Murder by Design Trilogy

by Mary Jane Forbes

  “What about her father. Is he going to give her a hard time for bringing me out to meet the family?”

  “Not a hard time. But, it may take him awhile to understand why she brought you to us. Maybe none of us understands.”

  “But you, Clay, you understand.” Maxime said looking again deep into Gramp’s faded blue eyes.

  “Yes, I understand. I’m glad you came to Seattle. It was the right thing to do, and it is the right thing to do everything you can to be part of that sweet baby’s life. I thank you for having the decency, the courage, and I dare say the love to face her.”

  “Thank you, Clay. I’m glad I came too. And, you’re right. I love your granddaughter, fell in love with her the first time I saw her modeling in Paris. I’ve trampled on that love, but I’ll keep the love for our baby close to my heart.”

  Chapter 26

  ───

  WEEK FIVE. ELEVEN TO GO. Skip checked his shoes. They were showing wear but okay for another couple of weeks. Nonetheless he had packed a new pair in his gym. He was psyched for today’s long run. He wondered if Gilly would show up at Gramp’s today. She hadn’t come to cheer him on last weekend. He didn’t ask, and Gramps didn’t volunteer a reason why she didn’t show.

  By the time Skip had stretched in the driveway, slipped four Gatorades in his backpack, Agatha was sound asleep in the doorway to the kitchen, a paw resting on top of her rawhide bone. Coco was curled up next to her. They were friends again.

  Starting at a slow trot, Skip felt strong, mentally preparing for the ten-mile run. Rounding a curve in the road he saw Gilly’s car approaching. She slowed, waved, and continued on down the road.

  A smile on his face, Skip had to restrain himself not to pick up his pace. But, he knew that was a no-no. He must stay in his zone or risk injury.

  He relaxed his neck and shoulders, filled his mind with positive images of his feet striking the pavement in an even cadence, and focused on his breathing.

  In. In.

  Out. Out.

  In. In.

  Out. Out.

  A car traveling in the opposite direction gave him a wide birth. It was immediately followed by the same motorcycle he had seen several times before—a man driving with the woman behind. They didn’t wave and were going north for the first time since he had started running on Hansville Road.

  He’d had a good training week. Including the ten miles today, he will have run twenty-one miles breaking the twenty-mile barrier. He figured he’d be out on the road for almost two hours, at his slow training pace, watching his fluid intake. He switched to all Gatorade for this long run to replace energy and electrolytes in addition to the fluid. He knew that the added carbs helped maintain his energy near the end of the race when he was apt to hit the wall. Oh, he remembered that wall but managed to break through it in Oklahoma.

  He drank two cups of water on the ferry to hydrate his body before he started his long run today. Mandatory. Water consumption was important within two hours before he ran, during a run, and for three hours following his run.

  He was schooled to look at his urine on non-running days. If it was pale, he was keeping himself hydrated. No coffee or alcohol was permitted that would flush precious liquid from his body before, during, or immediately after a run. It was the first week of September and the heat had broken. It should be even cooler on race day, he thought.

  Skip reached around pulling a bottle from his backpack, downed about eight ounces, capped it, returned it to the pack. He drank the same amount on the order of every two miles. He had driven his route, five miles out and return, noting landmarks that he would pass approximately every two miles.

  Today he was working on his mental toughness. His coach had drilled into his runners the power of visualization. “Make two short mental tapes—each one to two minutes long,” he said. The first was to be about the best run he ever had. Where he ran, what he saw, smelled. What he wore, what was the weather like, and how he felt. He remembered the crowds along the way cheering and imagined they were cheering for him. Why not? It was his video.

  In. In.

  Out. Out.

  The second tape was at the finish of the marathon. He was to imagine what he looked like, who will be there, what he will say to them, what they will say to him. He had written notes about his mental videos in college, dug them out during the week and put them to memory again. He started the first tape. He was in Oklahoma, hot, his clothing was light, he felt great. Why not? He won that race. Smiling, he played the tape in his mind again.

