A View to a Kill

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  Keeping a sensible distance between them, she walked out of the room, unprepared for what she’d see when she glanced back.

  Blood. And not just a little. A lot. Seeping onto the floor from a cut to the head. She didn’t know whether the glass dish or the floor was to blame or a little of both. Either way, it didn’t matter now.

  She grabbed her cell phone from the dresser, pressed on a picture of a familiar face. The phone dialed, rang once, twice, and then a third and a fourth time. Then it went to voicemail. She pressed the end button, dialed again. She’d dial a thousand times if she had to—she had to get through. “Please, please, pick up. Pick up the phone.”

  The call was answered three tries later with a stiff, emotionless, “What?”

  “Quinn ...”

  “It’s two in the morning, Astrid. What is it?”

  “It’s Eugene. I think he’s ... I mean ... he seems, umm ...”

  “Seems what? Spit it out.”

  “I think he’s dead.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Dead. The word jolted Quinn from a sound sleep. She propped herself into a sitting position. “What happened?”

  “I went to the hotel to get my stuff,” Astrid said. “I thought he’d already be gone when I got here. He wasn’t.”

  “And?”

  “I walked in, started packing my bag. I knew he was angry, so I kept to myself. Didn’t say a word to him. He followed me into the bedroom. We got into an argument. I said it was over. He called me a whore. I should’ve let it go, but I didn’t.”

  “What did you do, attack him?”

  “I made a joke. Said something about how he never satisfied me in bed. I mean, the guy could barely get it up and keep it up on a good day. I almost gave myself carpal tunnel trying.”

  “Spare me the intimate details of your sex life, Astrid. Just give me the facts.”

  “After I spouted off, he socked me in the chest. And I tell you what—one of my breast implants feels like it’s leaking, you know, like it’s started to deflate. I can’t tell. But when I looked in the mirror a few minutes ago, I thought it looked like—”

  “Astrid! Stick to the facts. He hit you. Then what?”

  “I told him to leave. When he didn’t, I hit him in the head with a glass dish. He fell. Guess he must have cracked his head open or something. Hasn’t moved since. Oh, and, there’s blood, lots of it, kinda pooling around his head area and stuff.”

  Of all the people to call, why does it have to be me?

  “How long ago did this happen?”

  “Five minutes or so.”

  “Have you touched him, seen if he has a pulse?” Quinn asked. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  “Are you kidding me? I’m not going anywhere near the guy.”

  “How long ago did you dial 9-1-1?”

  Silence.

  “You called 9-1-1, right?” Quinn asked.

  “I ... well, I was going to, but then I started thinking, what if they don’t understand it was an accident?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Hang up and dial 9-1-1. You don’t have a choice. Say there’s been an accident, and you need an ambulance right away.”

  “I can’t. What if they don’t believe my story?”

  “Are you hearing me right now? You have to—you’ll look suspicious if you don’t. They’ll look at your phone records and see you called me first instead of reporting it to the police. You don’t need to worry about your story, because when they get there, you’re not going to say anything.”

  “How’s that going to work?”

  “This is what I want you to do. Let them in, show them where Eugene is, and beyond that, say you’re waiting for your lawyer to get there.”

  “I don’t have a lawyer.”

  “You will,” Quinn said. “I’ll talk to Dad. Or I’ll call Bo. One of them will know what to do. Okay?”

  Quinn paused, waiting for an affirmation. “Astrid, do you hear me? I need you to do what I’m telling you to do right now. You understand, right?”

  “I don’t know if I can do it. I’ve never ... killed a person before. I can’t stop trembling, and my mind is cluttered. All kinds of images are spinning, flashing like a light bulb turning on and off. I can’t get them out. I’m losing it, Quinn!”

  “You just need a minute to get yourself together. It’s going to be okay.”

  “Will you come down here? Please? I can’t do this alone.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “Please, Quinn. Just this once. I know I don’t deserve it. Especially from you. I’ll never ask you for another favor again. I promise.”

