by Anne Canadeo
Soon after passing the community beach, the pricey neighborhood began, mini mansions perched on waterfront lots.
The Neubauer house was a few miles down, and Suzanne drove slower on the narrow, sandy road. She came to the house and pulled into the driveway.
A man might think like that, wanting a child all to himself, she reasoned. But it’s more likely that a woman would. Suzanne suddenly remembered Claire’s interaction with Emma at the memorial service. No, it was not Harry who yearned for Emma. But a mother who had never gotten over a devastating loss.
It was suddenly clear. Claire knew about Emma and wanted her, so that she and Harry could have a second chance.
She knew about the office rivalry, the allergy, and had even stopped in at the Botox party with Harry for a little while. And she knew her way around the computer network, Suzanne recalled. She was always helping Harry and Beth when the system went down.
She came in and out of the office as she pleased. No one really noticed. Suzanne thought back to the day Liza had died. Was Claire around?
Yes, she was. She’d come by during the staff meeting with Harry’s tuxedo. She waited in the car while he changed, but she could have easily planted the drink while everyone was in the meeting room.
And she had every reason to want Liza out of the picture. Of that, there could be no doubt.
Suzanne decided to call Lucy or Maggie as soon as she got on the road again, eager to know what they’d think. Either she’d gone mad, trying to figure it all out, or she was really on to something.
Suzanne could hardly focus long enough to get the key in the door. It was dusk and she switched on the lights to find her way through the empty house. Her footsteps echoed in the spacious center hall as she carefully surveyed the floor, walls, and fixtures. Not too bad, except for a few marks where paintings had been removed from the walls.
She headed for the kitchen next and flipped on the lights. The fixture on the ceiling flickered and went out. Suzanne was annoyed and made a note. Hopefully, just the bulb and not some overlooked electrical repair. She found a switch for low lights above the counters and didn’t like what she saw.
Cabinet doors hung open, a few random boxes and cans left here and there. Miscellaneous chipped cups and mismatched glasses. On the counter near the sink, a well-used wok with a few rust spots and a few pot covers. It looked like the owners had moved out in a hurry and left her to clean out their odds and ends. She hated when this happened, but it couldn’t be helped.
You’d hate it more if this place doesn’t pass inspection by the buyer on Monday, she reminded herself. She found an empty box in the hallway and began cleaning out the cupboards.
Then she decided to check the commercial-size refrigerator, large enough to easily hold a dead body, she thought as she pulled open the door. She hoped there was no old food in there. That was the worst, she thought.
The shelves were surprisingly clean and clear. But she suddenly heard a scuffling sound nearby.
Mice? Really? Give me a break . . .
She closed the fridge and stood very still, waiting for the sound.
She’d been mistaken. It was footsteps. The human kind. Unless the mouse in question was wearing boots with heels. Someone walked quietly into the kitchen; she could only see an outline in the dim light.
“Hello? Who’s there?” She slammed the fridge shut and took a few steps backward, surprised at the identity of the visitor.
“It’s me. Claire. The door was open.”
Suzanne’s mouth went dry. She was screaming inside but on the outside, willed herself to remain calm. “Hello, Claire. You scared me,” she said with a small laugh.
“That makes us even. You scared me, Suzanne. I heard you talking to Harry.”
Suzanne felt a chill, as if a frigid breeze swept through the room. “You did? How’s that?”
“He wouldn’t answer my calls. So I came by the office, to check on him.” Claire stepped forward, her hands jammed in the pockets of a boxy, tweed blazer, her hair in its usual messy bun. “When I came to his door, you were there. Talking business, I thought at first. I didn’t want to interrupt. The conversation was so interesting.”
“Really? What did I say that scared you?” Suzanne thought back. Harry talked a lot about Liza and how much he’d loved her. That part must have been unpleasant for Claire to overhear.
“You were talking about Emma, and I felt sure it wouldn’t be long until you figured out why Liza had to die.”