  Who was there? He played over tape two—his coach, his fellow runners. After catching his breath he congratulated the others, but they treated him like a hero. “Hunter, you won. Hunter, you won,” they chanted. It was wonderful. He edited the tape. Gilly was there, smiling, cheering. He played the tape again.

  Running down the driveway, Skip waved to Gilly standing next to the playpen. Robyn watched him perform his cool-down stretching routine.

  He and Gilly hadn’t spoken since their quarrel and he had his apology framed in his mind. He had been an idiot, not that she was blameless, but what had possessed him to say she was a pigheaded redhead … well, he was mad.

  “How was the run? How far?” Gilly asked as he ambled down the steps.

  “Ten miles, and it felt great. Gilly, I—

  She stopped him, waving her palm at him. “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not okay. I’m sorry. I was wrong. It was a stupid argument—

  “You weren’t entirely wrong,” she said with a grin. “I am a redhead, can be stubborn. Maybe that falls under the category of pigheaded.”

  He stood awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other, hands jammed in the pockets of his running shorts.

  “I’m sorry, Skip. Truce?”

  “Truce. If I wasn’t so sweaty I’d seal it with a hug but—

  “Skip, look up at the berry patch.”

  He followed her gaze, scanned the area about thirty-five yards away, turned back. “What did you see?”

  “I don’t know … somebody moving in the bushes maybe.” Squinting, hands shielding her eyes, she continued to scan the back yard, her eyes darting from one side to the other. Letting her arms drop she said, “Imagining things I guess. Come on in, Gramps has lunch ready for you. Fish again,” she said with a grin. “Maybe you can talk him into buying some chicken breasts next week.”

  Skip held the patio door for her as she lifted Robyn from the playpen and walked into the house.

  Finishing up the last of the baked salmon, the doorbell rang.

  “Finish your lunch, you two. I’ll see who that is. About time for the mail. Maybe I have a package. Ordered some special socks for our marathoner,” Gramps said grinning. He returned a few minutes later, shrugged, and proceeded to pour boiling water from the kettle over the teabags, decaf, into the three mugs.

  “Who was that, Gramps?” Gilly asked clearing the table.

  “Some guy. Lawn maintenance. Wanted to know if I’d like him to spread fertilizer before winter. Something about the rain would soak it in. Make it lush. That’s all I need—a lush lawn requiring more mowing.” He shook his head and set the steamy mugs on the table.

  Chapter 27

  ───

  WHAT TO DO?

  Wellington wanted major changes to his story.

  The returned manuscript was in his mailbox when he got home from work. Skip reread Philip’s notes.

  Wellington okayed the first chapter on his background—his struggles trying to make a go of his cattle ranch in Montana. But it was downhill from there on. He thought he came off too surly with his staff; thought Eleanor sounded too supportive and wasn’t as beautiful as Skip said; too much credit to the reporter in the story and the tipsters who had called him and not enough to the detective, DuBois, and the police work. He also demanded he add that most people felt Eleanor should receive the death penalty and not life in prison for the murder of Gerald Sacco. “I don’t care if a body was n
ever found,” Philip wrote.

  Skip stared at the shredder beside his computer table.

  He strolled into the kitchen. Looked at the refrigerator. A six-pack was in there. He wanted to drink them all.

  Something dropped on his foot. Agatha’s leash. She let out a soft whine.

  “You’re right, Aggie. Better to go for a run. He picked up her leash, checked his training schedule for the beginning of week six: Tuesday, four miles. He looked at Aggie again. “Do you think you can run for a mile, girl?”

  Skip snapped on her leash. “I don’t want any side trips checking out that poodle, or the squirrels. A pee and a poop are all you get then I bring you home and I finish the run.”

  They headed out of the condo building and across the street to the park. Agatha was thrilled to be out and broke the rules immediately doing a roundy-round with a beagle. After fifteen minutes of sniffing, peeing, and pooping, Agatha settled down to a brisk walk beside her master. However, Skip couldn’t focus.

