Two Widows: A totally gripping mystery and suspense novel
Page 24
Heavily wooded land surrounded the condos. A ways ahead, Beth parked her truck in the driveway of an end unit. At the top of a hill, I eased my car behind a clump of trees near the side of the road and turned off the headlights.
From my hideout up the hill and halfway around the bend, I could glimpse Beth’s truck through the shadowy trees. A row of solar lights lit the pathway to the front door, which was painted forest green. She emerged from her vehicle, approached the door, and knocked. I crouched low and clutched the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white. Beth reached up and knocked again.
The door cracked open and a man’s head peeked out. He towered over her with broad shoulders. With his slicked-back hair and gold chain, he appeared to be a rough fellow, like a gangster from one of the mafia movies Charlie used to watch. He glanced from side to side as if making sure Beth was alone. They exchanged a few words, and then he waved her inside.
I swallowed and realized I hadn’t been breathing. Who was this man? I had no clue, but the tightness in my gut told me he was bad news, that he might have had something to do with Amanda’s murder. “Just give me some time to figure out what to do,” Beth had said after she yelled at me yesterday. What was she figuring out?
After several minutes of waiting in my hidden spot, my heart rate returned to a normal pace. I stared at the closed door of the condo praying for Beth to re-emerge. Fifteen minutes passed. Then thirty. What was she doing? Was this seedy character her lover? I couldn’t imagine it.
My fingers fumbled through my purse, looking for my phone, something to occupy my time. Instead, my hand hit the spare key Beth had given me a couple of weeks earlier. A shiver formed deep inside me and bristled across my skin as I thought of Beth holding the key to my house. If Beth had seen me tailing her, she could let herself into my house at any time. She could silence me if she needed to. I pressed my head against the cool glass of the car window. Ethan had been right. My plan to follow her had been reckless. I wasn’t safe.
Beth’s spare key rested in my palm, its silver finish glinting in the moonlight. I pictured the tiny house in the darkened field, sitting vacant. All at once, a new plan formed in my head.
There were probably more clues lying within her house than I’d discover by waiting here. Beth wasn’t home, that was certain. She could be inside that room all night, and even if I saw her leave, I’d have no way of knowing what she and this man had been discussing. If I left right now, I’d have time to drive back and search through her drawers and secret compartments, time to read her mail. Maybe I’d discover a missing piece of evidence or something that would explain away her odd behavior and clear her name. At the very least, I could take back my house key. I’d be out of there before she returned.
The hairs on my arms and neck prickled, adrenaline surging through me. I was about to cross a line and break the law, but I wasn’t harming anyone. My foot rattled against the pedal as I backed out of my hiding spot and sped away.
Minutes later, the faint beam from my flashlight guided the way as I tiptoed across my grass. The line of trees loomed in front of me like soldiers standing guard over the tiny house. Crouching down, I glanced over my shoulder toward the garage apartment. Joe’s SUV was gone and the lights in the apartment were off. The ache in my back distracted me and I stumbled over a protruding rock. A humbling reminder that I was no svelte cat burglar. Thankfully, there was no one around. After regaining my balance, I kept the light angled down and felt my way over the rugged ground toward Beth’s front steps. The key was ready in my hand, and I poked it around the handle until it slipped into place. The door opened without any fuss.
Instinctively, my hand reached for a light switch, but I stopped myself, remembering I was breaking the law. I wondered what they’d charge me with if I was caught—Breaking and Entering? Perhaps I could lie and say I heard a strange noise and needed to check it out. The tiny house was parked on my land, after all. Besides, I had the key. Or maybe Beth wouldn’t press charges, but she’d spend the rest of her life remembering me as a false friend, the woman who had betrayed her. That would be worse. Then again, maybe I’d discover she was a murderer, and that would be the worst of all. My body quaked but I pushed through the fear.
The circular ring of light from my shaking flashlight scanned across Beth’s living room and into the kitchen. As usual, everything was in its place. It was hard to believe a human lived in this immaculate and compact space, especially compared to the books, clothes, dust, and dog fur strewn about my farmhouse.
