A Fatal Four-Pack

by P. B. Ryan

  We wandered into the living room, Maggie flicking on switches as we went. A cathedral ceiling soared some twenty feet above us. Rectangular skylights, like black eye sockets, reflected the glow of track lighting. A black-and-white modern-art painting decorated the space above the white mantle. A companion piece of corporate art hung near the dining table. The rest of the walls were blank. A natural-looking fake fern filled the cold hearth. A stereo cabinet held audio equipment, but few CDs. The black box of a TV sat on a pedestal across from the couch, its remote the only clutter in the room.

  “Not much personality, is there?” Maggie commented. “It hasn’t changed a bit since I was here five years ago.”

  “Apart from the style of furniture, it’s not much different from Sumner’s house.”

  I ventured farther into the sterile room to look over the breakfast bar and into the galley kitchen. “What’s through that door? The garage?”

  She nodded.

  “And upstairs?”

  “Two good-sized bedrooms. A terrific bathroom. It’s got a double shower and Jacuzzi bath. There’s a hot tub on the deck.” She walked over to the French doors. Beyond her I could see the lights of the condos on the next street.

  “The basement opens out to the back courtyard. Matt had a wet bar down there. It’s got a pool table, too. Wanna see?”

  I shook my head and looked around the room once more. Too bad I couldn’t touch anything. I just hoped I’d suck up whatever residual essence remained of Sumner by other means.

  I closed my eyes, breathed deeply, opening myself up to the place. Tendrils of something nudged at my brain.

  Maggie and Sumner had made love here. He’d touched her. Maybe memorized her every curve.

  A wave a jealousy washed through me.

  Don’t think about it.

  But I couldn’t stop. It ate at me.

  I squeezed my eyes shut tighter.

  The tendrils grew stronger. I wasn’t sure just what it was I was getting—but I was definitely getting something. Fear, maybe, but unlike what I’d felt before. I concentrated and the feeling swelled. Yes, another’s stomach-churning fear.

  “Are you okay?” Maggie asked, worried.

  Everybody seemed to be asking me that question on a regular basis. I let out a long breath and forced a smile. “Yeah. Let’s look upstairs.”

  Maggie led the way, turning on more lights as we went. It seemed to enhance my newly awakened senses, the fear expanding with each step.

  “This is the guest room,” she said, adopting a real estate broker’s cadence, “but I doubt anyone’s ever stayed here.”

  Like the living room, it was a study in black and white. The headboard and matching dresser were ebony enamel. A white spread covered the mattress, and sheepskin acted as a throw at the left side of the bed, its ivory softness a contrast to the stark white carpet. No night tables with bedside lamps for reading comfort. No books, either. No decorations on the walls. I opened the closet door. Nothing. Not even coat hangers.

  “Next is the bathroom. I’d kill for one like this,” she said and flipped on a switch.

  Chrome and tile sparkled like something out of a builder’s brochure. Except for a box of tissues, there was nothing in sight to indicate anyone lived here. I opened the medicine cabinet and found an electric razor, toothpaste and a single toothbrush, mouthwash, cologne, a can of men’s hair spray, and a half-empty box of condoms. Old Matt liked to be prepared. A drawer in the vanity held a dozen new toothbrushes—no doubt for use by Sumner’s lady guests—and an unopened box of disposable cups. Freshly laundered white towels sat neatly stacked in the linen closet.

  “I take it Matt didn’t spend a lot of time here.”

  “It didn’t take him long to climax,” she said, sarcasm filling her voice. She cleared her throat. “The master bedroom’s got a king-sized bed, a down comforter and—” I felt her tension rise.

  I left the bathroom and saw a hand towel on the threshold between the master bedroom and hall. A dark smudge marred its pristine state. “What’s wrong?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Do you smell something?”

  I did. A flat, coppery odor I recognized.

  “Stay here,” I told her and headed down the hall.

  I hit the light switch. Blood—like paint on a blank canvas—splattered the walls by the right side of the bed.

