shadowed by the dim lights burning there and in the bar. The woman was about her height, though considerably heavier, and looked old enough to be harmless.
The question of harmless didn’t apply to the pistol she carried.
“Hello, Ellie. Do you mind if I come in?”
Ellie backed away, and Marie Jensen advanced, closing the door behind her. Her disguise was a good one: gray wig; heavy makeup that gave her an aged, sallow look; dumpy shirt and pants; ugly shoes. Except for the thin latex gloves she wore, she looked like someone’s frumpy grandma.
“How did you get past the officers outside?”
“Oh, I’ve been here awhile, upstairs in that private room. I walked in the front door, right past you and that cute little detective boyfriend of yours, and neither of you ever looked twice at me.”
The tour group, Ellie realized. There had been a few men, but mostly it had been made up of women ranging from every-hair-in-place to majorly frumpy. She would have fit right in.
“You couldn’t have known when you chose your disguise that we would have sixty-eight seniors here for lunch,” Ellie commented, surprised that her voice was steady.
“A happy coincidence. I love those. Don’t you?”
“The officer-down call from the bar…was that another coincidence? Or did you make it?”
“‘This is Josie out at Stormy’s Tavern. Someone’s shootin’ up the parkin’ lot,’” Marie said, her voice coarse, her accent thick. “‘There’s people lying all over the place, and God Almighty, I think them two cops are dead.’” She smirked. “I used to do community theater. I’m very good with makeup and dialects.”
Ellie kept her gaze locked on Marie while doing a frantic mental search for a way out. Marie blocked the door. The windows were big enough to crawl through, but they’d been painted shut since before Ellie had moved in. The glass had been in them decades longer, two panes sandwiching wire mesh. Tough to break out.
Choices for weapons were limited, as well: a lamp near the sofa, another on the desk, the telephone. Where was a heavy silver candlestick when you needed one? Or a strong, experienced cop?
I’ll be back.
And she would be waiting, she’d told Tommy. Alive, she now hoped.
Knees weakened by the alternative, she sank into the chair behind the desk. What was in the drawers? Pens, paper clips, a stapler. No letter opener; she preferred to tear the flap. A pair of scissors with two-inch round-tipped blades, not likely to do any real damage. Files, a thin Copper Lake phone book.
Heavy glasses and bottles in the bar, knives and rolling pins and skillets in the kitchen. Makeshift weapons everywhere but here.
“Why did you pick me?” The quaver that had made her legs unsteady had traveled up into her voice now.
“You fit my requirements.” Marie ticked them off on her fingers. “Having the truth come out was your greatest fear. I wanted money. You had it. I had the truth.” With a shrug as if it were truly that simple, she slid a bag off her shoulder onto the visitor chair. She lined up its contents on the far edge of the desk: a bottle of wine, likely taken from the bar; a glass; a coffee stirrer; a pill bottle half filled with powder; a manila file folder; and a sheet of paper. “Why don’t you get some paper and copy this note in your own handwriting.”
Slowly Ellie removed a notepad from the drawer, an ink pen from another and slid Marie’s note closer.
My real name is Bethany Dempsey. Martha Dempsey was my mother. I’d hidden from her for fifteen years, but she found me and threatened to destroy my new life if I didn’t give her everything. I couldn’t do it. I’d worked too hard, and I hated her too much. So I killed her.
I thought it would be easy. It was only fair, after everything she’d done to me. I didn’t expect to feel guilty. Just relieved. But I can’t stand it. I can’t stand what she turned me into. I can’t stand everyone knowing the truth about me.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
“I can’t write this,” Ellie said quietly.
Marie set the pistol on the chair seat, well out of reach, and opened the pill bottle. The white powder inside was ground-up pills, Ellie realized, to help speed their action. Marie dumped a large dose of the powder into the wineglass, then filled the glass two-thirds, stirring it until the powder dissolved.
Then she looked at Ellie. “You have two options, and walking out of here isn’t one of them. You can copy that note and drink this wine, go to sleep and never w
ake up, or you can copy the note and blow your brains out. Keep in mind that it’s probably your boyfriend who will find you. Do you want him to find you resting in peace? Or a bloody mess?”
Ellie glanced at the wine, a pretty, deep red, showing no sign of the fine powder dissolved in it. She had to believe she could stall long enough, that Tommy would realize something was wrong, that he would know she needed him.
But what if he didn’t get back in time? Which would haunt him less: an overdose? Or a gunshot to the head?
That’s a no-brainer, she could hear him saying with that dry dark humor that got him through the tough times at work.
Still, she couldn’t make herself pick up the glass. She reached for it, but her hand trembled too badly. She clasped her fingers tightly together. “You’ll never get away—”
Marie swiftly raised the gun, the barrel cold and hard against Ellie’s temple. She pressed just hard enough to make it bite into the skin. “You’re not walking out of here, Ellie.” Her voice was calm, oddly pleasant, sending a shiver through Ellie. “I’ve got too much invested here. Too much to lose. Start. Drinking. Now.”
Ellie’s breath came, quick and shallow, but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t reach for the glass. Couldn’t lift the pen.
Then Marie drew back the hammer, not much more than a click, but the most frightening sound Ellie had ever heard. The ice holding her motionless shattered and she picked up the glass, sloshing droplets over her fingers as she raised it to her mouth and sipped.
The pressure of the gun barrel against her temple didn’t ease until the third drink. Slowly Marie withdrew, eased the hammer down again, then looked around the office. “Keep drinking and start writing. Where do you keep your important papers?”
“There’s a safe in the credenza.” Ellie gestured toward the built-in piece behind her, sipped more wine, then picked up the ink pen. My real name is Bethany Dempsey.
Marie took the folder—and the gun, Ellie saw with disappointment—to the credenza and opened doors until she found the hidden safe. “Combination?”
Passion to Die for Page 19
