by Tyler Colins
Linda appeared solemn. “The baby might be her motivation.”
“As in guilt?”
“Let's consider it. The father died and Cholla ended up a single mom. More than likely, financial means were minimal, given she was young and not yet established. Believing she couldn't provide the type of care this special-needs baby required, she gave it up.”
“I wonder …”
“What?”
“If young hubby fell into the Channel thanks to a push from young wifey.”
Linda searched my face. “Because she blamed him for the baby's condition? Or she wanted to be rid of him?”
“Possibly both reasons. Or maybe the guy was penniless and was proving a burden. Or he'd simply started to bore her.”
“I could see any and all of those serving as solid motives for Cholla shoving the guy overboard.”
I looked back at the house. “She's near. I know it.”
Linda murmured agreement. “The question is: near where?”
“My gut tells me she'll stay clear of James-Henri, at least for the interim… We should find out if she made recent large withdrawals.”
“That would be too obvious if people checked. She's super smart, JJ. She wouldn't have arranged this little 'flotsam farewell' without having suitable funds readily available, as in an offshore account or two. It's not like she can marry some rich or connected guy, at least not until she's settled into a new life and identity.”
“You're right.” I sighed. “No doubt she's already altered her looks enough that we wouldn't recognize her on the street.”
“Count on it.” She returned to the popcorn.
So did I. Munching thoughtfully, we continued the [no value-add] surveillance.
“Markham hasn't had time to check about units bought and rented in our building, but why limit our search? Who's to say she hasn't purchased or rented elsewhere in our neighborhood?”
“If she has, she'd had to have been planning this for some time. We know she's smart and calculating, so I can totally see that she'd engineer a 'just-in-case' back-up plan.”
“Let's start checking.”
“Isn't that like looking for a needle in a haystack?” Linda's expression suddenly grew cynical. “Name variations are endless, never mind that she may have a partner, or 'poor sap' as Spades said. To be honest, I think we'd have better luck trolling streets.”
Playfully, I punched her shoulder. “Don't be a wet blanket, Lindy-Loo.”
“I have an idea that might garner some useful info.”
“I'm all ears, my dear,” I cooed.
She smirked. “Let's pester James-Henri until he sees the practicality of imparting helpful news about his crazy half-sister.”
* * *
We'd been parked near James-Henri's house since five. It was now six-thirty. Purposely, we'd avoided calls and texts from Gail and the rest of the world because we truly had no idea what, if anything, would transpire.
Linda grabbed my arm and nodded. “Here he comes.”
James-Henri strolled up the winding pathway with a reusable shopping tote in hand. A cloudy early-evening sky cast long shadows and it was difficult to see his face in the dimness. His bearing, however, suggested he was tense. Was he grieving his half-sister's demise? Or having to deal with the news she was very much alive?
“Let's go.” Grabbing her knapsack, Linda leaped from the Jeep.
I followed, carryall (with Taser) in hand.
Before he could slip into the house, we bounded onto the verandah.
He glowered. “You again?”
“We can't get enough of you,” I said gaily.
“My ass.”
Jostling past, Linda sashayed into the marble-floored foyer.
“Really?”
She grinned like a sugar addict about to indulge in a three-scoop hot-fudge sundae and flipped a switch. An intricate pendant light, a cross between chandelier and spinning wheel, provided warm golden lighting.
“We'll spring for dinner,” I said merrily. “What are you up for? Pizza? Thai?”
“I'm feeling like Caribbean myself,” Linda replied.
We looked expectantly at James-Henri.
His response was a baleful stare.
“Don't be a spoilsport,” Linda purred. “We have so much to catch up on. Let's do it over a nice meal.”
“I could call the police.”
“You could, but you won't,” I smiled.
He cursed and then motioned us to follow.