  “What is it?” Maggie called.

  I moved to the far side of the bed, careful not to tread on the footprint stains that ruined the carpet.

  Claudia Sumner lay huddled on her side, naked, the top of her head blown clear away.

  “Jeff?” Maggie cried, fear threading her voice.

  No gun was visible. Where were Claudia’s clothes? Was her car in the garage?

  My gaze drifted to her face as phantom images of Shelley’s murder exploded in my mind. But it was Claudia’s blood, brains, and bone sprayed across the walls, floor, and bed.

  The room was suddenly too hot, making it hard to breathe. I backed away, hoped to hang onto my stomach contents long enough to reach the bathroom.

  I brushed past Maggie and threw up in the sink. Coughing and gasping, I ran the water until I could catch my breath.

  “What did you see?” she cried. “What’s in there?”

  I wiped my mouth on my sleeve.

  “Claudia.”

  Maggie’s eyes went wide with fear. “Is she ... dead?”

  I nodded. “Hours ago. Maybe even yesterday.”

  ShMaggie took a ragged breath, her eyes wild, and backed away, crashing into the wall, then bolted for the stairs.

  “Wait!”

  I caught her at the landing, grabbed her sleeve.

  “We’ve got to get out of here!” she wailed, and tried to pull away.

  I pushed her against the wall, pinning her with my body.

  “Listen to me. We can’t panic. Do you hear me?” She shook her head, terrified. “Maggie, listen to me.” I clasped her chin. “We’ve got to turn off the lights. We’ve got to make it look like we were never here.”

  “I’m going to lose my job. My God, we could go to jail!”

  “No one has to know we were here. We wore gloves. It’s going to be okay.”

  But she covered her face with her hands, weeping. I pulled her close and let her cry on my shoulder. I smoothed her hair in rhythm with her sobs. “It’s okay, Maggie. It’ll be okay. I promise.”

  “How? How can it ever be right?”

  I had to come up with something. Some answer. She was depending on me.

  I drew back, looked her in the eye.

  “have you ever done any acting?”

  Since I’d already reported one find to the cops via 911, I figured I’d be pushing my luck to try it again.

  Fifteen minutes later, in the parking lot of the same grocery chain where I’d previously found a pay phone, I wrote Maggie a script. She practiced it three times, speaking lower, slower, sounding sexy as hell.

  We stood under the glare of a mercury vapor lamp, clutching the phone between us, Maggie transmitting her fear like carrier waves. She pressed the touch-tone pad. It rang twice.

  “Please listen,” she said calmly. “I’ll only say this once. There’s a body at three twenty-two Maiden Lane. Claudia Sumner, wife of Matthew J. Sumner. She was shot. Today, possibly yesterday. Please send someone.”

  I pressed the switch-hook and our eyes locked. “You did great, Maggie.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  o0o

  Maggie eased the shifter into park and turned off the engine. We hadn’t spoken in the ten or so minutes it had taken for her to drive me back to Richard’s house. The silence continued to lengthen.

  Finally Maggie let out a sigh. “I feel like a criminal and I’m not guilty of anything.”

  “Technically, we’re guilty of breaking and entering.”

  “Oh, shit.” She sank back against her bucket seat.

  “The questi
on is, who else knew about the condo? And what was Sumner’s wife doing there—naked and dead?”

  “Waiting for a lover?” Maggie suggested. She, too, had seen through Claudia’s facade of the faithful wife. “But who’d kill her and why?”

  “Probably the same person who killed Matt. Maybe for the same reason.” I wasn’t ready to tell her what I thought about Sharon Walker.

  Her gaze was fixed on nothing, her brows furrowed with worry.

  “Don’t think about it,” I said.

  “How can I stop?”

  “You just have to.”

  We both had to.

  “What if someone saw us? What if—”

  “If the neighbors saw or heard anything, the cops would have been swarming the place. We did them a favor. It could’ve been days—maybe a week—before some poor cleaning lady found her.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t look. Have you ever seen anything like that before?”

