“Make sure she swallowed them,” Lucy instructs as she walks back in the kitchen, holding the missing Balenciaga bag. Stella tries to open her mouth but Emily slips her fingers between her lips to check each of her cheeks and underneath her tongue for hidden pills. Poking her index finger down her windpipe, Stella starts to gag. “They’re gone.”
“Atta girl.” Lucy smiles as if congratulating a child. “Thanks, Emily.” Holding up the bag, she smirks, “I’m gonna run this upstairs and then I’ll be outta your hair.”
When she comes back, the bag no longer in hand, Lucy looks at Stella. “Now we have to decide where you should go to sleep.” Waiting for a response that Stella can’t muster, she continues, “Anywhere you want to be your final resting place? Should we turn the ignition on in the garage and leave the door shut or is that too predictable? Or maybe the couch? Or we could just lay you on the floor of the kitchen. Grant will find you in a few days when he comes home.” Lucy gives an evil laugh. “Of course, it’ll be too late then.”
“No,” Stella moans weakly.
“It’s terrible you thought sleeping pills were the only way out.” Lucy shrugs. “It’s been well-documented you have a history of depression and hurting yourself. I’m sure they’ll think this was part of it.”
Stella rests her elbows on the counter, her eyes watering from when she almost threw up.
“I wish I could call Grant and tell him that it’s almost over … all this pain you’ve caused … but you taught me to make sure I leave my phone at home so my movements are untraceable,” Lucy mimics.
“Adam…” She puts a hand to her chest.
“Adam can’t save you. And in fact, he’s my alibi. I’m in bed sleeping.” Lucy smirks, “Emily, can I count on you to watch her for the remainder of her life, or is that asking too much?”
Emily gulps, a smear of blood faint against her cheek.
“When her pulse stops, or you hear a death gurgle, then you can leave, but not until then.” Lucy wags a finger at her. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Grant will pay you when he returns, as promised, for the completion of the job.” Lucy shoots her a dirty look. “Key word is completion.”
“Are you going to tell him you had to help?” Emily squeals. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”
“No, it’ll be our little secret.” Lucy gives her a wink. “Just another lil’ secret to add to the pile.”
Pivoting, Lucy heads out the door, head down, to her waiting vehicle.
“Are you about dead?” Emily asks. “How does it feel?”
Stella wants to swing at her, this dumb girl, who still seems to be in acting mode, but she saves her breath, which is starting to rapidly slow down. Her eyes drift open and closed, and she asks, “Can I lay on the couch? I don’t feel so well.”
Emily considers this for a moment, “I don’t see why not … Lucy did ask where you wanted to rest.”
Stella mumbles, “Why ruin your life to hurt someone you don’t even know?”
Flipping her hair over her shoulder, Emily sulks. “I don’t know you, but this is just a job, and I need the money.”
“How much is he paying you?” Stella moans. “How much is my life worth?”
“Here, let me help you to the couch.” Emily reaches out an arm, helping Stella as she unsteadily tries to rise. Her body feels tingly, yet her mind races, an unfortunate combo.
Stella limps along with her, settling into the overstuffed couch. “Emily,” Stella cries out, “I’ll double it.”
“Double the money?” Her gaze penetrates her eyes. “Really?” She seems excited at the prospect of this, but then a sour look crosses her green eyes. “It would never work.”
“What wouldn’t?”
“You’d jeopardize my freedom. What happens when you change your mind and go to the cops?”
“I could put something in writing…”
“I’m sure that’ll hold up in court.”
Stella’s eyes well up with tears. “What can I do to fix this?”
Emily watches her, intent on leaving, her hand clasping Stella’s limp wrist, waiting for her to fall into a state of unconsciousness, then death.
“Can I call my husband?”
“Why would you want to call the man who orchestrated this?”
“So he can hear my final wishes.”
“No. Not a good idea.” Emily looks at her plastic wristwatch. “Shhh, you shouldn’t be talking, just lay back and relax. I promise you, this is a much better idea than having to drown you.”
Stella closes her eyes, intent of formulating a plan, except her mind’s fuzzy, and bits and pieces seem to slip away. It’s hard to form a coherent thought, and she slips in and out of a conscious state, thrashing awake to Emily’s catlike eyes and then back into a trance.
Impatient to go, Emily keeps tugging at her wrist, but Stella barely notices. It takes longer than she anticipated for her to slide into a coma, her blue eyes flickering shut with a shudder.
36
Grant
Grant wakes up on Saturday morning in his hotel room, half-drunk from the night before when he dined with clients. He feels guilty about feeling trapped in his marriage, and remorseful since Maggie came to dinner. He turned his phone off last night so he wouldn’t make a mistake, or say something he shouldn’t.
Powering his cell on, a missed call pops up with a number he recognizes.
Lucy Wagoner.
Sighing, he hits the re-dial button since Lucy didn’t bother to leave a message.
She’s triumphant when she answers. “It’s done.”
“How is she?”
“As best as can be expected.”
“Okay, let me know if you need anything else.” Grant disconnects, not having anything else he wants to says. Emotional and drained, the city lights welcome him with their glare, but he can’t seem to stay awake to reciprocate the feeling.
