“They’re horror novels and I think they’re great,” Laurel said.
Crystal frowned. “They’re gruesome and you’d have to be nuts to come up with some of that stuff he does.”
“You don’t have to be nuts,” Denise said. “You just need a good imagination.”
Crystal shook her head. “No. Ghosts, vampires, monsters. I think you’d have to be crazy to think about stuff like that all the time and actually write stories about it.”
Monica looked impatient. “Can we save this highly literary discussion until later? We have a much more urgent issue to solve. We have to figure out who murdered Angie and who’s trying to terrorize at least three of us.”
“Isn’t that up to the police?” Denise asked. “Don’t the New York police have any suspects?”
“Only one—Angie’s ex-husband Stuart Burgess,” Monica said. “He is not a nice guy, but for some reason he gave Angie a small fortune in the divorce settlement. The police wonder if she was holding some damaging information over his head. Nasty rumors about him have circulated for years, but no one has ever known anything definite. Maybe Angie did. Anyway, she never got around to changing her will so now that she’s dead, all that he gave her, plus all that she made on Broadway, belongs to him. He’s been arrested.”
“Well, there you go!” Crystal said hopefully. “He probably did it.”
“Maybe, if he knew about the Six of Hearts and Faith. If he didn’t, why would he have put a six and a heart on her mirror? Why would he be sending us mail with Angie’s and Faith’s photos?”
“To throw the police off the track?”
“The police don’t know about the Six of Hearts, Crystal.” Monica shook her head. “I agree Burgess had an excellent motive, but I don’t think he did it. And the problem is that Angie was killed between midnight and three Tuesday morning. It’s now almost eight o’clock Thursday night. After twenty-four hours the trail gets cold.”
“That’s still not such a long time,” Crystal insisted. “I can’t believe they solve all murders in twenty-four hours.”
“Certainly they don’t. I’m just saying the more time that passes, the harder things get for the police. In the meantime, three of the four of us have received what I interpret as warnings that our turn is coming.” Monica gave each of them a hard stare. “I, for one, don’t intend to sit idly by and let it happen.”
“Go to the police,” Laurel said promptly.
“No!” chorused three voices. “Absolutely no way,” Denise stated.
“What do you suggest we do?” Laurel asked.
Monica took over. “For one, be extra careful. Be sure to keep your doors and windows locked. Carry Mace. Keep a gun by your bed.”
“I’m sure Wayne will wonder why I have a gun by the bed,” Denise said.
“Stick it in a drawer you can reach easily.”
Crystal frowned. “I’m afraid of guns.”
Monica looked at her in exasperation. “Aren’t you more afraid of being murdered? Take another look at that picture of Angie and tell me you’d rather end up like that than keep a gun around.” Crystal glanced away. “All right, the second thing we’re going to do is look at everyone who might have knowledge of the Six of Hearts. Mary and Zeke Howard. Neil Kamrath.”
“I knew it!” Denise crowed. “Amateur detectives.”
“Would you rather tell Wayne the truth and then go to the police?” Monica snapped.
Denise looked at Monica for a moment, then uttered a reluctant “No.”
“Well, we have two alternatives. Telling the police about our part in Faith’s death, or trying to smoke out this killer ourselves, because if Stuart Burgess didn’t do it—”
“Then it might be someone from around here,” Laurel said slowly. “Someone who has a perfect chance to get at any of us.”
3
Crystal and Denise left almost immediately. Monica asked Laurel to stay for a few minutes. Laurel could tell the others were curious, but Denise was anxious to return to Audra and Crystal looked as if she couldn’t wait to get away.
When they were gone, Monica said, “There’s a coffee maker in the room. Would you care for a cup?”
“Yes. I can’t seem to shake this chill I’ve had ever since you told me about Angie.”
Monica fixed coffee and came back to sit opposite Laurel. “You know, I feel you’re the only one who’s taking this seriously.”
“You do? Crystal is scared to death.”
“Crystal is always scared. Denise acts like the whole thing is just a nuisance.”