  A Bible verse popped into Quinn’s mind from the book of Matthew. Something about turning the other cheek—if someone slaps the one, turn to the other, and let them slap that one also. It seemed like God expected a lot more than she was capable of at times. When it came to Astrid, Quinn didn’t just feel slapped, she felt beaten. Her face burned just thinking about it. Astrid was her sister, her blood. No matter how much anger she harbored, how much she hurt, she’d have to put it aside for just one night.

  CHAPTER 17

  It was seven o’clock in the morning when Quinn returned home again. She considered sleep, even if all she managed was a few minutes of shuteye. But she didn’t sleep. Her mind was wired, too caught up in recent events to allow for even the smallest escape.

  Much to Astrid’s surprise, and relief, Eugene wasn’t dead. The blood seeping from his head was more of a series of drips than the leaky faucet Astrid described. EMTs arrived, did their magic. And for once, Astrid heeded Quinn’s advice, not speaking to the police about what happened until her lawyer arrived, a woman named Carolyn Adair, who’d been hired by her father.

  Carolyn, whose straight, sand-colored hair was slicked back into a ponytail, looked to be in her early fifties. Middle of the night or not, she arrived at the hotel in style, stepping out of a black, polished Jaguar with a license plate frame that read: My other ride is a broom. Quinn believed it. One look at the woman’s shrewd, cat-framed glasses and pressed pantsuit, and she had every reason to believe Astrid was going to be fine. As usual.

  Quinn stretched her arms above her head and yawned, noticing a letter folded in half affixed to a plastic cow magnet on the front of the stainless steel refrigerator. She walked into the kitchen, looked at the lettering, and recognized it. The name written on the front was hers, and had been scrawled using a chunky, hot-pink marker. The scribbly penmanship was her sister’s. Somehow Astrid had managed to sneak back in again, presumably after Quinn had gone to bed and before she headed to the hotel.

  She brewed a pot of decaf coffee and sat down, staring at the letter for a time before unfolding it in her hand.

  Quinn,

  I’ve decided it would be best if I left town earlier than I’d planned. I don’t know where I’ll end up, but I’m not worried. I never do, and things always seem to turn out just fine. Besides, Dad can’t stop giving me that look he gives me, you know the one, when he’s really disappointed. It’s the same look you give me, and I can’t bear it from both of you.

  I always planned on telling you the truth about Bo. The longer I waited, the harder it was for me to come right out and admit what I did and why I did it. Our relationship was already strained. I thought once I came clean, you’d never talk to me again. Now I realize, we don’t talk all that much anyway, do we?

  When I look back now, I can see the reasons behind what I did were childish and stupid. I know it was wrong. I know I hurt you, and I know I hurt Bo, all because of my own selfishness. You don’t have to forgive me. Truth is, I’ve never forgiven myself. And you’d know that, if you let me explain. Think about it, and one day if you change your mind, I promise to be honest this time. No more lies.

  And hey, if I’m willing to face up to the things in my life, maybe you should consider taking a good look at yours, at the secret you’ve been keeping all these years. If I’m willing to admit the truth, don’t you think it’s time you did
too?

  P.S. Marcus is an asshole. I didn’t mean it when I said you should call him. Don’t. He wasn’t good to you. Not in the way you deserve. I’ve always wanted to tell you that too.

  P.S.S. I really am sorry.

  Astrid

  Quinn flattened the note on the table in front of her, pouring over Astrid’s words once more before crumpling the letter and tossing it in the garbage can next to her. Astrid had some nerve. But then, she always had.

  So much had changed in such a short time, the guilt of past mistakes springing forth again—taunting her, reminding her of what could have been. If only things had gone differently. If only she would have taken the time to listen to Bo in the first place. It was all in the past now, and though the last week had been an unhealthy blend of good and bad, dramatic ends and heartfelt beginnings, today was different. Today was a chance to begin again. Clean slate. Fresh start.