In the kitchen, he stepped into a nook where a customized wine cabinet stood and pulled out a bottle of Côtes-du-Rhône. “Get glasses from over there,” he instructed Linda, removing a fancy corkscrew from a drawer under a granite-covered island. “Let me guess. You want to talk about Cholla again. Or is it Carlos? Maybe me? Honestly, ladies, there's nothing new to share.” He appeared deflated for a second, then sighed and poured wine.
I sat on a white leather counter stool.
Linda took a seat alongside and provided a gracious thank-you as he passed wineglasses.
One eyebrow arched questioningly as he sniffed and sipped.
“Did she have a baby when she was young?” Linda asked, searching his face. “Or was that a story she made up?”
“Again, I have no idea what you're talking about.”
She and I glanced at each other; something in the perplexed expression advised he spoke the truth.
We drank in silence for a full moment. Finally, I asked, “Where would she go if she didn't want to be found?”
Looking incredulous, he parked himself at the end of the counter. “You really believe she's alive?”
“Did you know she was a good scuba-diver?”
The transitory stupefied expression advised he didn't.
“Were you aware that she was the beneficiary for at least three artists that had died just as they were making a name?”
He frowned, tensing. “I knew of one.”
“Three at present count, but we suspect—and will find—more,” I stated matter-of-factly.
“What happened between you and Lolita at the gallery that night?” Linda asked.
“We had an argument.” He swore under his breath and then drew a long, deep breath. “Merdre. She'd learned about a deal I'd made years ago from a friend of a friend of a friend. It hadn't exactly been legal and could have ruined my reputation, never mind spurring legal action. A few days prior to the party, she had decided to ask for, what do you call it again? Right, hush money. I gave it thought and decided to tell her that I wouldn't pay. Having the truth revealed would have been better than living as a stressed and angry man, never mind potentially poor.”
“You weren't paying her $3,500 monthly?”
Bafflement crossed his countenance.
“Maybe Cholla was?”
“… Maybe.”
“So, what happened that night with Lolita?” I prodded.
He smiled darkly. “She asked what I'd decided and I told her. She made threats and became so belligerent, I got royally pissed off. I shoved her without thinking and stormed off. She was very angry—and alive—when we parted ways.”
“Had you noticed anyone around?” I asked.
He refilled glasses as he considered it. “No one but Cholla, who'd stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. She'd had had too much champagne.” A cheerless smile followed a limp shrug. “She wasn't exactly nearby, though.”
“Maybe not at that particular moment,” Linda commented.
He regarded her closely.
“Did she know about the intended blackmail?”
“I'd told her a few hours after Lolita approached me, but we'd not spoken of it since.”
“But she knew.”
James-Henri offered a curt nod.
“Again, where would she go if she wanted to be alone?”
He eyed his glass. “There's a place in the Ko'olauloa district, somewhere outside of … of Kahuku. She'd bought it early last year on a whim for weekend
getaways, but never found time to get up that way.” His smile was bleak. “Then she had an idea to lend it to aspiring artists so they might be inspired.”
“Ko'olauloa, you say?” Linda looked at me with a what-the-hell expression.
“Shades of WP Howell,” I murmured.
Howell had been a wealthy and very crazy serial killer who'd owned a getaway cottage there. The night we'd helped apprehend him had been as insane as the man himself.
“I hope this isn't foreshadowing,” my colleague said somberly.
“More like shades of The Twilight Zone,” I muttered, gulping back wine.
Chapter Forty-One
“Good thing you have a cache of dark clothes in the Jeep.” Linda zipped up a black fleece jacket and yanked the floppy hood over her head. “Bad thing you have a bright red in-your-face one.”
“Good thing road lights are at a minimum and the blanket of night is veiling creation below,” I chirped, pulling on a spruce-green quilted zip-front vest. “And really good thing James-Henri willingly provided an address and directions.”
“He had nothing to lose.”
