by Dana Dratch
“You filthy little slut!”
Oh, shit.
Chapter 52
I whirled around and saw Margaret filling the doorway.
“You think you can steal my husband, destroy our lives, and go swanning around like nothing ever happened? You lured him away and ruined him with your dirty sex tricks! You’re nothing but a common little street tramp!”
Her accessory of choice: the most chilling smile I’d ever seen. And the way her eyes glittered told me that she and reality had parted company a long time ago.
Then there was the knife. With a long serrated blade. She held it in her right hand almost absentmindedly. Making little jabbing motions to emphasize her points as she spoke.
I searched the counters for anything I could use as a weapon.
Nada.
Offering nothing more threatening than butter cookies, the food trays were too far away. With an advancing Margaret in between.
Unfortunately, the Victorians liked their servants the way they liked their children: seen but not heard. The kitchen was tucked away on the far end of a very empty house. With a loud party in full swing out in the yard, not to mention the live music off the patio, I could scream my head off and no one would ever hear me. At least, not in time.
I opted for my strong suit: running my mouth.
Fighting every instinct, I took a step forward. Toward her. If I kept calm and kept talking, I might be able to distract Margaret long enough to make a break for the door.
“There was never anything even remotely romantic between Everett and me. I never touched him. And I certainly never slept with him. I worked for the firm. He was my boss. That was it.”
“You are such a little liar,” she said, her dark little piggy eyes shimmering. When she pronounced the word “liar,” her grin turned into a growl. “I know what you did. He told me what you did. Every. Filthy. Thing.”
Jab, jab, jab, the knife punctuated as she approached.
“How you ambushed him, late one night at the office. How you pounced when he was tired. After he’d been drinking. How you plied him with more alcohol and worked your charms—your whore’s tricks,” she snarled, waving the knife like an extension of her big, beefy hand.
She was way too comfortable with that blade. Too practiced.
I remembered Jennifer. Was this the last thing she ever saw?
“He tried to break it off. He promised to break it off. But, noooo. No, you just kept luring him back,” she spat, pushing forward—body-blocking me. Effectively pinning me against the sink. “You cheap little skank.”
I took a deep breath—my last?—and positioned myself nonchalantly against the sink. Body language: Two girls chatting. No biggie.
Behind my back, my hands groped around for something—anything—I could use to fight my way to the door. And there wasn’t a blasted thing.
Damn that neat-freak Ian!
“Margaret, your husband was sleeping with Jennifer Stiles, not me,” I said calmly, fighting to keep my voice even. “He lied to you. And he used me as a decoy. He manipulated both of us. He was never the least bit interested in me. And if he’d tried anything, I’d have sued him. And C&W. I couldn’t stand the guy. I didn’t even like working for him.”
Man, was that ever true.
“Liar! All you little tramps know how to do is lie and throw yourselves at rich, powerful men. You’re nothing. All of you! Worthless little whores!”
Uh-oh. Margaret’s slow burn was morphing into a full-on inferno.
I faked left, dodged right, and grabbed the only loose object remotely near the sink: a bottle of dish soap.
She snatched my hair and yanked my head toward her.
I squeezed the soap bottle for all I was worth.
And the stream hit its mark.
“Aaarr-rrrrgggg,” she roared.
But while she dropped the knife to wipe her eyes with one massive paw, she tightened the grip on my hair with the other—jerking my head from side to side like a rag doll.
“Help me! Somebody help me!” I screeched.
I kicked her solidly in the knee. She howled again, but hung onto my hair—and clocked my head against the counter. Hard.
Everything started to swim. I fought to stay conscious.
Dammit! No! She can’t get away with this! She can’t win!
I head-butted her in the gut, throwing all my weight behind the push, and let out a howl of my own. Because it hurt. A lot.
Suddenly, we were rolling around on the floor. I couldn’t see the knife. But I could see she didn’t have it.
