Last Girl Standing

by Jackson, Lisa

  Amanda’s voice mail clicked on. “You’ve reached Amanda Forsythe. Leave a message . . .”

  Beep.

  “Hi. It’s Zora.” Instantly her anger started to collapse, like a balloon losing air. She had to work to hold on to it. “I just talked to Brian . . . Did you know he saw you with Tanner, what you were doing in the woods the night of the barbeque? He said Carmen saw, too. He said he doesn’t want to be unhappy anymore, like it could lead to something terrible, like what happened to her.” She paused, aware that Brian’s Mercedes had taken a turn and was heading a familiar route through West Knoll. “I’m not going to let him leave me. And nothing bad is going to happen to us. I just wanted you to know that.” She had so much more to say, but doubt was creeping in. Amanda had been the leader of the Five Firsts, one of her best friends.

  Whatever. She couldn’t think about that now. She clicked off and concentrated on her driving.

  * * *

  McCrae told himself not to go to Delta’s and then all the way back to his own house. Don’t go see her. It’s a bad idea. Stay home.

  But after he checked Fido’s water bowl, scratched the dog behind the ears, and grabbed an energy bar, he headed out, ignoring his conscience. It was going on 8:00, and he hadn’t had much besides a couple of beers since morning.

  He arrived at Delta’s and pulled in the drive. When he walked to the front door, she was waiting for him. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and press her flesh to his. Less sexual, more just companionship. Okay. Maybe not less sexual, but he didn’t expect anything from her. Just wanted to touch her.

  She, however, gave him none of the warm signals he thought he’d gotten on the phone, and when he entered and saw her son, Owen, in pajamas, sitting on a couch in front of the TV, he saw why.

  “Hi,” he said to the boy.

  “This is McCrae,” Delta said as she moved into the adjoining kitchen. Then, “Chris McCrae. This is my son, Owen.”

  “Hi,” said Owen, cautiously.

  Delta was at the refrigerator. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Water would be great.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “It’s been a long day,” he said.

  The boy moved from the couch to one of the counter bar stools, strategically placing himself between McCrae and his mom.

  Delta handed him the glass of water, and he saw that she was drinking a glass of rosé. There was an awkward moment. “It’s about time for bed, isn’t it?” she said to Owen.

  Owen ignored her. “Mommy didn’t kill Daddy,” he related soberly.

  “Owen!” said Delta. She’d lifted the glass to her lips but set it back down without drinking.

  McCrae answered the boy, “We are working to find out what happened.”

  “Why did you say that?” Delta questioned her son.

  Owen shrugged, then he focused on something. “The knives are back!” he said on a note of discovery.

  McCrae’s gaze followed his. He was looking at a knife block near the sink. Delta was gazing at it, too. She’d picked up her wineglass again, and this time she took a sip with a shaking hand.

  McCrae stared harder at the knife block. There was a line of seven steak knives slipped into the spots, but one was missing.

  “What happened to the new ones?” Owen asked.

  McCrae looked at Delta, who was avoiding his gaze.

  Oh, shit, he thought, realizing with a sense of betrayal that she’d lied to him.

  * * *

  Brian drove toward Anne Reade’s house. Or at least she thought it was. It kind of deflated her. Anne, then, was the woman he was throwing her over for?

  But there wasn’t a lot of traffic out this way, not all that far from Amanda’s property, actually, so Zora had to cruise past the turnoff Brian had taken above Grimm’s Pond, which set her on a course to Amanda’s. She supposed she could turn around in Amanda’s long drive, which was a good mile farther on, but she didn’t want to wait that long, so she did a U-turn and headed cautiously back to the road where Brian had turned off and almost immediately pulled over and parked, mentally chewing her nails. Should she walk? She had a black windbreaker with a hood that she kept in the car.

  She waited a tense thirty seconds, then grabbed the windbreaker, got out of the car, slipped into the coat, and covered her head with the hood. It was coolish, but the windbreaker still was a little on the warm side. She wanted to take it off, but she wanted the cloaked protection more.

