A Deadly Promotion

by Melanie Jones Brownrigg

  But when Spellbinder counted down to one, he told Carter, “When I snap my fingers, you will be Michael Jackson, giving the performance of a lifetime.” He told him to put on a black hat and a glittery, silver glove.

  Snap.

  Michael Jackson’s Billie Jean began playing through the speaker system. And much to my shock and amazement, Carter began gyrating to the music with the big glove poised on his waist. He kicked out his leg, flicked the hat across the stage and grabbed up the mike. He followed with all manner of loose, fancy footwork and a few jumps in the air. And when he hitched up his trousers and began moonwalking across the stage, the crowd came alive. Carter was a freaking success! I’d never much believed in hypnotism, but at the same time, I didn’t think Carter – who was a country and western music fan – knew how to dance like Michael Jackson. Truly, he was impressive.

  Snap.

  And just like that, Carter was aware of his surroundings. He blinked several times with a confused look on his face, unable to process what had happened. “It didn’t work?” he asked, not remembering anything about his stellar performance.

  “Nope, you wouldn’t let yourself go,” Spellbinder told him while the audience laughed so hard, they were practically rolling in the floor.

  He went through several more scenarios where he hypnotized members of the audience and had them doing crazy things. He told one guy he was so hot, he stripped off his shirt and was unbuttoning his pants before Spellbinder snapped him out of it.

  By far, he was the best entertainment I’d ever booked. When he called five people, including Mr. Harrington, I assumed this would be his final stint. A relieved breath whooshed out of me, thinking I had escaped being made a fool of. In years past, I had always been a reluctant participant. One year a magician sawed me in half. The next year I had to ride first on a mechanical bull. Another year I was subjected to a comedian’s pie in the face, which I still haven’t recovered from. Every year, it had been something. But always, Mr. Harrington had been tasked with the grand finale.

  Five chairs were placed in a row with each participant taking a seat. The setup was for them to be in a car race. Car engine noises played in the background. “Start your engines,” Spellbinder instructed.

  “Varoom! Varoom!” each person grunted, positioning their feet on pretend accelerators.

  “You’re off,” he yelled, waving a black and white checkered flag.

  Laughing so hard, I about peed my pants as everyone vied for first place, their hands gripping intangible steering wheels, their feet simulating a pedal-to-the-metal stance. They eyed each other with competition as they rounded imaginary curves, went over nonexistent bumps, and passed each other with gusto by elbowing the person next to them to run the other off the road.

  “That was fantastic,” I uttered, wiping tears of laugher from under my eyes. I expected Spellbinder to take a bow and for Mr. Harrington to remain on stage and say a few more words. But nope. I was wrong.

  “Paige Davis, please come on up,” Spellbinder instructed, waving a broad hand for me to join him.

  Shit.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  All the way up the steps, I considered cutting him off, congratulating him for a brilliant performance and then thanking everyone for coming. Yep, that’s what I thought … until I arrived by his side and decided I shouldn’t cut his act short. Besides, I’d heard, no matter how deeply you were hypnotized, you’d never do anything your conscious mind told you not to. I hoped.

  While he went through the rigmarole of placing me into a trance, I kept thinking, I’m not going under. I was completely aware of him, my surroundings, and everyone in the audience. For a moment, I considered whispering to him, letting him know I wasn’t in that relaxed, peaceful place he wanted me to imagine. When I couldn’t get his attention, I decided to fake it. I’d simply perform whatever he suggested and then I’d pretend to snap out it.

  “You’re in a plane,” he told me. Suddenly, I felt my hands pull up from the sides of my dress and emulate wings. It seemed to happen without pretension. Maybe I was under. Then again, I was still very aware of Paul’s handsome face, my father’s encouraging eyes, and my mother’s scrutinizing gaze.

  “Focus right here,” he said, “at the end of the runway. You’ve been cleared for takeoff.”

