Groundwork for Murder

by Marilyn Baron

  Red rivulets swirled around her feet, bathing them in a pool of her former lover’s blood. Her pulse quickened to an almost orgasmic rhythm.

  “Not so smug now, are you, Mark Newborn?”

  Bitsy gazed into the mirror over the desk in the garage in a trance, her breath coming in staccato bursts now, her breasts—the best money could buy—rising and falling each time the blood squirted. Sometimes it splattered, making a pattern on the walls.

  “What a pretty picture we make.”

  Pausing the machine so she could hear herself think, Bitsy reached down to caress Mark’s face, still smooth and untouched, and she made a hasty decision to leave it that way. It was too beautiful a face to mar. She rubbed her fingers gently across his lips and lowered hers to his.

  “You were just scared, baby, I understand. We could’ve worked it out. Oh, Mark, why didn’t you love me more?” Bitsy whispered through her tears.

  Her work here was done. All that was left was to dispose of the body and clean up the mess.

  Bitsy tensed. She detected movement outside the garage. No, she was hallucinating. There, there it was again. A definite movement. Maybe a palm frond buffeted by the wind, casting an eerie shadow, a casualty of the storm. She was hyperventilating. It looked like a man, maybe one of those nasty homeless men from the soup kitchen, seeking shelter. The scruffy degenerates were always hanging around, hoping for handouts. Even they must have the sense to get in out of a hurricane…

  Bitsy choked and sputtered before she realized she was back in her living room, tossing and turning on her couch, naked under a throw shawl. She wiped the liquid from her mouth. It was drool, not blood. Had she been dreaming? Where was Mark?

  What had she done?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Swept Away

  Nick watched Mark pound on Elizabeth’s sliding glass doors to no avail, screaming at her to let him in. The storm and the loss of blood from his wounds had weakened him considerably. His intoxicated state made him less sure-footed and more susceptible to the strength of the wind bands, which knocked him down every few steps he took.

  The waves were picking up force, tossing and spitting, crashing toward Mark, toppling him like a felled tree. Nick was close enough to recognize the pain and fear in Mark’s eyes and take stock of his injuries before he stumbled away from Elizabeth’s house in a haze of confusion.

  Mark was disoriented. Instead of heading toward his car, he was walking toward the ocean. He had just learned Elizabeth was pregnant. Surely Alex couldn’t forgive that, a constant reminder of her husband’s infidelity. Maybe it was too much information for Mark to process, but he was taking his life into his hands by drowning his sorrows in the ocean if, indeed, that was what he was trying to do.

  Nick crept around to the garage overhang to seek shelter from the sharp sheets of rain that pricked him mercilessly. He rounded the house, but his eyes never left the ocean.

  When he suspected Mark was in real trouble, he followed him down the beach with a watchful eye, heading for cover in the dunes, taking refuge under bushes, behind swaying palms, sea walls, or grabbing on to anything rooted strongly enough that it wouldn’t blow away.

  As the winds swept Mark closer to the ocean, Nick trailed him, hardly able to keep his balance. Mark was almost to the water’s edge. One of Elizabeth’s flying wooden deck chairs smacked Mark from the side and knocked him into the raging sea. The impact bashed Mark’s head across one of the sharp, black rocks that jutted out from the inky water. Nick waited for Mark to get up. But his body, tossed about like a dog’s chew toy, was pulled violently under the water’s surface.

  Nick didn’t hesitate. He rushed to Mark’s rescue. Maybe Mark Newborn was getting what he deserved. He had nothing but contempt for the man. But he had a responsibility as a human being to try to save him. After all, he was the father of Alex’s children.

  His first instinct had been to let nature take its course. But for some inexplicable reason, he felt responsible for Mark’s well-being—probably just because he was Alex’s husband, even if their marriage had not been very happy. He didn’t want to be any part of separating them permanently.

  Nick looked out at the ocean. Was that movement by the water, or was it a hallucination? Was Mark Newborn drowning? He had made up his mind to intervene to save Alexandra’s husband, no matter how much of a reprobate the man was.