  The memory of my trip to the morgue to identify Shelley’s body would be with me until I died.

  “My ex-wife was killed the same way. But I didn’t see her until the coroner had cleaned her up. This was a lot worse.” I knew I’d have nightmares for weeks.

  “I wish I’d never found that damn key,” Maggie said and turned her face away. “I’m sorry. This isn’t how I’d planned to end the evening.”

  “Me, either.”

  “I like you, Jeff, a lot. But after what happened tonight, I—”

  She didn’t have to say the words. I already knew. “You don’t want to see me.”

  “I’m not saying it’s forever. Give me a few weeks and maybe we can try again. It’s just....”

  I cupped her chin, turned her face toward me, and leaned across the shifter, pressing my lips against hers. There was no passion in her response; neither was there revulsion. Maybe we could try again in another couple of weeks. Maybe.

  Chapter 21

  Claudia Sumner’s untidy death kept me awake and staring at the ceiling for a long time. She must have known all about little Jackie. Otherwise why was she so interested in finding out the beneficiary of the fictional insurance policy I’d mentioned when I’d met her? Did she wonder if her husband had changed his policies—maybe even his will—to include his lover and bastard child?

  Ron Myers said Claudia loved money. She also loved her children. How far was she willing to go to protect them and their inheritance? If Sharon confronted her—demanding Jackie’s share of Matt’s estate—Claudia could have been foolish enough to argue with her about it, not knowing she was Matt’s killer.

  Sumner’s tryst with Maggie had happened at the condo five years before. Little Jackie was now four years old. Had Sumner bedded Sharon immediately after Maggie had broken it off? If so, Sharon would have known about the condo. It fit the time line. Had she lured Claudia there? Her death fit the pattern of humiliation, too. Sharon had taken Sumner’s clothes before killing him. That she’d do the same to his wife made sense, as well. And killing Claudia at the condo, where Matt had slept with all his side dishes, was the ultimate degradation.

  I got up late and found Richard and Brenda at the kitchen table still reading the paper. “Morning,” I called, shuffling toward the coffee pot.

  They looked at me over the tops of their respective newspaper sections. “Good morning,” Richard said. Did I detect a sliver of ice in his tone?

  “Did you have a good time last night?” Brenda asked.

  “Uh ... yes and no.” I grabbed a cup from the cupboard and poured myself some coffee.

  “There’s been a development in the Sumner case,” Richard said, folding the front page of the paper to show me the banner headline. “They found his wife murdered.”

  I gulped my coffee. “Yeah. I know.”

  He studied my face. “How do you know?”

  I considered lying but decided against it. “Who do you think found her?”

  “Jeffy!” Brenda cried.

  “Christ, now what kind of trouble are you in?” Richard asked.

  “Nobody knows it was us.”

  “Us?” Brenda said.

  “Maggie was with me.” I explained how she’d found the duplicate key to the condo in Sumner’s office. I left out the part about Maggie’s affair with the dead man.

  “I don’t see how they can connect either one of us.”

  “Oh no?” Richard turned and grabbed a Post-It note from the counter. “That reporter called three times last night. You snuck off to bed before I could give you the messages.”

  “Uh ... thanks. I guess. I’ll call him later.”

  They gave each other worried looks, but Richard shook his head and they both found places other than me to look at. Finally Brenda refolded her section of newspaper. “Tomorrow’s Easter Sunday; we really should go to church.”

  “Church?” Richard echoed. “But we never go.”

  Brenda shoved the Life & Arts section’s color spread in front of him. “The paper says there’s a Basilica in Lackawanna. Look at these pictures; the statues and stained glass look terrific. Its design is supposed to be based on St. Peter’s in Rome. And it sure wouldn’t hurt you couple of sinners to go.” With that Brenda got up from the table, clearing away some of the dishes.

  “But you’re not Catholic.”

  “The two of you are. Maybe it’ll rub off on me.”

  Richard scowled. “What time?”

  “Noon.” Brenda looked at me. “Want to come?”