When he reaches the twenty-seventh floor, it’s all he can do to brush his teeth and not collapse into bed, shoes still on. The build-up of the couple of months, knowledge his wife was cheating on him, it all collapses into a pile of ashes as soon as his head hits the pillow.
In the morning, Grant wakes up to a splitting headache and multiple missed calls.
Dr. Sabin.
Listening to the message, he frowns,
“Hi, Grant, it’s Dr. Sabin. I spoke with Stella at the house during her appointment time on Friday. She called and left a voice message that I forgot my glasses. I stopped by, but I can’t seem to reach her. Her phone is dead and I know she said she’d be available all weekend, but I wanted to check in with you. I didn’t notice anything suspicious at the house except that the observation deck door was open.”
The third-level deck’s open? Grant furrows his brows. What the hell happened that anyone stepped foot up there?
Swallowing, he dials Lucy’s number, but it goes straight to voicemail.
He doesn’t bother to call Dr. Sabin back yet. He just hopes he can count on Lucy.
About to hop in the shower, an unknown number flashes on the screen. Tempted to let it go to voicemail, he wonders if it’s someone in New York.
“Grant Masen.”
“Hi.” A small voice, hard to hear, whispers.
“Ah … this is Grant. And this is?”
“You don’t know me.”
“Okay, are you looking for representation?”
“Uh, no.” The voice hesitates. “It’s about your wife.”
“Is this some kind of prank?” Grant peels the wrapper off the soap, starting to undress, the phone in one hand. He puts it on speaker as he turns the shower head on.
Puzzled, Grant asks, “Did she put you up to something?”
“Ah … I don’t think so.”
Impatient, he snaps, “Who is this?”
“When am I getting paid?”
“Excuse me, is this Camille?”
She murmurs, “Camille, um, no, I’m not �
�� my name’s not Camille.”
“The interior decorator for my office?”
“Nope.”
“Paid for what? Is this a vendor?”
“I sat with her until she died, just like I was told.” The girl on the other end starts to sob. Grant can practically feel the tremors through the phone. “And I just … I need my money.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Grant looks at his face in the mirror, the square jaw, his slightly receding hairline, “I’m going to hang up now.”
“Please…” she begs, “don’t hang up. Lucy told me you would have my payment.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Grant stares at the dark circles underneath his eyes.
The girl hiccups, “I’m not coming after you, I swear.”
“Is my wife playing some kind of joke on me?” Grant slams his hand on the counter. “Is she trying to ruin every aspect of my life?”
“Unless your wife is Lucy, then no, she’s not.” The girl falters, “Your wife is dead.”
“Wait, what?” Grant hits the speaker button, holding the phone up to his ear. “What do you mean my wife is dead?”
“Your wife is Stella, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then yeah…”
“Who are you?”
“I was hired by you, I was told.”
Grant hangs up. His fingers shaking, he hits Stella’s number. It goes straight to voicemail. He does this a few times, screaming a message for her to call him back.
Is this some kind of game? Did Stella plan something? Is this payback?
He tries Lucy one more time.
It rings twice and then he hears a commotion in the background.
“Adrian, put that down,” Lucy yells at one of her children. “Hey Grant, what’s up?”
“Where’s Stella?”
Perplexed, she says, “At home, of course.”
“When did you see her?”
“Just last night.”
“And everything was fine?”
“Yeah, of course. She said she was a little groggy because she took a sleeping pill. She couldn’t talk long because she was going to bed.”
“And you actually saw her in the flesh?”
“Yeah, can’t you see on the camera that I went over there?”
“No, they’re shut off.”
“Well, I did.” Lucy seems rattled. “So you want me to go and check on her?”
“Yeah, please,” Grant sighs, “can you do it soon? Or I can call the police and have them do a welfare check.”
“No, no,” she says. “I’ll have Adam watch the kids and go to the house.” Lucy adds, “What’s going on that you’re scared about her safety? Did she call you?”
“No.” Grant rubs a hand through his hair, “A woman, or girl, I couldn’t tell, I could barely hear her, told me she was dead.”
“What in the…”
“It was a strange call. She kept asking for her money.”
Lucy stammers, “I hope Stella isn’t trying to get attention this way. What a terrible joke to play on someone.”
“Call me as soon as possible, please.” Grant paces the floor of the claustrophobic hotel room.
They disconnect, but an odd gnawing seems to grow in his stomach.
All of their past is about to come to the surface, and he can’t hide his demons any longer.
37
The Police
The cops head to 4112 Beachcomber Drive, expecting the worst, but in reality, they assume she’ll be asleep, or out with her friends, or oblivious that she’s causing anyone worry.
Officer Murray had tried Stella McKinney’s cell phone, but it went to voicemail multiple times. She probably didn’t realize it was dead, since most people freak out if their phone goes below eighty percent charged.
The husband had said she was alone in the house, and it sure looks that way.
Officer Dickinson is riding along, and he whistles at the palatial estate, fit for royalty. And on prime real estate in Malibu in front of the Pacific, no less.