  Quinn may have been suffering from a lack of sleep, but she felt invigorated and gutsy, like a woman on a mission. It had taken years for her to stand up to Marcus, to end a union that never should have happened in the first place. For the past several days, part of her felt like she was slipping again, focusing on all she’d lost instead of what she stood to gain.

  Marcus and Astrid weren’t the only two people who had pushed Quinn around. A murderer had taken from her the one thing she valued most, and she was finished hiding within the confines of her own sob story. She thought about Evie, and how Evie had always been there for her, always protected her. Evie had kept her end of the bargain. Now it was Quinn’s turn to do the same.

  CHAPTER 18

  Evie’s quaint, two-bedroom house was located at the end of an unpaved road that backed against a steep, tree-filled mountainside. The square, red-brick house with white wooden shutters wasn’t new, and it wasn’t big, but it was what Evie had always referred to as her own private slice of heaven. While most saw her as outspoken, Evie had always preferred simple, country living to a fast-paced life on a street chock full of cookie-cutter residences, backyard barbeques, and hordes of “your business is my business” kind of people.

  Evie didn’t like people. Not most of them, anyway. She didn’t like what happened when she was around them. She didn’t like feeling forced to sit and listen to their endless rambling, idle gossip, rumors spread by bored housewives whose only fulfillment in their own lives consisted of entrenching themselves in the lives of others.

  Given her need for solitude, it didn’t surprise Quinn when Evie bought the place on Duggar Road from a retired couple who’d called it home for over forty-five years. Evie’s closest neighbor, Norma Healy, lived several acres away. Norma’s elaborate, two-story house with floor-to-ceiling windows was visible from Evie’s front yard, but still far enough of a distance to give Evie the privacy she desired. Given this fact, it made sense when Norma told police she hadn’t heard any gunshots ring out the night Evie was murdered. And considering Norma was in her upper eighties and wore a hearing aid in one ear, Quinn surmised a train could have coasted by and she wouldn’t have heard that either.

  Quinn exited the car, taking in the surroundings. Evie’s place fit the bill of an active murder scene to a tee. The yellow crime tape was still affixed to the front door, and the yard looked different than what she was used to seeing. Disheveled. Flowers withering from too many days of inconsistent watering. Evie was meticulous about her flowerbeds, and at this moment, it looked as though a herd of deer had barreled through them. Except the herd was a different breed, the human kind—cops combing the surroundings for possible clues.

  Had they found any?

  In the far corner of the yard, Evie’s Harley-Davidson Heritage Softail rested beneath a carport next to a restored Mustang. It was the best protection against the elements she could afford, given her home hadn’t come with a garage. Quinn entered the house, noticing Evie’s computer had been removed from the desk. Only shapes remained on its surface, areas where Evie had not dusted. Quinn pressed her hands into the soft, fine-grain leather of Evie’s couch, thought back to the last time she’d sat where she was standing now.

  Two months before, Quinn flew in to surprise Evie on her birthday. The house was filled with laughter then, and Evie seemed happier than usual. She was dating someone new. Roy Ferguson. A transplant from Texas who’d recently moved to Cody to accept a job as a hatchery manager, a person in charge of incubating trout eggs and then transferring them to local lakes and streams in the area.

  Quinn hadn’t met Roy.

  Yet.

  Quinn’s eye shifted to something else, a kid’s puzzle laid out on the coffee table. A cardboard lid depicting a playful group of safari animals rested next to it. The puzzle was finished with the exception of three pieces. Quinn peeked inside the box, saw the remaining pieces, how close Jacob had come to putting it all together. It made her wonder about Jacob’s exact location when Evie died. Had he been standing here, working on the puzzle?

  A few feet away a large stain on a rug inside the hall bathroom caught her eye. Upon first glance, her eyes darted in another direction, unable to look, unable to accept. She’d driven there that morning certain she was prepared. Now she knew she wasn’t. She crossed in front of the coffee table and entered the bathroom anyway, dropping to her knees in front of the stain, now a dark, purplish-black color, the result of the blood blending with the colors in the rug. She pressed both hands into the center of the stain as if clinging to the last moments of Evie’s life.