When Suzanne didn’t answer, she said, “He is Emma’s father. Kira’s just her aunt. Any court will grant him custody in a minute. Especially once they hear my credentials. I’ll be an outstanding mother. She’ll thrive with my care. She’ll be a prodigy. Kira is a spoiled, self-centered child herself. She could never love Emma and care for her the way I can. Neither could Liza.”
Suzanne was stunned by this confession, and Claire’s gossamer thin hold on reality. But she decided the best tack right now was to humor her. “You would be a wonderful mother, Claire. Much better than Liza.”
“That’s right. You’re very clever, Suzanne. Much sharper than I thought.” Claire cast Suzanne a warm smile, as if praising one of her genius babies.
Harry had called her “fragile,” but Claire is plain crazy. And I’ll be lucky if I get out of here alive, Suzanne realized.
She squared her shoulders and checked her watch, as if preparing to head home. “Well, got to go. My own brood is waiting for me.” She took a few tiny steps toward the door. “I won’t tell a soul, if that’s what you’re worried about. The police have Beth Birney in custody and can make a good case against her.”
“I thought that might work out, too. Until I heard you and Harry talking. I’m sorry, Suzanne. You’re just too bright for your own good.”
Suzanne didn’t answer. She scanned the room for the quickest way out. The only choice was making a mad dash past Claire.
If I hunker over like a football player, maybe I can knock her down?
Suzanne had just lowered her head like a bull, preparing to stampede, when Claire’s right hand emerged from her jacket pocket. Holding a small, shiny gun.
“Not so fast, dear. Don’t make any hasty exits.” She waved the gun to underscore her warning. “I don’t believe firearms should be legal, to be honest with you. But Harry keeps this little pistol in the house, under the bed, and I had a minute to stop home and pick it up on my way. I guess it can come in handy.”
Harry’s house was not far from this one, she recalled. She had passed it on the way. Suzanne stood up and raised her hands in the air. “You don’t want to shoot me, Claire. You really don’t.”
“Oh, you’re right. But you want to shoot yourself. First, you’ll send a text to your husband confessing to Liza’s murder and tell him that you can’t live with the guilt. Where’s your phone? Get it out.”
Suzanne met her gaze. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She fished in her big leather tote for her phone, her hand shaking wildly.
“Hurry up. No funny stuff. Give it here.” Claire held out her free hand.
Suzanne finally found the phone and handed it over. Claire stared at the screen.
“Open it, it’s locked. What’s your code?”
“I-I-I can’t remember,” she lied. “I just have to do it. By habit. Here, let me have it back. I’ll put it in.”
Suzanne took the phone back and tapped in some random numbers. Then purposely dropped the phone so that it bounced under a cooking cart.
“You idiot . . . get that phone. Give it here.” Claire sounded angry and frustrated, but there was nothing she could really do but wave the pistol around.
Suzanne crouched down on the other side of the cart and grabbed the phone. “Sorry . . . it went way under. I can just about grab it. . . .”
Kneeling on the other side of the cart, Suzanne pretended to be reaching under to grab the phone, while she deftly opened it with her code and somehow managed to send Lucy the shortest tex
t in history.
An emoji of the Edvard Munch screaming face, followed by: 23 Bch Rd.
Was Lucy even home right now, only a mile or so away? Would she remember Suzanne had to come here, to check the house?
She heard Claire walking around to her side of the cart and jumped up. “Here it is. Got it, finally.”
Suzanne squeezed the button and the home screen appeared. Claire poked her with the gun and grabbed the phone. “Sit down. And stay there.”
Suzanne sat on a stool next to the kitchen island. She felt sweat running down her body. What could she do? What could she say to get out of this?
She stretched out her hand and stroked the countertop. “This is real Carrara marble. From Italy. Isn’t it gorgeous?”
Suzanne could tell that Claire was trying to find Kevin’s number in the contact list. But it wasn’t under K. Suzanne had it under H, for Hubby, and wasn’t going to offer that information, either.