Whistling, he exclaims, “What do these people do for a living?”
“No idea.” Murray scratches his bald head. “Bet it’s showbiz money.” It’s a running joke between them that most people in this area are actors or studio executives.
The driveway’s empty, no vehicles parked outside, and from the first glance, the house seems peaceful. The rain’s cleared up, and the sky is burning off the last of the morning fog.
Dickinson walks around the deck to what he presumes is the front door facing the ocean. He tries to peer in, but the floor-to-ceiling windows are covered with blinds, and with a final glance around the deck, he knocks on the door.
Murray strolls around the wrought iron patio furniture and the fire pit that’s placed in view of the water. Scanning his eyes upward, he sees multiple decks, but an open door on the third level gives him pause. It’s wide open, blowing precariously in the wind, and he can’t tell if anyone’s up there. He puts a hand around his mouth and yells, “Hello?” His muffled voice is lost in the breeze, and he involuntarily shudders.
Staring at it with interest, he heads in the direction of Dickinson.
“Any answer?”
“Nope.”
“A door’s wide open.”
“Do we have permission from the homeowner to enter?’
“Yes, we do.”
“Can we just use a ladder and enter through the open door?”
“Third floor?” Hmm … seems risky.”
The officers contact Grant, who answers on the first ring. “Hi, Mr. Masen, we’re at the home, it’s locked up tight but the third-level door is indeed open. Is there an extra key we can use or someone who might be able to let us in?”
“Stella didn’t answer?”
“No answer, sir.”
“There’s a key hidden on the inside of the patio furniture storage. You have to look all the way in the bottom, but it’s tucked in the inside of a flowered satchel.” Grant adds, “There’s a padlock on the bin, enter four-three-five-one.”
“Okay, thanks,” Dickinson says, “we’ll be in touch.”
Murray holds the lid of the heavy container that contains the cushions for the outdoor furniture, a weather-sealed bin that keeps them safe from storms. In the bottom corner, he spots the small fabric piece that holds the house key.
“Got it,” he pulls it out as Murray shuts and locks the storage box.
Dickinson unlocks the front door, and as soon as he steps across the foyer, he brings a hand to his mouth.
Murray’s eyes search the room, but neither man takes a step forward. They know this scene all too well. They need to secure the perimeter, but first things first.
Radioing in to the station, Murray says, “Operator, we have a suspected homicide in Malibu, 4112 Beachcomber Drive.”
The operator repeats the address back to him, and he confirms.
Going back outside and shutting the door behind them, Dickinson gives Grant Masen a call back.
Panting, he answers his phone. “Mr. Masen?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you sitting down?”
“Yes.”
“You’re going to want to take a flight home as soon as possible.”
“Oh my God, oh my God, what is it?” He moans. “Is it Stella?”
“We don’t know anything yet, but we suspect a homicide or a suicide at your residence.”
“She’s … she’s dead?”
“There’s a woman, yes.” Dickinson keeps his voice steady. “That’s all we know for now.”
Grant’s tone rises to one of hysteria. The words that tumble out of his mouth don’t make sense to Dickinson, but they usually don’t when the loved one is faced with the unfortunate news of a death.
“Mr. Masen?” Dickinson exhales. “Please come home when you can. We’re going to need your assistance identifying her body.”
38
Grant
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Frantic, Grant starts to dial Rebecca’s number, but hangs up when he realizes it will be faster for him to go online instead of waiting for his assistant to do it. Booking the earliest flight out of JFK airport, his suitcase sits in the corner, still unpacked.
Hands shaking, he calls Lucy. “She’s dead, she’s really dead,” he cries into the phone, his agitation mounting as he starts to scream at her. Hanging up, he breaks down, his head resting in his hands as his body shakes.
When she calls back, he doesn’t answer.
The flight’s a long one, and even more agonizing when your wife’s deceased.
By the time he lands in Los Angeles, he’s existing on caffeine and vodka and chain smoking cigarettes one at a time outside of the airport. His taxi driver at LAX chastises him, so he finds another one that takes in his haggard appearance and red eyes.
The drive to Malibu has never felt so arduous, and he’s grateful there’s no rush hour traffic to contend with on a weekend morning.
Throwing a wad of cash at the driver, Grant doesn’t wait for the vehicle to stop before he stumbles out. Almost forgetting his carry-on, the driver stops and wheels it out of the trunk, shaking his head at him.
The house he comes home to doesn’t resemble his home. Yellow police tape cordons it off from the beach, as if it’s on its own island now, alone from the pristine water and curious onlookers that congregate outside of the patio.
He tries to brush by the officers guarding the outside, but they forcefully push him back when he tries to shove by them.
“That’s my wife in there,” he yells. “Let me in my damn house.” One of the officers exchanges knowing glances with the other, and they ask him to hang on a minute. Impatient, he scours for signs of something, anything, but his house looks surprisingly normal from the outside.
A man comes to meet him, pitching his hand forward. “You must be Grant, I’m Officer Dickinson, I spoke with you on the phone this morning.”
The Perfect Stranger Page 20