The only man-made light came from a lamp located at the lower section of the roadway, but at 8:15 the area was easy to see thanks to a waxing gibbous moon and a non-urban night sky packed with a profusion of dazzling stars. The winds had picked up since our arrival ten minutes ago, swishing through shrubs and whizzing around trees. Thrashing bushes and boughs, and vocal nocturnal wildlife added to the cacophony of sounds. The blustery evening was eerily reminiscent of the one we'd confronted WP Howell and it was hard to stop thinking about Linda's “foreshadowing” comment.
Within immediate sight were four sizeable houses situated on acre lots. All appeared deserted. Either they served solely as weekend residences or the owners were out for the evening. Cholla's place was as dark as the others. For the umpteenth time, I scanned the two-story single-family dwelling, winding driveway, and two-car garage lined with 6' high naio hedges. Grass and landscaping had been recently tended to, which suggested someone was—or soon would be—living there.
“Rey and Gail aren't going to be happy that we didn't include them in this little escapade.” Linda surveyed the area through Bushnell binoculars. “Maybe we should have told them what we were up to instead of texting that we were going to grab some Greek.”
“There didn't seem much point in dragging them along when we have no idea what we might find.” I chuckled. “Rey's reply was hysterical.”
Linda grinned. “And X-rated.”
I traded an extra-large Bounty bar for the binoculars. “If they were here, you know Rey would be peeking in windows—before sneaking in.”
She passed a piece of chocolate-enrobed coconut. “What's say we take a look around after we've sustained ourselves?”
“We better take the Taser.”
“Are we expecting to bump into someone?” she asked wryly. “Cholla maybe?”
“You never know,” was my light reply.
Slipping into the keening winds, we made cautious ways along a thick hedge lining the front of Cholla's home-away-from-home and stopped before a tandem, swing-out garage.
“Do you want to go that way and I'll go this?” Linda motioned.
I blew long loose hair from my eyes and saluted with the Taser. “Meet you back here in five.”
“Shriek if you sight her,” she joked.
“Fire, you mean?”
Slapping my forearm, off she went.
Someone had recently strewn fertilizer, so the night smelled floral and fresh, and very farm-like. Given the tall arched windows, I looked in at what I assumed was a salon or den. Slat blinds covered most of the glass, but a murky outline of a bar or table was visible. For a second, the barest of blinks, I thought I'd seen a flicker of diffused light in a far corner. Fine hairs at the back of my neck stood on end.
“Don't be a goose,” I murmured, blaming the inane reaction on a cool evening and over-active imagination.
Nothing was visible through the next window thanks to thick shades and what was probably a black-out liner. Gauging from the size of the house, it easily contained four or five bedrooms. A pretty nice get-away.
“Get-away cottage” was what Howell's four-bedroom place had been called. In fact, it wasn't all that far from Cholla's, maybe a ten-minute drive. A shiver capered up my spine and those damn hairs bristled again.
Thud. Evidently, Linda or maybe an animal had knocked something. I was surprised I hadn't yet. The next window provided no visuals, no secrets. This escapade, as Linda had called it, was proving a colossal waste of time. Still, we'd come all the way out here; a quick inspection was worth the effort.
In the rear were a multitude of fruit and palm trees that seemed strategically placed, in a checkerboard pattern. Four metal glider chairs sat before a row of large empty clay fiberglass pots and two double-box bronze lights were situated on either side of a narrow steel door. Nothing of note here, either. Linda would be rounding the corner any second, so I decided to wait.
When she didn't appear after two minutes, I began to worry. Poising the Taser, I cautiously turned a corner and was surprised, stunned, to see … nothing. This was too weird. Maybe she'd backtracked the other way.
I took a step and canoodled grass.
* * *
“Ou-ouch.” My head felt as if it were about to implode.
“Hurts, don't it?” Linda asked wryly.
“Big time—hell! I'm blind!”
“You've got your eyes scrunched closed.”