“You real estate people. You never give up, do you?” Claire murmured.
“But it’s fabulous. A great selling point in this place . . .” Suzanne stroked the marble as if making love to it, then lunged for the wok.
She flung it at Claire, who screamed and put her arm up.
Suzanne heard the gun go off as she dashed across the kitchen, pushing the stool down in her wake to block Claire’s path.
Claire stumbled but quickly gained her balance. “Come back here. I’ll shoot you, I swear. . . .”
Suzanne had considered that possibility. But it wouldn’t look like suicide if she had a bullet in her back and she hoped Claire would not revise her plan.
The front door would not do as an exit strategy. Claire was in the foyer, thinking Suzanne had run up the stairs.
She pressed herself to the hallway wall and wracked her brain, trying to remember the layout. Then she ran down a flight of stairs to the lower level. Claire had lost track of her for a moment, but Suzanne soon heard footsteps following close by.
Suzanne dashed down a narrow hallway that opened to an entertainment area, filled with low couches, huge palm plants, a fire pit, and a long bar on one wall. Large glass windows that opened onto a stone patio and pool were covered by heavy curtains.
Suzanne left the lights off and stumbled around the room, bumping off the couches like a pinball as she finally found the windows. Somewhere along that wall, a door opened to the patio, she was sure of it.
She skittered under the curtain like an insect, searching for the door handle. Her heartbeat was so loud, she was sure Claire would hear it.
She heard Claire’s footsteps on the slate floor and froze in place. “I know you’re in here. Come out now, and make this easy on yourself.”
Crawling as quietly as she could, Suzanne made her way to the bar and slipped behind it. Claire was crazy but she wasn’t dumb. Suzanne knew it was only a matter of moments before the hiding place would be discovered.
“Some lights will help.” Suzanne heard switches click and lights flashed on. She had tucked herself behind the bar just in time but felt sure she was doomed.
She looked around the back of the bar, desperate for something to use to defend herself, and suddenly grateful the departed owners had been so sloppy. A corkscrew? A martini glass? There was an ice pick, but it was no protection against a gun.
Then she saw a blender and two bottles, bloody Mary mix with sriracha and a heavy square bottle of quality gin.
She heard Claire’s foosteps on the far side of the room and then the sound of the curtain yanked open with one hard pull. “You’re under here, aren’t you?”
Suzanne huddled down and set the gin near her side, then poured the mix into the blender as fast as the bottle would empty. There was a glug, glug sound and she was sure Claire had heard it.
She checked the blender plug and held her breath, not daring to move a muscle as the footsteps came closer.
“Suzanne . . . please. This is a silly game. I’m getting very tired. And annoyed.”
Claire peered around the edge of the bar. She smiled and pointed the gun at Suzanne.
“There you are. Naughty girl. Looks like I won.”
Suzanne sprang up and turned on the blender. Eyes squeezed closed, she pointed the whirring machine at her adversary while bloody Mary mix flew in all directions. Claire screamed and staggered backward, pressing her hands to her face as the spicy mixture seeped into her eyes.
Gin bottle in hand, Suzanne struck Claire squarely over the head, and with a surprised groan Claire dropped to the ground, then just lay there.
Suzanne was breathless. She turned off the blender and stared at Claire’s immobile body. What should she do next? Call the police? Tie her hands before she woke? And where the heck was that gun?
She heard Lucy call out as she ran into the room. “Suzanne . . . what happened? Are you shot?”
Suzanne looked down at her clothes and laughed. “Just tomato juice, honest. But what a waste of a perfectly good batch of cocktails.”
Chapter 12
Maggie had not heard all the details, but enough from Lucy to be assured that Suzanne had finally unmasked Liza’s real murderer and their dear friend had been proven innocent, once and for all.
It was after six, but she lingered in the shop, straightening out displays and then preparing for a children’s class she taught on Saturdays, Little Knitters. They were going to start knitted animal hats that could serve as masks for Halloween. Maggie stood at the back table and counted out the simple patterns and sets of supplies.