“I think Denise is in denial. She’s so protective of her family, of the life she’s made for herself, she just can’t face this kind of threat.”
“She has to face it. We all do.”
Laurel leaned forward. “Monica, do you really believe Stuart Burgess had nothing to do with Angie’s death? She could have told him about Faith and the Six of Hearts, and the photos we received were mailed in New York. They could have come from him.”
“But none of that would matter unless one of us tells the police about the club and Faith, and Stuart couldn’t count on that happening.”
“He could tell the police himself.”
“That wouldn’t be as effective, especially if we opted to deny it. There was no suspicion of us thirteen years ago. The only person whose alibi was even checked was Neil Kamrath. We all alibied each other. The only people we were in trouble with was our families for lying about Angie’s parents being home when they weren’t. Stuart Burgess, on the other hand, has no alibi for the night of Angie’s murder. He’s too smart not to have provided himself with something ironclad if he had killed Angie. No, Laurel, I’m sure he didn’t do it.”
Laurel looked out the window. The lights were on in the room so her face and Monica’s were reflected. She looked troubled. Monica looked determined. Monica rose and came back with a cup of hot coffee. Laurel took it. “I still think—”
“Don’t even mention the police.”
“But—”
“Laurel, no!” Laurel drew back and Monica softened. “At least not right now. Please.”
“All right,” Laurel said reluctantly. “I’ll give in for now. But only for now. Tomorrow I’ll find out what I can from Mary.”
“Be subtle.”
“You don’t need to tell me that, Monica. I’m not an idiot.”
Monica’s lips twitched. “No, but you’re a lot more confident than you used to be. What happened?”
“I got older.”
“So did Crystal but the years didn’t do much for her.”
“She hasn’t had many confidence-building experiences. The final blow was Chuck walking out on her.”
“That dolt. He used to be handsome but he didn’t have much else going for him.”
“He’s still handsome and he still doesn’t have much else going for him except a wealthy new girlfriend. But I remember a time when you weren’t so derisive about Chuck.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You had a crush on him in high school.”
“I did not!”
“Oh, Monica, you did, too. I used to see the way you looked at him. It’s not something to be embarrassed about. He was great-looking and he was our star athlete, the most popular guy in the school. Lots of girls had crushes on him.”
“Do I seem like the kind of woman who would have a thing for Chuck Landis?”
“Not now but we’re talking about when you were a teenager. I even suspected you went out with him a couple of times.”
“Now that is crazy. He was Crystal’s.”
“Or so she thought. I never believed he was as smitten with her as she was with him.”
“He married her.”
“And he left her. She’s crushed.”
“How tragic.”
Laurel looked at her angrily. “You never fought with her like you did Denise, but you were always jealous of Crystal.”
She expected hot denial, but Mo
nica looked away and sighed. “Yes. She had everything. She was such a damned princess.”
“Well, she’s not a princess now, especially after the miscarriages and the stillbirth. You know how she used to talk constantly about wanting to be a mother, and she’s loved Chuck since she was about fourteen. Now he’s gone and she can’t have children, so don’t be so damned hard on her.”
“I’ll try, but those perpetually fearful eyes and that mournful voice annoy the hell out of me.” Monica shrugged. “What can I say? I’m not an easy person. That’s probably why there’s no one in my life. No one available, that is.” Laurel looked at her questioningly. “John Tate. He’s married.”
“Your law firm—Maxwell, Tate, and Goldstein. That Tate?”
“Yes, but don’t get the idea I’m close to making partner in the firm because of him,” Monica said hotly. “I’ve worked damned hard. Next month I’m going to represent Kelly Kingford.”
“The wife of that multimillionaire who’s suing her for divorce and trying to get custody of the children?”
“Yes. You don’t know the publicity this trial will bring me.” Monica looked at Laurel intensely. “That’s why I cannot have anything about the Six of Hearts and Faith come out. It would hurt all of us, but it would ruin me.”