Scrunched? They felt as if they'd been stitched shut. I took a calming breath and forced them open. Slowly, I gazed around an L-shaped den palely illuminated by two unique sconces bearing tree-twig themes. On the right side of the room was a bare bar, citrus-yellow sofa with matching loveseat, and empty white two-door storage accent cabinet. On the left stood sheet-covered easels, boxes, sketch-boards and artist paraphernalia.
Dried blood on the temple, Linda sat cross-legged on an acacia hardwood floor, on the opposite side of a natural granite hearth. Leaves and stems poked from layered raspberry-red hair resembling a bird's nest. Her left wrist was manacled—to mine. Five feet of chain lay between us and another three feet of chain was attached to a grate in the hearth. There was room to shift, sit close or even hug, but relocating beyond the hearth wouldn't happen anytime soon.
“Well, here's another nice mess we've gotten ourselves into,” I joked, mimicking Oliver Hardy.
She smiled ruefully. “We?”
“I can't have you take all the blame.”
A loud bah-hah-hah ripped forth.
We laughed like enthusiastic sports fans having sucked back too many suds, then gazed somberly at each other.
“I'm guessing you were caught unawares.”
Linda nodded and gingerly fingered her temple. “I was whipping around the side when something hard and heavy caught me upside the head. You?”
“Similar story.”
“Was it Cholla?”
“I'd bet a few sawbucks yes.” I pulled the shackle. Without a key or tools, it appeared Linda and I were stuck. “Where's Rey's B&E kit when you need it?”
Linda yanked hard.
“Ouch!”
“Sorry.” She sat back with a snort. “Do you have any Advil?”
“In my bag.” I looked around. “Which is nowhere to be seen.”
“Mine's gone, too.”
“I'd say we're officially screwed.”
She concurred.
“Do you think she knew we were coming?”
Linda's are-you-for-real look prompted a cynical chuckle.
“James-Henri warned her, you think?”
“I think,” Linda replied flatly. “Either that, or she's psychic.”
“Well, she is a witch so she might have gazed deep into her iron cauldron and saw us coming.”
My colleague smiled sardonically. “When do you suppose she'll show?”
“When she's good and ready.
”
“Could be a while.”
“Could be.”
“Maybe we should discuss how to escape this silly little predicament,” she suggested sarcastically.
“You wouldn't happen to have a hacksaw or bobby pin handy, would you?”
“The hacksaw would take too long,” she said dryly. “I don't wear bobby pins, but you do.”
“Not often and not today.”
“Dang.”
“Double dang.”
She held up the secured wrist. “Yup, we are definitely officially screwed.”
The den door flew open.
“How nice to see you're awake.”
Cholla Poniard stood in the door in highly polished army boots, designer jeans, and a vermillion-and-navy flannel plaid shirt—with my Taser resting in a large breast pocket. Hair was tucked into a canvas cabby hat. Crossing her arms, glossy red lips drew into a triumphant smile as she gazed from Linda to me.
I sighed. “So very screwed.”
* * *
Removing the Taser, Cholla ambled over to the loveseat and perched herself on the edge. “You have proven very troublesome.”
Linda scowled. “Pshaw!”
Our captor tittered like a schoolgirl and waved the Taser.
“I suppose you plan on killing us,” I said. “Will we be blown into bits like your lover?”
“She'll probably Taser us to death and bury our bodies in the woods,” Linda stated wryly. “Or maybe stab us. But given her track record and imagination, anything's possible.”
“She does have a great fondness for killing and never using the same MO.”
Cholla tittered again, pointed the Taser at my nose, and appeared to contemplate whether she wanted to fire. Finally, she shrugged and smiled.
“They know you're not dead,” Linda advised tersely.
“Do they?”
“We know, so they know.”
She grinned. “I thought you might figure out I'd not—pardon the pun—gone down with the ship.”
“They'll come looking.”
“Probably,” she acknowledged. “That's why we're leaving shortly.”
“You don't want to blow us up with the cottage?” Linda asked sarcastically. “Or maybe set fire to the place with us in it?”
I kicked her calf.
She arched a strong shoulder.