The notion of masks brought Claire Prentiss to mind again. Hers was a sad story, truly, Maggie thought. Her mind had been twisted by grief and loss. Maggie felt bad for her, though she’d had no right to take a life and certainly no right to make Suzanne pay for her crime.
Maggie did wonder what Charles was thinking, and his dour partner on this case, Frank Oliver, faced with this surprising turn and forced to see now that they’d been wrong all along about Suzanne. Just as I told him.
The thought gave her some satisfaction. But not as much as she’d expected.
The shop door swung open. A late customer, she guessed. “Be with you in a minute,” she called over her shoulder.
“Take your time. I didn’t think you’d still be here.”
She turned to find Charles, standing by the counter. Hat in hand, she noticed.
She’d expected to hear from him, sooner or later, now that the case was solved. But not this soon. Why wasn’t he at the station, filling out reports and all the other paperwork?
She set aside the knitting supplies and walked toward him.
“I’m sure you heard already. It was Claire Prentiss.” Charles shook his head. “I didn’t see that coming.”
“I did hear . . . and it’s big of you to admit it.”
He shrugged. “I never really thought it was Suzanne. You know that.”
“Yes, I guess I do. That’s why it’s been so hard for me to figure out these past few days why you stormed out of my house last weekend.”
“I didn’t storm. I walked out very calmly. I don’t want to argue with you, Maggie. But I’ve been doing some thinking and I want to talk things out.”
His serious expression set off alarms. Maggie braced herself. Of course, he’d never be the type of man to just disappear, without offering some closure. He was far too mature for that. Nonetheless, this was not going to be an easy conversation.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “All right. What have you been thinking about, Charles?”
He cleared his throat and lifted his chin. “It’s hard for me to say this, but we can’t keep going around in the same circle. Having the same argument, over and over. You know how I feel about you. But something has to give, Maggie.”
She was right. He was trying to break up with her. Maggie felt tears well up behind her eyes but blinked them back. “I agree,” she said in the most forceful voice she could summon. “I can’t be happy that way either and . . .”
&nb
sp; He held up his hand and met her glance. “Just let me finish, okay? Before you sign the death certificate?”
Maggie laughed at the dark humor and took a deep breath. He was determined to dump her first. And wouldn’t let her beat him to the punch, would he? All right, he was the one who started the conversation.
“Sorry, Charles. Please continue. Say what you have to say.”
And then please go, and leave me alone to cry my eyes out.
He cleared his throat again. “I want you to know that I’ve decided to retire. I’ve fought the good fight and landed a few good punches, I’d say. But this is a young man’s game. I’ve done my part. I can’t keep up this pace and the long hours on a case like this one.”
Maggie was so stunned she could not speak. She knew she was staring at him bug-eyed but couldn’t help it. “Retire? You never mentioned you were even considering it.”
“I didn’t think I was either. But it’s been brewing, on a back burner, I guess. As I searched for an answer for the problem between you and me, it suddenly seemed like the perfect solution. The only solution,” he added.
He’d been thinking so hard about their relationship? Maggie had never expected that either.
“I can’t keep your nose out of police business, Maggie, so I’ll just stop being a police officer. I think that would solve it. Don’t you?”
Maggie took a few steps closer. Had she really heard him right? “You’re giving up your job for me? For our relationship?”
Charles finally smiled at her. “Let’s say it’s a combination of factors. But you’re at the top of the list. I don’t want to be at odds with you. Not if I can help it.”
Maggie’s heart melted. No one had ever offered her such a tribute. “And I don’t want to fight with you,” she rushed to assure him. “I was looking forward to you moving in with me, so much,” she confessed. “I’ve been very upset, but I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t think you even wanted to talk to me again.”
“I didn’t when I left your house last week. But only for as long as it took to walk to my car. I was feeling awful and nearly called you before I even got home. I haven’t been myself since.”