The carved handles of the storage drawers beneath the stairs caught my eye, and I stepped toward them, pulling out the lowest one. It contained cleaning supplies, the all-natural, plant-based kind, and a few rolls of paper towels. The drawer above it revealed a collection of matching towels. My hands dug through, searching for evidence of either innocence or guilt, but coming up empty. The third and fourth drawers held clothes for the winter—sweaters and heavy pants and coats. The fifth drawer held nothing but shoes.
I sighed, scolding myself for believing I could solve the mystery so easily. I’d sent myself on a wild goose chase. I didn’t even know what I was looking for. My eyes scanned the kitchen where cabinets and storage cubbies lined the walls. Rifling through them, one by one, I found only dishes and cans of organic food. My heart thumped faster as I wondered how long I’d been inside already. Beth could be returning at any minute. I glanced out the window for any sign of headlights, but only darkness loomed beyond the panes of glass.
Carefully, I made my way up the railing-less staircase, clutching the edges of the steps as I ascended. My feet wobbled at the top and I leaned forward, falling into Beth’s loft bedroom. The bed was tightly made, and only a book and an empty glass lay on the built-in nightstand. I picked up the paperback, noting the title, Mindful Living. Out of reflex, I flipped through the pages, finding a receipt doubling as a bookmark. My eyes caught on the name of the store printed at the top of the narrow strip of white paper. Fringe Salon. I lost my breath as I reread it, making sure my mind hadn’t gone to the birds. Fringe Salon was where the murdered woman, Ella Burkholter, had worked. Officer Bradley had told us as much, and I’d seen it on the news. I held the paper closer, dread dripping through my veins. The thirty-two-dollar charge was for a pedicure. The next line made me gasp: Technician: Ella B.
My knees collapsed, my legs supported only by the firm mattress behind me. Did Beth know Ella? She’d never once mentioned it. The date printed on the receipt was faint, but I could make it out. May 24. That was the Friday of Memorial Day weekend. But Beth hadn’t pulled her tiny house onto my field until May 29. She said she’d driven up from downstate, but she’d lied. She’d already been in town. The receipt in my hand was proof. She’d gotten a pedicure from Ella a day before the young woman was found strangled on the beach.
I breathed in and out, squeezing the piece of paper in my hand. What did this mean? Had Beth been involved in Ella’s death? But, why? I didn’t know what to make of the information. I shoved the piece of paper into my pant pocket, hoping Beth would think the bookmark fell out on its own.
My knees creaked as I got down on all fours, peering underneath the bed. To my surprise, the bed’s base was constructed from more storage compartments. I pressed on a small cutout rectangle near the front and it popped out as if connected to springs.
I gulped in a mouthful of air, registering the contents of the hidden compartment. The beam from my flashlight illuminated dozens of bullets. It was as if someone had tipped my rocking chair all the way forward and left me dangling. Beth had a gun. The bullets rolled in circles around the drawer, at last coming to a standstill. A smaller wooden compartment rose from the center of the drawer, the perfect size for a handgun. I thought of Amanda, killed by a single bullet to the head. Despair shot through me.
With shaking hands, I lifted the lid, expecting to find a revolver lying before me. The box was empty. I bit my lip, both relieved and frantic. A squeaky laugh escaped my mouth. How
had I gotten it so wrong? All this time I’d been worried about Joe hiding a gun inside his camouflage tote. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that Beth was the one who was armed and dangerous.
I shoved the compartment closed and shone the light around the loft. There was nothing left to search up here.
The spark of a memory boosted me from my position on the bedroom floor. When I’d delivered muffins to Beth a couple of weeks ago, I’d witnessed a private moment through the window. She’d been startled, quickly concealing a cardboard box and hiding it away. I’d convinced myself the box held nothing more than love letters from her late husband, but that was before she’d lied to me about her job with American Traveler, her husband’s connection to Amanda, and who knew what else. I cursed myself for not thinking of it sooner. The picture had been removed from the wall that day. Maybe it covered a secret compartment.
