by Amy Vansant
She scrambled to reach behind her head, clawing at her ears and shoulders. As her fingernails dug into the object, it yelped, and she felt a pinch on her hand. The weight released from her shoulders and she heard something hit the floor behind her. She turned in time to see a pink creature scurrying down the hallway to the bedroom.
What in the name of hell spawn was that? She rubbed at her neck, hoping she hadn’t already been contaminated by whatever infected that pink, baggy-skinned attacker.
Jamie put her hand on her chest and took a moment to catch her breath. Remembering the painful pinch on her hand, she studied the red mark there. It wasn’t deep or bleeding in any significant way.
She peeked around the corner and saw two green eyes staring at her from beneath the bed at the end of the hall.
Cat.
Killing the cat would reveal her presence in the house.
Right?
Yes.
“Lucky cat,” she hissed at it.
It stared.
She slipped out of the home and into her car without extracting her revenge.
As she pulled away, in her rearview mirror, she could see Charlotte rounding the corner for home. Between the peeper and the leper cat, it was a miracle she’d escaped alive.
Jamie rolled past the Pineapple Port grounds-keeping building and spotted a familiar man there, stacking plants on the back of a flatbed golf cart.
Her old friend, Peeps.
Charlotte’s admirer was a grounds keeper for the community. He was someone who saw her every day and knew when she walked the dog; knew when her house would be empty. That made sense.
She felt a familiar tingling in her blood.
Peeps posed a threat to Charlotte. Stephanie didn’t want Charlotte dead, fearing her martyrdom would only delay any chance of her regaining Declan’s love. Using that logic...
It would be irresponsible of me not to protect Charlotte, wouldn’t it?
And forget Charlotte; Peeps had seen her.
She hated loose ends.
And creeps.
“This should kill an afternoon,” she mumbled, pulling to the curb and readying herself for a day of surveillance.
Chapter Fifteen
Charlotte had just stepped out of the shower when she heard a knock. Abby burst from her post-walk nap and ran for the door. Charlotte slipped on a robe to follow.
Outside, she found Auntie Carolina.
“Are you taking the cat back today?” she asked.
Charlotte nodded. “I was just getting dressed. Come in.”
Carolina stepped into the house and immediately spotted the cat on the refrigerator.
“You go ahead and get dressed,” she said, heading for the kitchen.
Charlotte nodded and padded back to her bedroom. Once dressed, she returned to the living room to find Carolina on her sofa with the cat wrapped around her neck.
“He doesn’t make me sneeze,” she said.
“Are you allergic to cats?”
“I had one as a girl and my mother had to give it away because of my allergies. This guy doesn’t make me sneeze.”
“He seems to like you—oh shoot.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I was going to borrow a cat carrier from Declan’s shop and I totally forgot to ask him about it.”
“I’ll go with you,” offered Carolina. “I can hold the cat.”
Charlotte nodded. “Okay, great! We’re taking Mariska’s car.”
Carolina pulled the cat from her neck and into her arms to carry it outside. Charlotte heard the creature’s happy purr engine rumbling as the two passed her.
They borrowed Mariska’s car and headed to the scene of the poisoning. The son had told Charlotte he would be there all day packing and she could bring the cat back any time. He’d also promised to reimburse her for the vet bill.
“Are you going home?” said Carolina in a baby voice to the cat, who had rolled onto its back in her lap like a dog searching for a belly rub.
“He’s a real dog-cat,” said Charlotte. “Looks like a cat, acts like a goofy dog.”
“I’m not sure he even looks like a cat,” said Carolina, before shifting back into baby talk. “You’re a little weirdo, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”
Charlotte pulled up to 745 Locust Lane. All the blinds were closed. It didn’t look like anyone was there.
“Wait here a second,” said Charlotte, getting out.
She went to the door and knocked, but there was no answer. Peering through the window, she could see the house was empty of furniture.
Oh no. Did she get the day wrong?
“Hello?”
The neighbor next door was on her porch in her housedress calling to her.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” said Charlotte. “I was supposed to meet the son of the former owners here today?”
“You heard what happened,” said the woman, her voice dripping with drama.
“I did.”
“Hey! You were here when they found Rich... You were with the Sheriff?”
“I was.”
“You missed Rich Jr. He came with a moving van and took everything yesterday.”
“Yesterday!” Charlotte sighed. “I was supposed to meet him and return his parents’ cat.”
The woman laughed. “Rich Jr. hated that creepy-looking cat. He told me yesterday he wished it had died too...” she trailed off. The two women looked at each other, reaching the same conclusion at the same time.
“So, he told me to show up a day late because he didn’t want the cat,” said Charlotte.
The woman nodded. “Seems like it.”
“I don’t suppose you want a cat?”
The woman opened her door to head inside, laughing. She shut the door behind her without another word.
“I’ll take that for a no.”
Charlotte returned to the car.
“Looks like I’ve got a cat. At least until I can find someone else who wants him,” she said, turning the ignition.
“What do you mean?”
“The guy purposely gave me the wrong day so he wouldn’t have to take the cat back. He’s long gone.”