  Her white Mercedes practically glowed in the tiny sliver of moonlight. She hesitated, wondered if she should drive it farther away. But Brian had already been out of her sight for too long.

  She walked rapidly down the road, praying she wouldn’t be seen.

  This is stupid. What are you going to do when you find him?

  Tear the bitch’s eyes out.

  She was a little surprised at how violent she felt, but Brian was hers, and she wasn’t going to give him up without a fight.

  The houses were spaced far apart, with long drives that snaked into the inky night. She could see a rooftop on one, and she hurried down the drive. No black Mercedes. She backtracked, jogged down another drive. Again, no car. In fact, neither house showed any kind of light.

  Was this Anne’s neighborhood? Maybe she was wrong.

  She ran farther down the main road, and by the time she’d found the right drive, with Brian’s car parked, still idling, down a long asphalt drive that then ended in gravel, she was in a full-blown sweat. She shouldn’t have worn the Ann Taylor silk blouse, and the black flats weren’t made for running, either.

  In fact, she should’ve just stayed home with her wine. She wasn’t going to give up on Brian, but this kind of nonsense, in the dead of night, ruining her clothes? She could find a hundred better ways to save their marriage. She could—

  The hard poke in her back had her whipping around, and she gave an aborted scream. “What the fu—”

  The handgun was now aimed right at her face. She lifted her hands in surrender automatically, her mouth an O of surprise.

  “Who . . . who are you?” she stuttered, staring at the man dressed all in black, holding her at gunpoint, even as he looked kind of familiar. “Where’s Brian?”

  “Inside.”

  His voice was gravelly and cold.

  “Well, what are you doing? What, what?”

  He suddenly leapt forward, and she screamed, the sound reverberating through the quiet night a half second before the gun smashed down on her head, knocking her flat to the ground.

  Zora knew no more.

  Whistling, her attacker grabbed her by her heels, making sure the black shoes stayed on her feet, and dragged her toward the house.

  * * *

  McCrae entered his home about 11:00 and heard the distinctive click-click-click of Fido’s nails as he greeted him in the dark. McCrae squatted down and rubbed the dog’s ears, just like he had a few hours before. Only then he’d been primed and eager to see Delta and let whatever happened happen. He’d wanted her. He still wanted her. But now . . .

  He swore violently, and Fido whined slightly and began washing his face with his tongue. “I’m okay,” he told the dog.

  After she’d gotten Owen in bed, Delta had fallen all over herself to tell him what she’d done. Yes, she knew the knife was from their own set. Yes, she’d purchased a different set of knives, meaning to swap them out, so no one would know, but then Owen had noticed, and she’d put them back. She’d felt like an idiot. No, she hadn’t used the knife. Like Tia and Amy had said, Tanner had taken it to the clinic himself. But after she’d touched it, after she’d realized it was the weapon, she’d wanted to distance herself. And once she’d started, she didn’t how to stop the deception.

  “I told Amanda,” she said.

  “Amanda,” he’d repeated, surprised.

  “As of today, she’s my lawyer.”

  McCrae was playing catchup, and he didn’t like the feeling at all. “Tell me how that happened,” h
e said, and she laid out how she’d asked for Amanda based on her reputation. “It was kind of awkward, but she knows it wasn’t me who killed him.”

  “How does she know that?”

  “Because I told her. She told me not to lie. I know how lame that sounds,” she added quickly. “I’m just saying what transpired.”

  He’d grilled her further, feeling betrayed, and she’d answered his questions fully, with no recriminations. She’d sworn she wanted everything out in the open.

  Still, McCrae hadn’t known what to believe. He stayed and asked questions and tried to get his own feelings under control until they were both wrung out.

  “What are you going to do?” she’d asked him as he’d prepared to leave.

  He’d had no answer for her.

  Now he took a shower and climbed into bed. Did he believe her? Yes . . . mostly.

  He swept his cell up from his night stand. The name of her book was Blood Dreams. He was no techie, but he figured he could download an app and purchase it to read on his phone.