I inched my way down the open stairway, shielding the ray of light from my flashlight with my hand. Slinking across the kitchen and into the living room, I approached the framed photograph of the mountains. I set the flashlight on the couch and hoisted the picture off its hook, laying it on the floor. It only took a moment to spy the abnormality in the siding. One wooden panel protruded a few millimeters further than the others. Using both hands, I pushed it. Sure enough, a hidden compartment popped out from the wall, just like a Chinese puzzle box. Inside the alcove lay the worn Nike shoebox Beth had been holding the day I’d interrupted her. With trembling hands, I lifted the box and set it on the couch. I raised the lid with one hand and shone my flashlight on it with the other.
A variety of items reflected under the beam of light—an important-looking document, a church program, a pair of white baby booties, and the photo of Beth and her sister I’d found on the floor the day I’d brought over the muffins. My hands clutched the booties first, my fingers inspecting the soft yarn and the quality stitching. I’d done some needlework over the years. Someone had taken great care to craft them. I wondered who the tiny socks had belonged to but was stumped.
I set them down and lifted the church program. It was from a memorial service at the First Methodist Church of Royal Oak.
In loving memory of our unborn son. He brought us infinite love, although he never had the chance to live.
There was no birthday, only a memorial date.
I dropped my head and closed my eyes, a surge of sorrow flooding my chest. Beth had been pregnant, but she’d suffered a miscarriage. The booties must have been meant for her baby. She’d endured even more heartache than I’d imagined. I couldn’t believe she’d never mentioned it to me. She’d been so insistent about me reconnecting with Ethan. “If I had a son, I’d do everything possible not to lose touch with him.” It made perfect sense now. If only I’d understood the loaded meaning behind the words when she’d said them.
My quivering fingers raised the document lying beneath the program. A life insurance form outlined the payout of $2 million to Elizabeth McCormack as a result of the death of her husband, Jason. I reread the form. The information in the newspaper article had been true: $2 million! What in the world had Beth done with the money? This tiny house couldn’t have cost more than thirty or forty thousand. She lived frugally on her writer’s salary, although maybe she’d never been a writer at all. Next, I lifted the photo, studying the image. Beth’s arm was draped around her taller sister, who had long sandy hair and hollowed-out features.
Hardware clicked, my head swiveling toward the noise. The door pushed open and bright lights stung my eyes. My heart reached into my throat. I stumbled backward, still pinching the photo between my fingers. The lanky woman I’d been studying in the photo a moment earlier now hovered in the doorway, her eyes boring through me, distant and cold. It was Caroline.
“What are you doing in my sister’s house?” Her voice was sharp, her body blocking the door.
How had I not heard her? Or seen the headlights outside? I stammered backward, the walls of the tiny house closing in on me. There was nowhere to run. “I was just…” I couldn’t think of what to say. This wasn’t supposed to have happened. I was supposed to have been locked inside my farmhouse by now. “I was only trying to figure out…”
Caroline’s arm swung forward from behind her back. I swallowed my words as a glint of shiny metal reflected beneath her palm. The handle of a revolver was gripped within her fingers, its barrel pointed at my head.
Twenty-Eight
Elizabeth
Before
It wasn’t the bright summer day I’d envisioned when Jason had first mentioned the cruise on Lake Huron, but nothing about my life had turned out the way I’d pictured it. Still, the weather was appropriate for what I had planned. The clouds hung low in the sky, a thick and ominous weight that churned with the wind. I steadied myself against the railing on the deck outside the main cabin as the yacht cut through a series of choppy waves, a sliver of land disappearing behind me. The storm was blowing in, but we’d beat it. The forecast said no threat of lightning until after 6 p.m., and we were due back to the marina two hours before that.
“Care for another drink?” The same doe-eyed waitress who’d brought me an earlier glass of wine stood before me holding two empty beer bottles.