  Not that he couldn’t understand Mark. In many ways, he was no better than Alex’s husband. He had been in exactly the same situation. A woman as magnificent as Elizabeth Diamond would tempt any man to stray. Except for a decent man. Mark was not a decent man, and neither was he. But Mark didn’t deserve to die.

  Nick fought the winds and the rain to reach Mark. The next gust of wind propelled him almost involuntarily into action. Dodging the flying debris, he sprinted straight to the water where he had last seen Mark being dragged down into the ocean, battered between the waves racing and tumbling to shore and the magnetic power of the water racing back to sea. It was pitch black, and Mark was no longer visible.

  “Mark, you bastard, show your face, damn you!” Nick screamed.

  Desperate, Nick went under the water and groped along the bottom, grabbing the sand blindly, trying to locate Alex’s husband. But all he felt was shifting sand and jagged rock, and when he came up, his hand was a mass of bloody scrapes. He dove in again and again until he could no longer fight the inevitable.

  Mark had been swept away and sucked under by the destructive rage of the ocean. The virulent sea monster had foamed at the mouth, dragged him down, and swallowed all signs of life. Tomorrow, that same innocent sea would be calm again, the ocean as smooth as glass, as if it had nothing to be forgiven for.

  The latest wave overpowered Nick, sending him under, disorienting him, depositing him back on the beach like a limp rag doll. He looked around again for some sign Mark had survived and found nothing, not even a shoe. Scurrying across the sand, Nick crawled sideways like a land crab, trying not to be caught by the fury of the oncoming wall of water.

  His life had been spared. He’d escaped but continued to be buffeted by the gale force of the winds and pelted by the sand, which stung the broken skin on his bloody hands and settled in his soaked suit, Mark’s suit. His head was filled with remorse and sorrow. He didn’t know how he going to explain his failure to Alex.

  Nick knew he should have tried to stop the fight between Mark and Elizabeth. He should have made his presence known from the beginning, shaken them both until they came to their senses. But he had just stood there and watched it happen. Perhaps it was self-preservation. If they had known he was there, they might have turned their collective hostility toward him.

  Nick wasn’t scheduled to work the next day, a Sunday. But there would be a big mess to clean up. Mr. Reed might call him in. He planned to check back to see if Mark’s body had washed up on shore. The ocean was powerful, and it eventually gave back its contents. But with this storm churning the waters, chances were good that Mark’s wounded body would be spit back by the sea sooner, implicating him, the man to whom the edger, the weapon Elizabeth had used, belonged.

  Mark Newborn had suffered a horrible death. But hadn’t Nick wanted to kill the man himself with his bare hands before either his wife or his lover ever got hold of him?

  For now, Nick sought the safety of a building, any building, and fought to move away from the beach as quickly as the wind would permit. He wanted to get as far away from Elizabeth Diamond’s house as possible.

  He walked about six blocks to a familiar gas station, but it was all boarded up. He tried the bathroom door. A bathroom he was all too familiar with. He had slept there many times. But the door was locked. He looked around the back of the gas station for something with which to pry open the lock and found a rusted old tire iron in the dumpster. He also found a few discarded tires which he rolled over to the door one at a time, fighting the wind and rain with every trip.

  With his last ounce of strength, he jim
mied the door open and rolled the tires into the bathroom. After a valiant struggle with the wind, he pushed the door shut and stacked the tires up in front of it to keep the wind from blowing the door in. This is where he would spend the night. It was relatively dry except for the water that seeped under the door and added to what had gotten inside when he was bringing in the tires.

  The bathroom stank of urine. He didn’t know if it had come from him or the stale leftover urine from the previous customers or vagrants. This was a smell he was accustomed to living with on the streets. He washed his hands and wiped the blood off with some rough paper towels.

  Exhausted, he slid to the floor, wet clothing and all, his face resting on the filthy tile floor. He slept briefly, until he was jolted awake by an airborne object hitting the door, followed by the sound of the door thumping as if a desperate man were trying to break in to use the bathroom.