So that’s why Monica was so concerned, Laurel thought. She wasn’t just worried about the safety of her, Denise, and Crystal. She was afraid they might have received the photos of Angie and Faith that she did and would go to the police, drawing Monica into a scandal.
Laurel remembered when she met Monica. Her mother had died three years earlier after a long, debilitating illness. Shortly after her death, Monica’s father met another woman who didn’t want her, so her father blithely dispatched Monica to Wheeling to live with a starchy great-aunt who never let her forget she was only taking in Monica out of a sense of duty. Monica had been a miserable nine-year-old, stiff and withdrawn, when Laurel went out of her way to befriend her. It hadn’t been easy at first. Monica was hurt and defensive, humiliated and devastated by the rejection by the father she’d adored, but Laurel persisted. She’d pulled Monica into her circle of friends. She wasn’t sure when Monica’s quiet gratitude to the group had turned into equally quiet domination. Perhaps it was some time after the formation of the Six of Hearts when they were twelve. Looking back, Laurel could see that during Monica’s teens, the seeds of her current almost total self-absorption had begun to sprout.
“Monica, none of us is going to the police now.”
“Do you promise?” Monica asked. “Do you promise not to tell Kurt?”
“Yes, I promise not to tell him. We’re not sure of anything and too many people could be hurt. But if this gets more serious—”
“Then we’ll decide what to do. In the meantime, I plan to go to Denise’s party. I know she doesn’t really want me, but Neil Kamrath might show up.”
“I’ll be at the party, too. If he doesn’t come there, he might come to Angie’s funeral. As for Faith’s father, I don’t know how I’ll get to him.”
“You can join that crazy church of his.”
Laurel pulled a face. “There has to be an easier way. I’ll figure out something.” She stood. “I really should be getting home.”
Monica touched her arm. For just a moment she looked like the girl Laurel had first seen, a vulnerable nine-year-old who’d stood self-consciously in front of thirty students, being introduced to the fourth-grade class by the teacher. “Laurel, you’re the only one I can really count on. You always reached out to me, always helped me. I appreciated it then and I appreciate it now.”
Laurel wasn’t sure if Monica’s words were genuine or an attempt at manipulation. It didn’t matter. “This is very serious business, Monica. I’ll do anything I can to help all of us.”
When she went back out to her car, the night had become considerably colder. Atop the hill on which the lodge sat, a brisk wind whipped her coat around her and blew her hair mercilessly. She started the car, turned on the radio, and pulled out of the parking lot listening to “Up on the Roof.” Tour buses and dozens of cars moved slowly along the narrow road, making their way around the light display route. If she weren’t so cold and distracted, she might have taken the tour herself, but now she only wanted the safety and comfort of her home.
She had pulled onto Route 88 and started down the hill when she became aware of a pair of headlights bearing down on her. Dammit, she thought. Why did some people ride your bumper? The driver didn’t need to come this close even to pass, not that this was a good place to pass anyway. The road was narrow, two lanes, and a steady stream of traffic came in the opposite direction heading for the park. Laurel pressed the accelerator, raising her speed by five miles an hour. There, a little breathing room, she thought.
She glanced in the rearview mirror to see the headlights bearing down on her again. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel as her anger grew. She squinted into the rearview mirror trying to see the driver, but she was blinded by the lights that were on high beam. All she could tell was that the car was larger than her own mid-sized Chevrolet Cavalier.
Tempted to go even faster, Laurel glanced at the speedometer. She was already over the speed limit. Besides, if she speeded up, so would the other driver. She would just have to grit her teeth and suffer through the next three miles until she reached home.
She was passing the Wheeling Country Club when the other car hit her rear bumper. The impact threw her forward. What the hell is he doing? she cried to herself. The car dropped back slightly as she regained her breath. Then it shot forward again, hitting her harder than before.
Oh, God, Laurel thought. Was this just a drunk having some fun or did this have something to do with Angie’s murder and the photos she’d received? She’d thought they were a threat. Instead of being bludgeoned to death like Angie, was she to die in a car wreck?