I landed a strong punch on her nose. It spurted blood.
Margaret snarled, smiled, and grabbed another fistful of my hair.
She jerked it around and rolled on top of me, her huge hands around my throat.
Her big, round face looked like a Halloween pumpkin with tiny gleaming slits for eyes and that horrible slash of a grin. A jack o’lantern that reeked of scotch.
I clutched at her hands around my neck, struggling to pry loose a finger. If I could break just one, I could end the death grip on my throat. I bent one back, gave it a quick, hard jerk, and heard a crack. And a bellow of rage.
But instead of easing, the living vise seemed to tighten. And the smile deepened.
Pain made her stronger.
I kept pulling at the hands. At the same time, I kicked out, hoping to free one of my legs and get some leverage. But my torso was pinned under her weight, and my running shoes weren’t getting any traction.
My head throbbed. I saw spots. Everything was fading.
No! No! No!
I struggled like a fish that didn’t want to go into the boat.
Suddenly, the unholy pressure was gone. And I could breathe. Sweet, cool air.
I scrambled to my knees.
Margaret was laid out across the kitchen floor like a corpse. Baba was standing there in front of me—feet planted in a batter’s stance, hands wrapped around a small cast-iron skillet. I’m guessing that’s what she’d been toting in the big black purse.
“Oh my God,” I gasped, rubbing my throat. “Oh my God. Baba, are you OK?”
“Da,” she said, never taking her eyes off Margaret.
For her part, Margaret wasn’t moving. I couldn’t even tell if she was breathing. I reached up, grabbed a silver spoon off a tea service on the counter, and shoved it under her broken nose.
It fogged.
“She’s alive,” I rasped.
“I hit again,” Baba said, raising the frying pan.
“No, no! We want her alive,” I hissed. My throat was so strained, I couldn’t get any volume. My words came out barely above a whisper. “She’ll go to jail for life. She’s killed two people. Come on, we’ve got to call the cops.”
My head was pounding. My arms and legs were limp. Even my hair hurt. But I was alive.
I wrapped my arms around Baba and hugged her. “Thank you for saving me,” I croaked.
A tear slid down her cheek.
Just then Ian appeared in the doorway with a gaggle of guests. “And this is the kitchen, where all . . .”
In that split second, the group took in the whole grisly scene. Me, disheveled. Baba, gripping the frying pan. And Margaret passed out cold on the floor.
When my gaze met Ian’s, I swear those blue eyes twinkled.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid you’ve discovered our little secret. We are currently in rehearsals for our first murder mystery weekend, which will take place in just a few weeks. It will feature thrills, chills, and a ripping good mystery. Along with five unforgettable gourmet meals. All-inclusive, of course.
“Well,” he said, looking at me knowingly, “we’ll get out of your way, and leave you to it.”
“Wow, the big lady is really good,” I heard one woman say as they trooped out. “She didn’t even flinch when we walked in.”
“A total pro,” Ian responded, lightly. “She’d never break character.”
A few minute
s later, Harkins appeared. “Ian thought you might be able to use some assistance,” he said quietly.
“That’s Margaret Coleman,” I rasped, pointing. “She’s killed two people and tried to strangle me just now. I’d be dead if Baba hadn’t knocked her out with a frying pan.”
Harkins bent down and put two fingers to the side of Margaret’s neck, checking for a pulse. He nodded and stood.
“We had best summon the local constabulary,” he pronounced, reaching for the phone.
Gabby came barreling through the kitchen door and skidded to a stop when she saw Margaret.
“Holy shit!”
“She tried to kill me,” I wheezed. “Baba knocked her out. She’s alive but unconscious. Harkins is calling the cops. And if anyone asks, this is a rehearsal for a murder mystery weekend this place is hosting in a couple of weeks.”
Baba nodded.
“What’s wrong with your voice?”
“Margaret was strangling me when Baba bopped her.”
Baba crossed herself.