  I shrugged. “Sure.” Besides, Maggie had said the Basilica was her parish. Maybe I’d see her there.

  The phone rang. Richard’s scowl deepened. “I’m not answering it.”

  “Me, either,” Brenda said.

  I got up, picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

  “Jeff.” It was Sam Nielsen, sounding insufferably pleased. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

  “No I haven’t. I just wasn’t home when you called last night. Why have you been annoying my family?”

  “Me, annoy anyone? Ha! I was just wondering if you heard about Claudia Sumner?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “A woman called 911. Do you know who?”

  No way was I going to implicate Maggie. Some part of me still hoped I had a chance of being with her. “I read about it in the paper.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  Damn him. He was going to hound me until I gave him something more. “Look, I’ve just moved back to Buffalo and I don’t have any wheels. I need to make a few more inquiries. Are you available this morning?”

  “Name the time and place.”

  We agreed to meet in an hour. I hung up the phone to find Richard and Brenda staring at me. “Do you think that’s a wise move?”

  “I’ve gotta get him off my back. If nothing else, I’ll bore him to death.”

  Brenda let out a sigh but said nothing.

  “And I’d like to go to East Aurora this afternoon, if you don’t mind driving, Rich.”

  “Why?”

  “To meet Sharon Walker.”

  Brenda sat down at the table again, her eyes flashing. “No, Jeffy. Don’t do it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because from what you’ve told us, she’s a vicious murderer. Maybe she killed Sumner’s wife, too. I don’t want you to be next.”

  “She’s not going to kill me. I’m not stupid enough to accuse her.”

  “What will you say to her?” Richard asked.

  “I’m not sure. I figured I’d just wing it.”

  “Wing it?” Brenda asked.

  “Then what?”

  “Then I’ll go to Detective Hayden with everything I’ve got on her. It’s up to him to decide if he wants to pursue it. I’ll wash my hands of the whole thing once I talk to him.”

  Brenda crossed her arms over her chest. “Amen!”

  o0o

  A shiny black SUV with the license plate HOTNEWS pulled up the driveway exactly on time. I headed for it and slammed the door after I got i
n.

  “Where’re we going?” Nielsen asked.

  “Do you like pizza for breakfast?”

  “Not since college. Why?”

  “We’re going to the joint where Rob Sumner works.”

  “What for?”

  “To talk.” I gave him the address. “Put this sucker in gear and let’s go.”

  “You don’t expect him to show for work the morning after his mother was murdered.”

  “Of course not. But that doesn’t mean I can’t talk to his co-workers.”

  Nielsen shrugged, backed out of the driveway, and headed for Main Street. “Why the interest in the son? Do you think he’s involved?”

  “I don’t know. Something in his attitude makes me suspicious.”

  “Is this a psychic insight?” he asked with more than a hint of contempt.

  “It’s a gut reaction. I’ve got years of investigative experience behind me. I’ve worked in the field for the last fourteen years.”

  “I did some digging on you. You had a pretty good career going.”

  “And it would’ve continued, if I hadn’t been mugged.”

  “As of yesterday, NYPD hadn’t made any headway on that.”

  He had done his homework. “I didn’t think they would.”

  Nielsen palmed the wheel as he turned onto Transit Road. “Do you want to tell me how this psychic stuff works?”

  “No.”

  “Aw, come on, Jeff. We’re old school pals.”

  “I’ve forgotten a lot since I had my brains scrambled, but I know for a fact we were never friends.”

  “That could change.”

  “Why?”

  Nielsen braked for a red light. “Because if you’ve got genuine psychic abilities—”

  “Less than a minute ago you were sneering at the idea.”

  “I admit I’m a skeptic.”

  “And I can’t put on a show for you. This stuff is hit or miss.”

  “So you were scamming Hayden?”

  “No. Sometimes—and only sometimes—I seem to tune into people’s emotions. The rest of it just kind of happens.”

  “And this only started after the mugging?”

  “Yeah, and I hope like hell it goes as fast as it came.”