  It rang in his hand. He glanced at the time. 12:50.

  And then he saw it was Quin calling.

  “What?” he answered.

  “Car went off the cliff at Grimm’s Pond. Opposite side of the river from where we rescued . . . where we pulled out Carmen . . .” His voice was unsteady. “It’s Brian Timmons and Zora. I need you over there, McCrae. They’re both dead.”

  Chapter 23

  It was 5:30 Friday morning, and the day was dawning overcast and dull. More July gloom. Ellie was already dressed and out the door. There was much to be done. An interview with Delta, if she could swing it. Everybody wanted her, but so far no one had gotten her. McCrae was running interference at some level. A real pisser. Had he always had a thing for Delta? Probably.

  He only had sex with you at the barbeque because he was drunk.

  She pushed that out of her head. That was a long, long time ago, and she didn’t need any negative thoughts screwing up her day.

  Her cell phone buzzed against the passenger seat of her Ford Escort where she’d thrown it. She glanced over. Amanda. Huh.

  She answered, putting the phone on SPEAKER, leaving it on the seat. “What’s up, Amanda?”

  “I want you to do an interview with me. I’m representing Delta, and I want it out there, as soon as possible. The next news cycle. Can we do it this morning?”

  “You’re representing . . . ?” Ellie’s brows shot up in surprise. “Delta killed him, Amanda.”

  “I don’t think she did.”

  “Really?”

  “Can we do this, or should I check with Channel Four?”

  “Well, yeah . . . come to the studio. Anything to do with the Stahd murder is hot news.” Did she mean that asshole Phil, on Channel Four? He’d been dogging Delta, from the reporting she’d seen, but hadn’t gotten anywhere. Before Amanda’s call, Ellie had decided she would get the interview. They were friends . . . at least classmates, but Amanda? As her lawyer?

  “What makes you so sure she didn’t do it?” Ellie asked.

  “She told me she didn’t.”

  “Oh. Good one.”

  “I’ve got a stop to make, but I’ll be there in half an hour to forty-five,” she said, and clicked off.

  Ellie shook her head. Did she really want to do this? Ed’s assistant, Peter, might be in already. The morning news would be going on, but they could tape an interview in another room, and she was riding high at work after her interview with Tanner’s father. Big ratings. Everybody loved watching someone just on the edge of crazy.

  * * *

  Amanda rode the elevator to the building’s sixteenth floor—the offices of Layton, Keyes, and Brennan. Her law firm took up a floor of the concrete and glass high-rise, which stood tall on Portland’s west side and faced the Willamette River and the colloquially called City of Bridges’ eastern shore. Amanda dropped her briefcase off in her office, which had a peek-a-boo view as its southeast corner, jutting out just a smidge to allow some light. She smoothed her skirt, then marched down the hall to her ex’s office, with its bank of windows and spacious appointments. The benefits of being a partner.

  She checked her e-mails on her phone. No texts. But there was that phone message last night from Zora that she hadn’t listened to. Her finger hovered over the button, but she decided not yet. She was on a mission.

  She headed over to her ex-husband’s office, knocking lightly on Hal’s door, even though she could see he was inside talking with Merl Keyes, another partner; all the walls were glass, which came to be after the other partner, Layton, was sued for sexual harassment. Now there were no more secrets, supposedly, though Amanda knew for a fact that her ex had been a cheater and a scoundrel, and she had no reason to think he’d changed.

  Hal looked over at her, and she could see his expression harden. He was embarrassed that his ex-wife was the one bringing in the business. She hoped he died of embarrassment. He signaled her to enter.

  “What brings you to darken my door?” he asked with a humorless smile.

  Merl Keyes lifted his palms and sidled toward the door, but Amanda was blocking it.

  “You might want to hear this,” Amanda said.

  “I don’t need more ex-marital strife than I’ve already got,” Merl said with a fake smile.

  “I’ve taken on Delta Stahd as a client who’s more than likely going to be accused of murdering her husband, Dr. Tanner Stahd.”

  “That West Knoll murder?” asked Merl.