  Without any prediction, my body ran across the stage and foolishly leaped into the air. Thank goodness I had worn sensible shoes. Otherwise I would’ve crashed on takeoff. He had me in a climb, wanting me to reach an altitude of thirty thousand feet. It felt as if I’d never been so far away from the planet. Peering down at the stage’s floor, I imagined the earth being nothing but patches of greens and browns. Soaring higher and higher, cars and people became completely discernable.

  “Engine failure,” he suggested. In my head, I heard all sorts of warning beeps, or was it only sound effects he’d provided? Either way, it felt so real. “You’re losing altitude,” he continued. “Pull up.”

  In my mind, the crowd had disappeared, and nothing registered except sheer terror. I found myself yanking the hell out of the controls and fiddling with multiple buttons. Anything to stay alive. Next thing I knew there was a device in my hand, and I was yelling, “Mayday, Mayday,” over and over. Panic set in as I saw my life crashing to a bitter end.

  “You’re in a tailspin,” he told me. I felt myself turning around and around to the point I was dizzy. “You’re going down. You’re falling from the sky.”

  Now, here’s where my brain dissociated myself from what he was telling me. No longer in the plane, I found myself in the stairwell. Falling, falling. But not from the sky, but from the steps. I turned around after hearing a noise. It was the closing of the twelfth-floor door and a figure was fast approaching me. The next thing I knew someone shoved me with a force great enough to cause me to lose my balance.

  Julie tried desperately to catch me, grabbing at my arm. I reciprocated, latching hold of her to the point I plunged my nails into her arm, leaving my DNA. By then, the figure shoved us both down the remaining steps.

  Julie screamed out, “What are you doing?”

  Tumbling down backwards, I felt my head crash against the cinder blocks. Unable to defend myself, I slid down the wall and collapsed on the mid-point landing. The figure left me there and turned toward Julie, yanking her to the next one-half of the stairwell and then throwing her like a rag doll down the remaining flight. She let out an agonizing wail as she thud … thud … thudded down each step. Her body banged hard at the bottom. Then silence.

  Disoriented from the blow to my head, my blurry eyes tried to focus on the unrecognizable figure hovering between me and Julie. A moment later, it raced to the bottom of the steps and I heard a final groan from Julie and then nothing. Left alone, I tried desperately to stand up, but I couldn’t. With every ounce of strength, I tried crawling, reaching the first step and clawing my way up one tread, then two. Maybe, I hoped.

  But then the shadow was bearing down on me, yanking me backward and propelling me once again into the wall. “Look what you made me do,” a voice said.

  My head banged hard against the cinder blocks and I heard, and felt, a crack in my skull.

  Back on stage, Spellbinder was telling me, “Pull up. You can do it. Don’t crash this plane.”

  His words were to no avail. In my mind, I slid down the wall in the stairwell and lost consciousness.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  “Sometimes when participants become engrossed in the moment, this happens,” Spellbinder said, making a failed attempt to get me to my feet and at the same time covering for my crazy theatrics, assuring everyone that I was perfectly fine and it was all a part of the entertainment. “Let’s give Paige a big hand.” Everyone clapped, then he said, “Thank you everyone. It’s been a pleasure to have been here. I hope you enjoyed the show.” He took a big bow, and everyone applauded.

  Despite his reassurances of my being perfectly fine, I found myself sprawled all over the stage in my
beautiful golden dress. Feeling a bit lightheaded, I floundered at rising to my feet. Seconds later, Paul was at my side to help me.

  While I tried to gather my bearings, in the background, I heard Ethel telling her daughter, “Lidia, the show’s over. Let’s get out of here and we’ll beat the crowd.” She backed her powerchair away from the table and joy-sticked it between a row of tables, heading for the outside wall, serving as a pathway to the entrance door.

  Lidia got to her feet, following her mother. “Please, give us some room,” she urged when an obese lady’s chair blocked the aisle.

  “Paul,” I muttered, seeking comfort in his chocolate brown eyes.

  “I’m right here. You’re going to be fine.” I felt him clasp my hand, reminding me of when he first found me on the floor of the building’s elevator hallway.

  Both Paul and Spellbinder helped me to my feet and, somehow, I managed to find my voice. “Wow, what an incredible performance,” I said, thanking the hypnotist. “Everyone, please give a big hand to Spellbinder.”