  His plan had been to give Wellington selected chapters for his comment. But after Gilly’s reaction to his idea of writing her story, he thought he’d better send Wellington the entire manuscript on the gold heist. Now he was sorry. He hated rewrites. The shredder and the delete key on his computer keyboard looked good.

  “Don’t be such a baby, Hunter.”

  He felt a tug on the leash. Agatha wanted to change direction.

  He followed his dog. Heck, it didn’t matter where he ran. Just keep going, he thought.

  His idea of writing exposés suddenly turned sour. People were going to have issues with the way they were portrayed. Shit, he was the writer. He could write it the way he wanted. Couldn’t he?

  The image of Gilly’s explosion filled his head. He was startled by her reaction to his writing a story about a double blackmail. Of course, she had a point. It was going to be about her. Everything was about her. He wanted her. She was a package deal—she and Robyn. He was okay with that. Besides, they could have their own baby someday. But there was that wide moat around her. The barrier seemed to be shrinking until he talked about the double blackmail. “Stick to your plan, Hunter. Run the marathon, get your head on straight. The way forward will be clear. It’ll all work out especially if she continues to come out to Gramps on the weekends—nine more and then the race.

  Agatha stopped. Sat down. Skip pulled on her leash but she wouldn’t budge so Skip sat next to her on the grass.

  I probably should check again with DuBois, he thought. Go over the facts about Eleanor Wellington, and get the final report on Edward Churchill’s violent death.

  He gave his hound’s silky head a pat and a gentle scratch behind her ears. “What should I do about smoothing things over with Gilly, Agatha?”

  Aggie got up, shook her rotund body, and slurped a kiss on Skip’s cheek.

  “You’re right. It’s high time I gave her a good kiss. Come on, girl, let’s go home. I have work to do.”

  “Hey, Skipper.”

  He recognized her voice.

  Diane ran up to him, gave Aggie a pat.

  “I wondered if I might run into you. No pun intended,” she said smiling. “How about grabbing something at the deli? Come back here. There’s a picnic table over there.”

  “Sorry, Di. Just giving Aggie a quick walk. Some other time. See you at the newsroom tomorrow.”

  Diane watched as Skip jogged off in the direction of his condo, Agatha by his side.

  Chapter 28

  ───

  MAXIME’S VISIT SEEMED TO fade into the distant past. When the girls asked Gilly about it, she simply shrugged and said the meeting with her parents had gone relatively well, all things considered. It was as if he had crossed the ocean, and a continent, landing in Seattle and then immediately lifted off for a return flight to Paris.

  It was Saturday morning and Gilly was rushing around preparing for her weekly trip to Hansville to visit with Gramps and to cheer Skip on, have lunch and return. Pulling Robyn’s arms through the sleeves of the sweater, she shouted out to Gabby to call her at Gramps if the customer who dropped into the shop yesterday afternoon came back ready to order. The lady, a prominent Seattle attorney, had been very excited over finding the collection and had tried on numerous combinations. She purchased a suit-dress and indicated she would be back soon. She said she was going straight home to clean out her closet. There was a good possibility that a large order would come of her visit.

  Gabby stood in the doorway of Gilly’s bedroom as she stuffed her E-tablet and a pair of shorts in her bag. Without looking up, Gilly said, “I doubt I’ll need these shorts but if the sun comes out maybe Robyn and I can spend a few minutes outside.”

  “How far is Skip running today? Gabby asked.

  “Twelve miles.” She looked at Gabby with a grimace on her face. “Can you believe it? I huff and puff running up and down the stairs a few times a day.”

  Swinging the bag over her shoulder, she scooped up Robyn into the other arm and left with a wave in Gabby’s direction.

  ───

  SPOTTING SKIP AHEAD NEARING a vegetable stand, she slowed down and waved. He waved back, giving her a thumbs up as he passed. He looked good. Very focused. Those blue eyes of his intense as always.