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here.”

  A cold shiver surged through Quinn’s body. She stood, turned. The woman behind her stepped forward, half-smiled, then stared down at the dried blood like it was an ordinary stain one might see on any given day.

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here either, Mrs. Healy.”

  Mrs. Healy pressed a finger to her lips. “You know, Quinn, you’re probably right. At my age, I hardly care anymore. Truth is, this isn’t the first time I’ve been here since Evie died. I’ve driven over a few times. I tried to water the garden, but the darn spigot was screwed on too tight. Couldn’t get it to budge.”

  “It was nice of you to try.”

  “I know how much Evie’s flower garden meant to her.”

  Quinn crossed her arms in front of her. “I didn’t see you at the funeral.”

  “I’m not much for those kind of things. Besides, she wouldn’t have known I was there. Sad as it is, she’s gone now. Best to accept it and move on. Some people believe the spirit of a person lingers, even after death. Not me. Ashes to ashes, as they say.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Quinn replied. “My parents brought me up to believe there was another life after this one.”

  “I don’t mean to dissuade you from what you’ve been taught. I just think differently. I believe the moment death takes us, life starts again, gives us a new beginning, a second or a third chance to be someone else, do things we missed this time around.”

  “Reincarnation?”

  “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  Reincarnation. Quinn didn’t believe in it. She wasn’t fond of the idea of evolution either. But at least she believed in something. Evie hadn’t believed in anything. The way Evie saw things, when a person died, they died. End of story. No heaven, no hell. No second chance at existence period.

  “Mrs. Healy, were you at home the night Evie died?”

  “I’m home every evening.”

  “I know your house is a short distance from here, but is there any chance you remember seeing anything?”

  “Police asked me the same question. Asked me a lot of other things too.”

  “So did you ... see anything?”

  “You’re well aware Evie’s visitors had to cross in front of my house in order to get back here, and though it’s hard for me to get my days straight sometimes, I did recall seeing two pickup trucks pass in front of my house that night.”

  “What time?”

&nbs
p; “I don’t know, dear. Once it gets dark, I don’t pay much mind. When it’s light, it’s light. When it’s dark, it’s dark.”

  “If it was dark outside, how do you know it was two trucks and not the same one coming and going twice?”

  For that matter, Quinn wondered how Mrs. Healy could have differentiated a truck from a car or a van.

  “The trucks were different from each other.”

  “In what way?”

  Mrs. Healy sighed, closing her eyes like she now regretted leaving home. “The first truck was Roman’s. He stopped by often to see Jacob. I always knew when it was him because his lights are round, and he always has the brights turned on.”

  “And the second one?”

  “The second truck was the new guy she’d been seeing. Think she said his name was Troy.”

  Close.

  “Roy.”

  “That’s right. The headlight on his passenger side is busted. I kept needling Evie to get after him to get it fixed. He never did though.”

  “Was Roy the first or second visitor that night?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Were you watching television at the time?” Quinn asked. “Maybe if you recall what show was on, it would help establish a time.”

  “I just said I didn’t know, and I don’t. Asking two or three times won’t make my answer any different.”

  Quinn was losing her. She switched gears. “There’s a rumor going around that Roman was a suspect.”

  Mrs. Healy shrugged. “Imagine he was. He didn’t like the fact Evie was seeing someone new. Ask me, Roman had a bit of a jealous streak.”

  “What about the new guy—what do you think of him?”

  “Seems nice enough. Quiet. Never said much when I saw him.”

  “And you told all of this to the police?”

  “I told them a few things. Not much. I don’t like the way they came around here, poking and prodding me for answers, asking me the same questions over and over, like I’ll come up with something new to say on their fourth or fifth try. I’m old, not stupid.”