  Or was it just the angry wind—or an angry God punishing him for not saving Mark and failing Samantha? The sound of the wind might drive another man mad, but Nick had seen it all. He’d been out in the elements before and faced each day not knowing whether he could, or even wanted to, survive.

  He thought again of Mark and how his children would have to face the loss of their father. He thought of Elizabeth and wondered if she would think she killed her lover and blame herself or would she realize it was all just a horrible accident. Out of answers, and bone-tired, Nick succumbed again to a tormented sleep. He dreamed of Alexandra. When he awoke from his restless sleep he thought of Alex, longed for her, longed to protect her.

  He’d found the thought of Alexandra and Mark together unpleasant. For selfish reasons, he’d really wished Mark was out of the picture. Nick had known for some time that he was falling in love with Alexandra. He had probably never stopped loving her. She was a hard woman to forget. He thought he could never be happy again after Sam died, but lately he’d felt the glimmer of hope, the blossoming of feelings, the flutter in his stomach whenever he was around Alexandra.

  He had felt the same stirring for her when she was his student, for Alexandra the woman and Alexandra the artist. She had great potential professionally and for him personally. He was a man women found hard to resist. She’d definitely responded to him, but when she made her feelings known, he had backed away, and she never returned to class. Her pride had been wounded. She had been angry when he’d spurned her, but he believed he was doing the right thing. In the end, he had just punished himself. When she didn’t return to class, he’d moved on, to Sam.

  Back then, he was shallow and cruel and cavalier about the feelings of others, especially women. He’d wanted whatever he could take. The world had revolved around him. But with Alex, it was different. He couldn’t pursue one of his students. In the end, he had started a relationship with his graduate assistant. No woman had ever loved him the way Sam had. In time, he had learned to return that love. And loving Sam had grounded him.

  It hadn’t been that way in the beginning. He’d cheated on his wife while they were in Italy, and she had known it. Yet she never mentioned it. She was a saint. He was a weak-willed man and a bad husband. He didn’t deserve his wife’s love. He even went with other women during the height of Sam’s illness. Mostly it was to forget, to fill the hole he knew would be left after Sam was gone. Maybe he was tempting fate, trying to get caught.

  If Sam knew about his reckless infidelities she never said a word. And because of his cheating ways, God had punished him. At the end of her life, Samantha had taken his hand and told him to move on, to find someone else to make him happy so she could go to her grave in peace.

  After Sam died, he’d left their home and cut off all ties with anyone they had ever known: he didn’t deserve friends or sympathy. He didn’t deserve to be happy ever again. He thought about returning to Florence, but he didn’t deserve to walk the beloved streets of his home. If Alex found out he was just another lying cheat, like her husband, she would never want to have anything to do with him.

  Seeing Alexandra again brought all the old familiar longings rushing back to the surface. But there had also been feelings of shame and humiliation when he came face to face with her, embarrassed to be caught in her bushes like a dazed deer in the headlights, caught in his nakedness.

  Miraculously, Alexandra had seen past his shame to the artist he had been and that she now wanted him to be again. She had believed in him and had worked her heart out to give him another opportunity.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Mark Is Never Coming Home

  Alex startled when she heard the shrill toll of the telephone echo around the silent house like a death knell.

  “Mark?” Alex cried frantically, heart pounding, knuckles locked in a death grip around the receiver. “Is that you? Where are you? I want you to come home. Come home now. Whatever you’ve done, it doesn’t matter. We need to talk.”

  “Sorry, Alex, it’s Zack. I’m calling to check on you. We saw you leave the gallery early, and we were worried. We wanted to make sure you got home safely.”

  “Colonel,” Alex said, her voice dropping. “I’m fine…well, not exactly fine, but I’m home.”

  “Mark’s not there with you?”

  “I’m not sure he’s coming home.”

  “What’s the matter?” the colonel asked gently. “Do you want to talk to Vicky?”