“Frying pan?” Gabby asked, looking Margaret up and down.
“Yup. Cast-iron.”
“That’ll do it,” she said, nodding. “Should we bury it before the cops get here?”
I was hoping she meant the frying pan.
“It was self-defense,” I said.
“OK, but if you change your mind, we can always stash it under the mulch in the yard.”
Obviously, Margaret had no idea what she was getting into when she picked a fight with my family.
“You might want to tell them to send a second car,” Gabby said. “That gray guy from the cocktail party just arrived, too.”
“Walters? Walters is here?”
Gabby nodded. “I saw him walk in when I was moving Nicky’s car. And I swear it looked like he was coming from your place.”
I needed to think. My head was clanging. And just like that, it hit me. I saw the game from Walters’ side of the board. He and Margaret weren’t working together. He was using Margaret as a weapon to get rid of his enemies. And blaming it on me.
But Margaret was on that enemy list herself. She had inherited Everett’s half of the business and didn’t want to sell. She was also the one who had betrayed Walters’ father in the first place.
I was just a loose end.
So I’m guessing that when Margaret unleashed her rage this time, there weren’t supposed to be any survivors. Margaret would kill me, or I would kill Margaret. Then Walters would step in and eliminate the winner. And make it look like we’d dispatched each other. Wife vs. “mistress” in a bloody battle to the death. Intrepid Margaret defending home and hearth against the amoral sexpot reporter.
Yeah, he could definitely sell that.
Walters was bloodless. I couldn’t see him stabbing, strangling, or swinging any proverbial “blunt instruments.” Remote and calculating, the man wasn’t about to get his hands dirty. He’d distance himself.
But that final death—Margaret’s or mine—had to look like the result of our “heated confrontation.” Only one solution I could think of fit both scenarios.
And if Walters was here, it meant he was tying up loose ends.
Like me.
“Gabby, I need a really big favor.”
“Sure thing, sugar. Just name it.”
Chapter 53
Minutes later, Gabby was back in the kitchen. And making a face.
“Now what, sugar?”
“The cops are on their way,” I said. “But we need to make sure Walters stays put. Got anything sharp in that purse of yours? A metal nail file? A pocketknife?”
“I have a switchblade. Will that do?”
“Uh, you carry a switchblade in your purse?” I asked.
“Sugar, you’re the one asking for something sharp. Besides, a girl’s got to be prepared.”
“You’re right. A switchblade would be perfect.”
With Gabby’s version of “feminine protection” in my jacket pocket, I walked out the front door and scanned the street for Walters’ car. A sleek, silver Rolls-Royce Phantom.
No luck.
Chances were, he and Margaret had arrived at my house well before the party. Before it looked like a luxury car dealer had taken over the block. And Walters would have needed to park somewhere convenient, but not too obvious. Which probably meant down the block from my house or on a nearby side street.
I headed down the sidewalk and crossed the street to my house. The plantation shutters were still closed tight. So just how long had they been camped out in there? A few minutes? Or did I need to start charging them rent, too?
I got to the end of my block and looked both ways.
And spotted a likely contender.
I strolled around the corner to the front of the car.
Bingo. A Rolls-Royce Phantom. In silver.
From the back, I wouldn’t have recognized it. But from the front, the grille and hood ornament were unmistakable. Plus there was the powder blue parking sticker from the “executive” section of the lot at work. Offering valet service, detailing, and reserved parking for a hefty premium, it was the only place Coleman or Walters ever put their pricey wheels.
I popped open the blade and slashed Walters’ front left tire. It made a “whoosh.” Then I sliced the back one, walked around the car, and cut the other two. The Rolls looked like it was sinking into the street.
Carefully, I closed the blade, shoved it in my pocket, and jogged back toward my house.
My head started hammering and I slowed to a walk. If I ever got out of this alive, I was due for some serious R&R. And maybe a brain scan.