  Mr. Harrington took my parting words as his cue to return to the stage, where he too congratulated Spellbinder as being an amazing entertainer and hoped he’d make another appearance next year. He thanked everyone for coming and, just as he had in the past, he invited the guests to have another drink and enjoy the music.

  Paul had pulled me to the side while Mr. Harrington carried on, planting me in one of the chairs previously serving as a makeshift car. “Just relax for a moment,” he insisted.

  Noting my failure to return to my seat, the two detectives bounded up the stairs and rushed to my side.

  “What happened?” Detective Andrews asked, leaning forward to assess my condition. “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know. It was like I was in the stairwell … not a plane.”

  “You had a flashback?” Detective Sutton asked, kneeling in front of me to meet my gaze. “Who was there? Who pushed you?” he urged.

  Everything was still confusing, and I wanted to say another name, but when I opened my mouth, out popped, “Ethel. It was Ethel.”

  Immediately both detectives rose to their full height and bore their gazes down on Ethel, who was weaving in out of the chairs in her electric scooter.

  Detective Sutton hopped off the stage like a limber gazelle, while Detective Andrews headed for the stairs and stumbled down them.

  Ethel rammed into a couple of chairs, urging people to get out of her way. In her haste, she snagged the edge of a tablecloth and it became entwined in the back wheel of her electric scooter. Determined to keep going, she powered forward, taking the tablecloth with her. As it dragged forward, it pulled along eight dessert plates, three cups of coffee, two wine glasses and three waters, along with the silverware. The ordeal created a loud commotion between the breaking of glass and the clanking of utensils. While several tried to rescue their drinks, others jumped from their chairs, trying to avoid the spillage. One lady took the brunt, getting a lap full of beverages, mixed with crumbling pieces of cake.

  The more Ethel tried moving forward, the more the fabric wrapped around the back tire. Eventually the unit came to a grinding stop, leaving the tire spinning with a mass of ever-growing creamy fabric.

  Others from the back of the room were unaware of what was going on and either began crowding the exit, or heading for the bar in search of another drink. The room became a rumble of everyone talking at once, complimenting the food, entertainment, and how handsome Mr. Harrington still looked, considering his age.

  While Ethel attempted her slow escape, the detectives headed for her. Detectives Sutton and Andrews blocked her from the back, while the undercover detectives obstructed her getaway from the front.

  As guests suddenly became aware of something going on, everyone began crowding around, some even pulling out their phones to film what had undoubtedly become the grand finale.

  As Ethel’s path became a huge obstacle course with her options narrowing too thin for her powerchair, she suddenly bounded out of her chair, yelling, “Get the hell out of my way.” She trudged forth, pushing people aside in her rushed attempt to get to the doorway.

  “Hold it right there,” Detective Sutton said, closing in on her. “Ethel Johnson, you’re under the arrest for the murder of Julie Mitchell and for the attempted murder of Paige Davis.”

  Ethel ceased moving forward and stared at Detective Sutton, a completely bewildered expression on her face. “What? You’ve got to be kidding me?”

  “Place your hands behind your back.” He said, pulling a pair of handcuffs from the back of his belt.

  “This can’t be happening,” Lidia protested. “Based on what evidence?” she cried.

  “We’ll talk about this down at the station,” he informed her, snapping handcuffs on Ethel’s thick wrists and reading the Miranda Warnings to her.

  “This is crazy,” Ethel protested. She threw a glance over her shoulder at Lidia. “Call an attorney. Someone good.”

  Everyone cleared a path for the officers as Ethel was taken into custody and then escorted out of the room. Lidia followed behind her mother yelling, “You have this all wrong. You have this all wrong.”

  Still feeling disoriented and muddled, I couldn’t help wondering, did I have it all wrong?

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  On Monday afternoon, I returned to the police station to give my statement regarding my hypnotic experience. I’d had two full nights to think about what had happened, but even as I entered Detective Sutton’s office with Paul by my side, I still felt confused. Hopefully, the detectives would be able to fill in the answers.