  “No, I—well, it’s a long story.”

  “There’s a hurricane outside. We’re not going anywhere. I’m a good listener. Are you crying? Alex, answer me this minute. That’s an order. Do you want me to come over there?”

  Alex sighed.

  “If you’re alone in this storm, you shouldn’t be. I’m coming right over there to get you and bring you to our house. I won’t be a minute. Let me just—”

  “No, Colonel, wait. I’m expecting Mark. I am. He should be here any minute. And then everything will be okay.”

  “Are you sure? Do you have everything you need? Water, extra batteries? Are your storm shutters up?”

  “No, it’s too late for that anyway. I’d rather just stay and wait for him. If he comes home and I’m not here, he’ll be worried. We just have some things to work out.”

  “Have you heard from the girls?”

  “They called to check on me. They’re fine at school. They aren’t experiencing any bad weather.”

  “It’s you I’m worried about.”

  “That’s sweet, and I appreciate the call, but I want to stay right here and wait for my husband.”

  “If the phone lines go down, I may not be able to reach you later.”

  “I’ll be fine. Please stop worrying, and tell Vicky I’ll call her in the morning.”

  “Okay, if you’re sure. We’re just around the corner, if you need us.”

  “I’m sure. And Colonel, thanks for caring. It’s very reassuring.”

  “We both care for you a great deal. Don’t shut us out.”

  “I promise I won’t. Bye.”

  Alex placed the telephone in the cradle. She was alone and scared. She hated storms. She should have taken the colonel up on his offer, but she wanted to wait for Mark.

  She could have insisted Nick come back to the house with her, if only to offer him a safe place to ride out the storm. She probably could have used his help. Fighting a hurricane was hard work. It wasn’t a one-person job.

  But the thought of inviting a man, even a friend, to stay with her alone in the house didn’t seem right. In the end, she was glad she hadn’t let Nick drive her home.

  She wondered how Nick was faring out there all alone. Nobody could survive a storm like this outside and unprotected. The storm wailed on her roof. Hail rained down. The incessant knocking of the tree branches against the side of the house added ghostly sounds to an already frightening tableau.

  She hoped Mark would be home soon, although that was shaping up to be an unlikely possibility.

  She had never weathered a hurricane by herself. If her children had been at home,
she knew she could be strong for them. She would organize a hurricane party like her parents did when she was growing up. The three of them would eat ice cream before the power went out and everything in the refrigerator melted. They would consider the experience fun instead of frightening.

  She would offer them her loving arms and calming words so they wouldn’t be scared. But they weren’t here. She was grateful the girls were safely tucked away in their dorm room, out of harm’s way. Which is where she should have been. She would have evacuated, but then she would have missed the gallery opening, one of the most important nights of her life, and of Nick’s. The night had turned out to be a roaring business success but a personal disaster for her.

  As a married woman she took the words “to have and to hold” to mean her beloved would be there to protect her from life’s inner turmoils as well as the unforeseen rampages of the outside world. This hurricane certainly qualified as an unforeseen rampage. However, her inner rage made the wrath of the wind and the rain seem fiercer. This so-called husband of hers was nowhere in sight when she needed him most.

  “Where are you, you cowardly bastard?” Alex yelled into empty space, as the wind chimed in to punctuate her outrage.

  Alex knew exactly where he was. He was cuddling up to Bitsy Diamond, protecting the woman who had wrecked their marriage. And Mark had let it happen.

  Thump! Thump, thump, thump, crash! That sounded like a huge tree limb had fallen on the roof, rolled down, and hit the ground with a vengeance. The wind whipped up menacingly and howled maddeningly through any open space it could find, as if seeking refuge from itself.

  Rain bands came in unsteady, unpredictable waves just to torment her and underscore her unsettling feeling of dread. Hail was pelting the window like thousands of locusts that had lost their way in the dark only to inadvertently smash into the glass. Water seeped under the doors, soaking the hardwood floors, and crept under the windows to drip onto and spill over the sills.