“Yes, please. Another Pinot Grigio,” I said, although my stomach felt sore and queasy from the undulating motion of the boat.
The waitress nodded and skittered between some of the forty-plus passengers on board. Under different circumstances, the yacht would have been impressive. It reminded me of the mid-size cruise ship we’d sailed on during a weekend visit to Navy Pier in Chicago a few years earlier, except the multi-level decks on Connor’s yacht were open to the outside, rather than encased in tinted glass, and the interior of the sprawling main cabin on the upper deck resembled the lobby of a five-star hotel, complete with crystal chandeliers, museum-quality artwork, and a full bar. Appetizers were arranged across an oblong table in the middle of the room—shrimp cocktail, crab dip, an assortment of cheeses, and caviar. This was how the other half lived. I twisted the massive diamond ring on my finger, leaned against the railing, and stared out toward the endless view of the lake.
Jason’s laugh echoed from across the deck, and I turned toward him. He held a plate full of appetizers and chatted with two other couples, stopping talking only long enough to shove a meatball in his mouth and take a swig of beer. I caught his eye.
“Liz, come over here.” He waved me over. I approached him, my feet wobbly. He looped his arm around my shoulders and rubbed my back. “This is my lovely wife. She’s a journalist with The Observer.”
I forced a smile and made small talk about the weather and the food, going along with his act. I wondered if the others knew about his girlfriend, about our sham of a marriage. Before the cruise was over, I’d expose him for what he was, a liar and a cheat, the man who caused the death of his own baby. He’d be humiliated, his business connections destroyed. Our marriage would be officially over. We’d have to sell the house. I’d stay at a hotel tonight, take an Uber home, recounting over the phone to Caroline how everything had gone down. The plan was in motion.
“Anyone want a smoke?” asked Alan, a man with tanned skin who was sporting an expensive-looking haircut. He towered over the group, a good six inches taller than the next person. His tailored pants, collared golf shirt, and boat shoes matched the uniform of the other men on board.
“Sure.” Jason’s eyes crinkled with his smile, a trait I’d once found attractive, but now found phony.
I gave him a sideways glance. Jason wasn’t a smoker, but I knew his game. He wanted to fit in with this man. Anything, no matter how false, to make a new business connection.
Alan flicked open his lighter and lit his cigarette.
“I’m sorry, sir.” The waitress had appeared with my glass of wine. “The captain requests no smoking on the upper deck. Feel free to light up on the lower deck. Right down the stairs.” She motioned toward a stairway at the back of the boat.
As they stepped away, the boat lurched. I wobbled, thrown off balance and spilling some of my wine. A splitting pain shot through my abdomen, which was still tender whenever I moved too quickly or in the wrong direction. I clutched the arm of the woman next to me and gasped. A tray of dishes crashed from the direction of the back deck.
“Must have hit a rogue wave, there,” Alan said, widening his eyes.
“A storm’s moving in,” the woman next to me said.
I looked up at the darkening sky and nodded, straightening myself. It sure is.
Jason and Alan disappeared down the stairway. Needing to take the edge off, I gulped down the remaining half of my drink. The skirt of my sundress billowed in the wind. I went to find a seat, realizing how tipsy I’d become. Slowing down on the alcohol would be necessary if I wanted to make a coherent toast to my wonderful husband. I didn’t want anyone questioning the veracity of my claims.
Setting down my glass, I entered the cabin. I filled an appetizer plate with just enough food to settle my stomach, then located an empty sofa along the far wall. All alone, I sat and chewed and swallowed, silently rehearsing the speech in my head—Attention, everyone! I’d like to make a toast to my husband, Jason McCormack of McCormack Investments. He wants you to think he’s a great guy, but it’s all a lie. He’s an actor. He lies to me, his wife, and he lies to his clients. He has no moral compass. He never worked at Goldman Sachs like he’s told all of you. No. Not even close. Look into it if you don’t believe me. He didn’t go to the Ross School of Business or any business school, for that matter. He lied to you about that, too. Your money is not safe with him.