As I passed my house, it was all I could do not to head for the front door. I could smell the pine straw from the sidewalk. The red tulips along my walkway were budding. I glanced wistfully at my cozy little bungalow.
Would I ever be able to just go home?
As I crossed the street to Ian’s, Baba and Gabby were waiting on the curb.
“Is Walters still here?” I asked, relieved I was getting some volume back—even if I didn’t sound like myself.
“Yup,” Gabby said. “The police are on the way. And the missus is still passed out in the kitchen. Hasn’t budged.”
Baba quickly crossed herself again.
“Did you find his car, sugar?”
“Yeah, on the next side street up from my house. If he tries to make a quick getaway, he’s got four flat tires.”
I gingerly handed Gabby her switchblade.
“Honey, he’s going to know it was you,” she said, dropping it into her pink leather tote.
“That’s the plan. I want him to know he’s trapped, and I want him to know it was me. We’ve taken away his means of escape. The cops are coming. And I’m betting his and Margaret’s fingerprints are all over my place. Plus, they probably broke a window or a door to get in. Let him try to explain that one.”
Gabby grinned and shook her head. Baba smiled.
“Can you guys stay here and flag down the cops? I’m going to check on Walters and Margaret.”
“You got it, sugar.”
Baba wrinkled her brow.
“I’ll be fine. I just want to make sure everyone is where they should be.”
She looked doubtful.
“I promise.”
Baba squinted and gave me a stoic look. It was as close as I was going to get to assent. I took it and ran. Metaphorically speaking.
Gabby wasn’t kidding about Margaret. When I got back to the kitchen, she was exactly where we’d left her. But I could see her chest going up and down. So, hopefully she’d be nice and well-rested for jail.
“Well, Miss Vlodnachek, I must say you’re looking remarkably chipper.”
Walters.
If I lived long enough, I was definitely hanging a bell on that kitchen door.
“Wow, I didn’t know you cared,” I said, turning. “You really should have seen me ten minutes ago, after my tussle with Margaret. I looked like hell and felt w
orse.”
“Yes,” he said, pursing his lips, and barely glancing at the large form on the floor. “She does seem to be falling down on the job lately. And she had been so effective.”
“You might want to tell her that alcohol isn’t a food group.”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid we’ve reached an impasse.”
“So just how long were you two camped out at my house? “
Walters started. “You couldn’t possibly . . .”
“Next time you try to ambush someone, don’t close their blinds.”
He paled.
Then we heard sirens. It sounded like the boys in blue had rounded the corner and were tearing up the street. And if the noise was any indication, they’d brought plenty of company.
“Window or doorframe?” I asked.
“Excuse me?”
“How did you get into my house?” I asked convivially. “Window? Or doorframe?”
He smiled. “Well, that doesn’t really matter now, does it?” With a steely look, he reached into his coat pocket dramatically.
Suddenly, his expression changed. He fumbled around and produced a silver object. Confusion and panic spread across his face like a rash.
“That’s the lid to a butter dish,” I said helpfully. “My future sister-in-law swapped it for your gun about ten minutes ago. Right before I slashed all four tires on that pretty silver Rolls you parked around the block from my house.”
Chapter 54
I spent the next half hour in Ian’s “solarium,” repeating my statement to a string of cops and detectives.
Billy Bob had called it. The detectives already had a pretty good idea who was behind Everett’s murder. And Jennifer’s.
Margaret, Walters, and the coven at C&W may have been holding me out as a suspect, but to the cops I was nothing but a red herring.
When I finally joined Baba and Gabby out front, I noticed that Ian’s garden party had dissolved. But a few neighborhood stalwarts were holding court on the lawn, drinks in hand, enjoying the show.
And Lydia Stewart was giving me the evil eye.
Behind me, Harkins cleared his throat. I didn’t even know he’d been standing there.
“I shall now return to the house, Miss,” he said, with a little bow. “Thank you all for a very lively afternoon.”