“Oh, that’s terrible,” said Carolina. She nuzzled the cat’s face to her own. “Isn’t that terrible Mister Mister? But you get to stay with us...yes you do...”
Charlotte glanced at Carolina. She’d never seen this soft and fuzzy side of the woman. Strange the fuzzy side appeared for the least-fuzziest thing on the planet.
Charlotte stopped at Declan’s pawnshop on the way back to see if he had a cat carrier. Carolina came into the store with her, cat in her arms.
“Hello there!” said Declan, weaving his way through the furniture maze to greet them when they entered. “What brings me this pleasure today?”
“I’ve been duped and I need a cat carrier. You mentioned you had one?”
“I do. I’m Declan,” he said, thrusting his hand toward Carolina.
“This is Mariska’s sister, visiting from Michigan,” said Charlotte.
“Nice to meet you,” said Declan.
Carolina shook with her non-cat-cradling hand. She was staring at Declan. Charlotte suspected she was trying to find something to not like about him. The absence of wisecracks meant so far, so good.
“Enjoying the weather?” asked Declan. “Little warmer here than Michigan, eh?”
Charlotte silently groaned. Declan had just tossed Carolina a softball.
“Ya think?” said Carolina.
Charlotte braced herself for more, waiting for Carolina to call Declan Captain Obvious or tell him he should have been a weatherman—what with him knowing Michigan is colder than Florida and all.
Instead, she smiled.
“It’s like a darn sauna. The place is only fit for ferns!” she said and then giggled.
Giggled.
“So this is the cat,” said Declan, rubbing the creature’s head as it pushed its ears against his fingers. “Really neat looking, isn�
��t it?”
“Isn’t it?” said Carolina, beaming.
What is going on here? Declan had won over Carolina. Charlotte had never seen her Auntie warm to another human being that quickly. Heck, it had taken four visits before Carolina stopped calling Darla “Hayseed” due to her Southern accent.
“Let me get you that carrier,” said Declan. He went to the far left side of the store and came back with a cat carrier, a glittery collar and some toys.
“The collar might be a little girly for him,” he said.
“No, it’s perfect,” said Carolina, snatching it from his fingers.
“What do I owe you?” asked Charlotte.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Bye!” Carolina twirled on her heel and headed back to the car.
“I think she’s eager to put the collar on him,” said Charlotte. “Thanks for everything.”
“No problem. So you have a cat now?”
“Looks like it.”
“At least it doesn’t shed.”
Charlotte sighed. “Yeah, I’ve got that going for me.”
Chapter Sixteen
Jamie preferred to plan her appointments. It was the best way to avoid costly mistakes. She watched the peeping Tom maintenance man for an hour, popped home for a cup of coffee when it was clear he’d be busy working for the foreseeable future, and returned at four p.m.
Peeps was there in the maintenance yard, emptying the flatbed of a golf cart-turned work truck.
Perfect.
Over the next hour, Peeps hosed down the truck, smoked two cigarettes and shared a couple of beers with his co-workers. She noted he was left-handed. Little details like that sometimes came in handy.
At ten to five, the little man disappeared behind the maintenance shed and an old Toyota pickup emerged a few minutes later; Peeps at the wheel.
Jamie followed him home with no plans beyond discovering the location of his residence. She toyed with the idea of Peeps at the center of the game she was supposed to play with Alex. First one to kill Peeps, wins. She’d choose him for the game, as if at random, but all the surveillance work would be done.
That’s when it hit her; she couldn’t have a murdering contest with mysterious Alex. If she didn’t kill the chosen prey first, she lost. But killing first might be the whole point of the game; he could surveil her. Watch her planning the murder and watch her committing it. She couldn’t assume he didn’t already know who she was and where she lived.
Winning was losing. Heck, he could film her winning. These days everyone had a camera, ready to quick draw like a gun at a moment’s notice. Selfie pout? Snap! Well-cooked quinoa? Snap! Nailing the infamous Puzzle Killer for murder? Snap!
She sighed.
How hard would it be for him to send me to jail or blackmail me for life?
Winning his battle was losing the war.
A wry smile curled on her lips.
She almost respected him for thinking of it.
Bastard.
Well, that answered that. There would be no contest. It was ridiculous anyway. She’d have to find another way to appease the nut. On her own terms.
She took a moment to mourn the high-tech, new generation of murders.
They just don’t make serial killers the way they used to.
Peeps parked his truck in front of a small cement brick house at the end of an overgrown cul-de-sac. There were no other cars in his driveway, no children’s toys littering the yard and no obvious signs of a woman’s touch.
Surprise, surprise.
His neighborhood was largely abandoned; both neighboring houses had For Sale signs and the faded blue rancher across the street was boarded.
She felt a tingle of excitement.
He might as well have driven home to a remote camping site. And here she was, Jason Voorhees in his hockey mask, ready to slaughter the lustful teen guidance counselors.
After all, it did turn out to be Mrs. Voorhees who did all the killing in Friday the 13th.
Sometimes life just drops things in your lap.
Peeps went inside and she watched him through the curtain-less front window. He grabbed a beer and stationed himself on the sofa in front of a glowing television.
Jamie turned off her engine. Pulling a gauzy scarf from her purse, she wrapped it around her right hand.