No, she wouldn’t. She was a good driver and it would take more than a couple of taps on her bumper to unnerve her to the point of running off the road. She focused on the highway, refusing to be distracted by continually looking in the rearview mirror.
Two miles from home. Another, harder bump. Her breath quickened. Concentrate on the road, she commanded herself. She couldn’t let fear take over, although she knew that blow had been strong enough to damage her car. She’d heard metal crunching.
Finally the car actually rammed her. She swerved, nearly running off the pavement as she desperately fought the wheel, managing to regain control of the car. But she couldn’t control the fear that gripped her. In spite of the cold she felt perspiration popping out along her hairline. One mile from home. What should she do? Make a couple of turns and reach her long, deserted driveway with this maniac right behind her? No way.
As they reached the place where she should have made the first turn, she couldn’t help a quick glance into the rearview mirror. The other driver slowed slightly. He was expecting her to turn, she thought, appalled. That meant he wasn’t some drunk playing games with a random car. The driver knew exactly who she was and where she lived.
Laurel sped past the turnoff, heading toward town. The other car picked up speed again and nosed close enough for another nudge. But that’s all it was—a nudge. Maybe she’d thrown him by not heading for home as he expected.
Five minutes later she reached downtown Wheeling. The other car had dropped back. When she ran a yellow light, the car stopped. She made two unnecessary turns in case the driver was watching, then pulled up in front of Kurt Rider’s apartment building.
Laurel jumped out of the car and ran up the walk and through the main door. Kurt’s apartment was on the second floor. The heels on her boots slammed against each step as she hurtled upward. No doubt Kurt’s cantankerous next-door neighbor, Mrs. Henshaw, would be complaining, but she didn’t care.
She pounded on Kurt’s door, looking fearfully behind her. The stairs were empty but for how long? She pounded again. Dammit, where was he? She knew he didn’
t go out much at night unless he was with her. He was too devoted to the weekly television lineup to hang out in bars and miss his shows. She pounded one more time before the door beside his was flung open.
“Do you know what time it is? What’s all this racket about? You’ll wake up the whole buildin’!”
Mrs. Henshaw—plump, red-faced, and sporting a head full of pink foam rollers—glared at her from small, mud-colored eyes.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Henshaw,” Laurel said, although it was only nine o’clock, not midnight. “I’m looking for Kurt.”
“I figured that out for myself.” The woman wore a bulky quilted robe in a patchwork pattern and huge fuzzy slippers with bunny faces, whiskers, and large pointed ears. She looked ridiculous. “You two have a fight or somethin’?”
“It’s none of your business,” Laurel started to snap, then caught herself. Kurt had enough problems with this harridan without her adding to them. “No, Mrs. Henshaw, we didn’t have a fight. I had a bad scare—someone following me—so I came here.”
“Someone followin’ you?” she repeated. “Old boyfriend or somethin’?”
“No, I’m certain it wasn’t. Just some crazy person, but I was frightened. Do you know where Kurt is?”
“What do I look like? His social secretary or somethin’?” Laurel had never known anyone who could end almost every sentence with “or somethin’.” “Alls I know is he went out a couple a hours ago.”
“Oh. Well, maybe I’ll wait a few minutes.”
“Suit yourself,” Mrs. Henshaw said and slammed her door.
Thank you so much for inviting me in, Laurel thought sourly. Kurt always said she was the most disagreeable person he’d ever met and that her wimpy little husband had probably died at forty-five just to get away from her.
Laurel sat down on the stairs, her eyes fastened on the door leading outside. What would she do if the driver of the other car came in after her? God, she didn’t even know what the other driver looked like. But if anyone who seemed threatening entered the building, she’d…she’d what? Bang on Mrs. Henshaw’s door and hope the woman would take pity and let her in? What if she wouldn’t? Monica said they should carry Mace. She had none. She had nothing with which to defend herself.
In the Event of My Death Page 6