  “Your ex-BFF,” Hal said, surprised.

  “Yep,” said Amanda.

  “Isn’t the victim’s father already threatening a lawsuit?” Merl asked.

  “I believe so.”

  “I don’t think this is a case for you,” said Hal.

  She’d expected as much. He couldn’t stand whenever she became the center of attention, and this case was certainly going to do that for her.

  Merl scooted out the door at that, but Amanda held her ground. Her ex’s dismissiveness was one of his least-attractive characteristics. That and his cheating. And patronage of titty bars. She’d hired a private investigator and had him followed during the worst of their divorce, and Hal couldn’t keep it in his pants, his choice being “professionals.”

  “I signed a contract, and she paid me a retainer,” Amanda said. “Just thought I’d let you know.”

  Hal had never been an especially attractive guy, but he’d been smart and clever. When Amanda first started at the firm, she’d gravitated to him for those latter reasons, though her mother had said he looked like a ghoul. The slicked-back hair hadn’t helped his looks, but now, with the added hair loss and a thickness to his lips that made his smile almost grotesque, he was a ghoul and then some, although the younger women who buzzed around, trying to get the partners’ attention, were able to look past that, just as she had.

  “How much was the retainer?”

  “Enough.”

  He snorted. “You always pick the hard-luck cases.”

  “Guess that’s why I have the most billable hours around here.”

  “You have other cases to work on,” Hal snapped. He hated it when she kept blithely knocking him down.

  “Nope. You took me off them all.”

  “Well, I don’t think it’s a good idea. It’s a trial that’s going to be sensationalized and that we’ll likely lose.”

  “I think I’m going to win.”

  He laughed harshly and shook his head, his default when he couldn’t think of another way to try to keep her in her place.

  She headed back out to her car. She was going to put herself on the air and tell the world she was Delta Smith-Stahd’s lawyer and Delta was innocent.

  Notoriety always helped in her profession, Amanda felt. And if she could suck up enough valuable airtime, she might be able to quit this shitty, misogynistic firm and start her own.

  * * *

  When Ellie arrived at the station, the first thing she did was check for
phone messages that may have come in through the reception desk. Most people called her on her cell phone or texted her, but there were still those messages that came through the switchboard from people who didn’t know her as well.

  No messages.

  She added Amanda’s name to the visitors log and then went looking for Peter, who was in the break room, pouring a cup of coffee. They had no problem setting up, and Amanda arrived soon after Ellie got out of the makeup chair with Char, who was kind of a bitch but was a tireless worker.

  As Ellie sat down for the interview with her, she asked herself what it was about Amanda that made people give in to her. It was an unorthodox interview in that Amanda ran with the ball, not giving Ellie much time to ask any questions as she touted Delta’s innocence, drawing on their years of friendship—ha, ha—and then crowing some about her own accomplishments as a defense attorney. She finished up with an unexpected comment on Dr. Lester Stahd’s troubled health clinic and how Tanner, not his father, had turned everything around. It was a subtle warning, Ellie realized, to Stahd Senior about going off on Delta. Ellie was miffed, as Stahd would undoubtedly blame her for this, too.

  “I’ll see if they’ll air it,” Ellie muttered, when they were finished. “The earliest would be noon.”

  “Okay. Wish it would be sooner.”

  “Who are you doing this for?”

  “Delta.”

  “Uh-uh. You’re doing this for you.”

  “Publicity’s good. My ex might not think so, but I don’t listen to him.”

  “You work with him.”

  “For the moment.” There was something in her tone, some deep satisfaction that she wasn’t even trying to keep secret. She wanted Ellie to notice.

  “You’re leaving the firm,” Ellie realized. “And you want your husband’s clients.”

  Her answer was a thin smile.

  Ellie was seeing her out when Ed nearly barreled into her. “Ellie!” he said. “I think that car accident’s your friend!” To her blank look, he added, “On the news? Didn’t you watch ours?”

  “No . . . I was interview—. . . What friend?”

  “The Z one. I don’t know. Zona?”