  “What do you think, Robyn?” she asked glancing in the rearview mirror at her daughter, reaching back to give her chubby leg a squeeze. “Are you going to run a marathon some day?”

  Robyn watched her mother, her pink lips puckering under her big dark eyes.

  Concentrating on the road, Gilly reached back again giving a little tug on Robyn’s foot. “Mommy loves you, baby girl.”

  Checking her watch, she smiled as she parked behind Skip’s Jeep. She had bettered her usual two-hour travel time by fifteen minutes. A sunny day, Gramps has already put the playpen out on the lawn. Entering the patio door, she gave Agatha a pat on the head, and continued down the hall to tell Gramps she had arrived.

  There was a note on the kitchen table that he and Anne had run into Poulsbo for some serious marathon food and would be back about one o’clock. Also, that he thought she might like to sit outside so the playpen and lounger were ready.

  It was eleven-thirty and the sun was wonderful—bright and warm. “All right, baby girl, you and mommy are going to sit in the sun. This is something girls do—sunbathe.” Smiling, she kissed Robyn’s chubby cheek and walked outside. Gilly positioned the umbrella on the playpen to shield Robyn from the direct rays of the sun and then settled into the lounger and closed her eyes, relishing the warmth of the sun on her skin. Robyn jabbered then, tucking the white bunny under her arm, put her thumb in her mouth. A couple of sucks and her hand fell to her side.

  Hearing the phone, Gilly darted in the patio door to answer it. Gabby immediately shrieked that the woman from yesterday did indeed come in and ordered over $2000 worth of clothes—almost everything from the entire fall line, and two of some in different fabrics. Because a few of the items weren’t in stock, Gabby told her she would able to fill her order before the end of next week.

  “Maybe I should leave more often,” Gilly laughed. “Good job, Gab. See you tonight.”

  “Well, as Maria would say, you got that right girlfriend.”

  Smiling, Gilly returned to the lounger, put her hand over her eyes blocking the sun and gazed over at Robyn.

  The playpen was empty!

  Chapter 29

  ───

  “GRAMPS!

  Mom!

  Skip!”

  Gilly screamed running up the steps to the driveway. Her car was there. Skip’s car was there.

  She was alone.

  Her baby was gone.

  She raced down the steps, slammed through the patio door tripping on the sill she fell to the cement, her hands scrapping the floors rough surface. Scrambling to her feet she raced to the kitchen, lifted the receiver. Her trembling fingers dropped it. Snatching the receiver off the floor with one hand she jabbed 911 with the other.
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  “911 Operator. What’s your emergency?”

  “My baby’s gone,” Gilly screamed into the phone. “Someone’s taken her. Help me.”

  “Your name?”

  “Gillianne Wilder, Hansville. Please, help me.”

  “How long has your baby been missing?”

  “About … about … about twenty minutes.”

  “Are you sure the toddler didn’t crawl—

  “She’s only six months old. She was in the playpen outside. I answered the phone. She’s gone!”

  “Your address?”

  Gilly gave the woman Gramp’s address and slammed the phone down. Running outside she looked at the playpen again. She has to be there, she thought. Her breathing erratic, heart racing, she looked at her watch. Skip wouldn’t be back for another forty-five minutes at best, forty or more for her mom. She dashed back in the house, fumbled in her tote for her cell.

  “Mom—

  “Oh, Gilly. We just bought the most beautiful cod—

  “Mom, Robyn’s gone. Mom, someone took her.” Gilly struggled to retain her composure but tears began streaming down her face. Terrified, she gulped for air. Walked back outside. Looked in the playpen.

  “Did you call 911,” Anne asked, the car accelerating with the pressure of her foot on the gas pedal.

  “Yes. Yes. But, Mom, they’re thirty minutes away.”

  “Your grandfather and I will be there in about twenty minutes. Call your father. Has Skip returned?”

  “No.”

  “Call him. I’m sure he has his cell phone with him.”