  “Have a seat,” Detective Sutton instructed, gesturing for Paul and me to be seated at the small desk holding the laptop computer. “We found out the car wreck in Kansas was only a minor fender-bender. Some guy failed to stop at a red light and bumped into the back of her. He received a ticket and Ethel wasn’t even taken to the hospital. Ethel admitted she wanted to retire but felt her retirement check wouldn’t be sufficient to live on. Apparently, she’d withdrawn a large portion of her 401(k) a few years back and purchased a rather large house over in the Fairmount Addition. To boost her monthly income, she fabricated her inability to work and filed for disability.”

  “What about the missing money?” Paul asked. “Is she behind that too?”

  “It looks like it. Sure enough, a week after Ethel was supposedly released from the hospital and had supposedly entered the rehabilitation program, in truth, she and Lidia were off on a cruise, which included a day’s port in the Grand Caymans.” He showed us copies of the reservations and sure enough a Level C cabin had been booked for Ethel Johnson and Lidia Gentry.

  “Unbelievable,” I muttered, handing the booking information back to him.

  “It gets better,” Detective Sutton said. “Let me show you what else we received today.” He brought the laptop out of sleeping mode and clicked the play button. “This is a shot of the person requesting the withdrawal. She wanted it all in cash. It took a while to authorize the release and put the money together, but watch how the girl keeps her head down the entire time. All you can see is her dark black hair. But from the counter’s height, we know she was approximately five-three and about the same age as Lidia.”

  “Lidia,” I repeated, watching the girl make the withdrawal. “I thought for sure if they were framing me that she would’ve been wearing a blonde wig and blue contact lenses.”

  “This is the same girl heading back on the ship with a case in her hand,” he said, showing me a second clip. “Ethel and Lidia both adamantly claim this is not Lidia. Both have vehemently denied taking any funds. Of course, with it being removed as cash, there’s no further tracing available. We’ve obtained a search warrant for their financial records, as well as both their houses. But I’d be surprised if they deposited the money anywhere. My guess is that it’s stuffed in a safe deposit box, or even still in an airport security locker. We may never know where it is.”

  “Why was
the check written out to me? And why kill Julie and try to kill me?”

  “They both claim to have no knowledge about the embezzlement. And certainly, they’re denying killing anyone. So, I don’t know how to answer either question. Lidia confessed to knowing her mother had falsely filed for disability. They also thought, after Ethel retired, Lidia would take over as CFO… which she did for one month. But when Mr. Harrington became aware of the missing money, he suspected Ethel or Lidia might have had a hand in its disappearance. That was when he replaced Lidia with Julie. Lidia admitted she was livid over being removed. And, of course, at the time, everyone thought you were next in line … so both you and Julie had to be eliminated.”

  “But do you think Ethel was capable of pushing us down the stairs?” Ethel was a large woman who wobbled around, making her agility in the stairwell unlikely.

  “Are you doubting your memory?” he questioned.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s so blurry in some ways, but crystal clear in other areas. To be honest, when I opened my mouth, I thought I was going to say David, but Ethel came out and she’s who I envisioned pushing me down the stairs.”

  “Well, we figured out who Edward Ratcliff is.” He paused in a dramatic fashion. “Eddie was Ethel’s first husband. We were finally able to speak with him. According to him, he was away from his post at the front desk because someone reported a disturbance on the 40th floor restaurant. He claims he rode the elevator up and spoke with the hostess at The Terrace. She wasn’t aware of any commotion, so he checked with the manager and he also did a walk-through of the place. When he didn’t find anything, he checked the restrooms on that floor and then finally, he rode the elevator back down. Then he claimed a kidney stone acted up and it got to the point he needed to go immediately to the ER for some pain medication. He said he called for security replacement but didn’t wait around for them to show up. We’re running a check to verify the medical records. But, according to him, it would have provided a long enough time for someone to have looped the twelfth-floor video.” He breathed out a sigh. “But the way I see it, it’s more likely for Ethel to have talked her first hubby into replacing the video. And I’m sure a wad of cash would’ve been a powerful persuasion.”