Don’t do it. It’s too tempting; don’t do it, said a little voice in the back of her head, but she still found herself opening her car door.
She walked to Peeps’ backyard; a small, overgrown affair encircled by a rusting metal fence. A large bush from the neighbor’s abandoned yard had engulfed the fence and now commanded a good portion of Peeps’ yard. The gate to the fence was open, as was the rotting shed skulking in the far corner. On the ground outside the shed was a baseball. She picked it up.
She peeked inside the shed and spotted a short machete leaning against a wall.
Is someone writing this murder for me?
She had everything she needed. An abandoned neighborhood. A baseball. A machete.
Everything was perfect.
She grasped the machete and tested the weight in her scarf-wrapped hand. It felt good.
She walked to the front of the giant bush at the back of the yard and tucked the baseball under her armpit. Turning to face the house, she rested the machete on the ground by the tip, so the handle balanced on the back of her leg.
She unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it open. She considered removing her bra, but decided it was unnecessary.
Plucking the baseball from under her armpit, she threw it as hard as she could at Peeps’ door. There was a loud crash as it struck the aluminum bottom portion and the glass above shattered to the cracked cement steps below.
Knock, knock.
Peeps appeared a moment later, beer in hand.
“Que?—”
He opened the broken door and skittered down the stairs before he realized what stood before him. A crazy, half-dressed old—mature—lady. He stopped and stared, his jaw hanging open.
Jamie held out her hand and crooked her finger, beckoning to him. Like a man hypnotized, he walked towards her.
I’ve still got it.
Once or twice he hesitated, but she cupped her breast with her other hand, running her tongue across her lips. She felt like a cartoon. Still, he continued.
Men are such idiots.
When he was about four feet away from her, Jamie opened her palm, transforming her beckoning finger into a stop sign. Like a good boy, he stopped.
“You want me?” she purred. ¿Tu me quieres?
She watched confusion cloud his expression. He didn’t know why this was happening. Slowly, his confusion morphed into a sly smirk. She assumed he’d come to the only conclusion a man would; that she’d seen him at Charlotte’s house and now she just had to have him.
Naturally. Things like that happened all the time to the guys in Penthouse Letters, right?
“Step forward with just your right leg,” she whispered to him. She tapped her own leg to be sure he understood.
For a flash, the confusion returned to his expression, but then he laughed. He stepped forward with his right leg, so he looked as if he was about to attempt a split. He wobbled and giggled.
“Close your eyes while I unwrap your gift.”
Grinning, he closed his eyes.
Jamie had to move fast. People always peeked. Especially Peeps. He’d be the first to peek, wouldn’t he? She certainly couldn’t trust him to keep his eyes shut.
She reached behind her with her wrapped hand, grabbed the handle of the machete resting against her leg and swung it, embedding it deep in his groin. The angle of the wound was almost parallel to the ground, just as it would have been if he’d swung at a giant bush and missed. He was left-handed, after all. He would have hit the inside of his upper right thigh.
She pulled the weapon away as quickly as she had swung it, and dropped it to the ground as the blood soaked through his thin jeans.
He opened his mouth to scream and she lunged forward, whipping the scarf from her hand and shoving it into his mouth. She positioned herself behind him, her arms wrapped around his, pinning them to his sides.
Peeps fell back on his butt and she went with him, still holding him tight. He struggled and tried to throw his head back into her face, but she easily avoided it.
A minute later he was still.
Severing a femoral artery had that effect on people.
Jamie pulled her scarf from Peeps’ mouth and again wrapped it around her hand. She stood and used the machete to hack wildly at the monstrous bush until she’d made an obvious dent in the plant’s progress toward yard domination.
Holding the metal part of the blade, she pressed Peeps’ palm and fingers around the handle of the machete and then dropped it to the ground beside him.
She took a step back. As she admired her work, she noticed his beer on the ground next to him.
Nice touch. Good of him to bring it out with him.
How ironic that a landscaping professional like Peeps would fatally wound himself while pruning his own bush, but...when alcohol is involved...what can you do?
She re-buttoned her shirt and walked to the backdoor, stopping to retrieve the baseball before heading back to her car with it.
She tossed it and caught it as she walked.
Jamie drove to her storage unit. She rented it after realizing that keeping certain incriminating items in her living space was like sleeping on a bomb. Somewhere she’d picked up the nasty habit of accumulating mementos from her appointments. Not jewelry or clothes or toes; just random items from the scene that caught her eye. It fulfilled her urge to keep trophies without making them so important she’d be done in by the collection.
She also kept her getaway case at the unit, filled with fake passports and identities and cash. She left Peeping Tomas’ baseball there on the shelf and selected a small bottle of chloroform from a case. She had a feeling she might need it on hand.
She found her leather-bound journal and wrote Peeps in it. She’d written notes about all her victims in a book written in a cypher that only she could break. When she was too old to kill, she would send the book and the key to deciphering it to a publisher. Then, she would disappear and wait. Hopefully, she would live long enough to watch the book rocket to the top of the best-seller lists. It was silly, but she thought that would be the closest thing to reliving her life.
