A View to a Kill

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  “It was the easiest method.”

  To administer, yes. To acquire, no.

  “Where did you get it?” I asked.

  “I paid someone to get it for me. Money will get you anything these days.”

  “How did you get it into Alexandra’s coffee?”

  “It doesn’t matter now, does it? She’s dead.”

  “How much did you give her?”

  He laughed. “Enough to kill her.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  He pulled the hammer back, aimed, prepared to fire. “What do you have that I need?”

  “Alexandra’s flash drive, the one with her memoir on it.”

  He dug into his pants pocket, pulled out a small piece of plastic. “You mean this flash drive?”

  I reached into my own pocket, pulling an identical storage device. “No, I mean this flash drive.”

  He looked at mine, then looked at his. They were both the same.

  “No. No. You’re lying.”

  “If you truly believe you have the right one, try it out.”

  “Don’t move.” Keeping the gun on me, he sidestepped to the desk, stuck the flash drive into the portal in the desktop computer. Waited. “It’s blank. There’s nothing here. Where is it?”

  I shook my hand back and forth. “I told you. It’s right here.”

  “Give it to me!”

  “The other night when someone broke into your house, you assumed it was Barbara Berry,” I said. “It wasn’t. It was me. I’m guessing that’s why you killed her—to get what you thought she had. Only she didn’t have it. I did.”

  Palms sweaty, he gazed once more at the plastic stick in his hand. “I don’t understand. This came from Barbara’s purse.”

  “When did you take it from Barbara’s purse? Earlier today when you killed her?”

  He stuck out his hand. “Toss it to me right now. You’re dead anyway.”

  I tossed it over. Fearing he would shoot now that he had what he wanted, I said, “You might want to check it first.”

  He yanked out the other stick, stuck in the one I’d thrown to him. “There’s nothing on this one either!”

  Shaken, he struggled to make sense of what was happening, “It must have been the wrong ... no, it couldn’t be. She said it was the same one. She was sure it was the same one. If these are both the wrong one, then ...”

  Realization.

  “Barbara asked to see me today,” I said. “She was dead by the time I arrived. One of the employees said she saw a woman leaving Barbara’s room. Not you, Porter. Not a man. A woman. A young woman. Chelsea. And you just confirmed it when you said she told you the book was all there on the flash drive.”

  He swallowed hard with the realization that the night wasn’t going as planned. “Doesn’t matter. They’ll find no trace of Chelsea in Barbara’s room. It’s like I said before, Chelsea’s gone now. It’s too late.”

  “Tonight, when I saw you in the crowd, you saw what you wanted to see, just like you’re seeing what I want you to see now.”

  “Enough! You’re dead. You’re both dead.”

  A dark shadow appeared behind Porter. A shadow he didn’t see, but I did. Finally, he was here.

  “What a shame,” Detective Murphy said. “All this for a couple of wiped flash drives.”

  Porter whipped around, his eyes zeroing in on the team of officers who had entered the room, guns pointed at him.

  Murphy looked at Finch, then at Blunt. “Call 9-1-1.”

  Blunt nodded.

  Murphy placed a hand on Finch’s shoulder. “Where’d he hit you?”

  “Chest. I feel okay. I’ve been through worse.”

  “I bet you have, son,” Murphy said. “I bet you have.”

  Murphy turned to me. “Great work.”

  “I didn’t get him to say everything you wanted him to say,” I said.

  “Close enough.”

  Porter looked at Murphy. “How did you know?”

  “We’ve been tailing you and Chelsea ever since the day of Alexandra’s funeral.”

  “So?”

  “So, you and your daughter, you set this all up to make it look like Barbara did it,” Murphy said. “And when Chelsea ditched the officer I assigned to her this morning, it was obvious we had our killer. And hey, if it makes you feel any better, there is one thing I believe.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The day Chelsea called and said she was being followed, I believe she was telling the truth, only you were the one doing the following, Porter.”

  Porter laughed. “How did you manage that theory?”

  “When we processed the stolen car, the only evidence we found was a few hair fibers,” Murphy said. “Turned out, they were synthetic, just like the synthetic hair Joss found on the cushion of your couch when she dropped by yesterday.”

  Porter was escorted out the front door, where I was waiting. I smiled as he passed me. “By the way, if you’re wondering about Chelsea, don’t worry. She’s safe. She didn’t make it too far before the cops grabbed her.”

  CHAPTER 55

  The next day, I sat across from Chelsea in a room reserved for police questioning. The more I stared, the more I noticed she’d never reminded me more of the photos I’d seen of her real father than she did today. She looked haggard and frail. Sleep deprived. Detectives had been through one round of questioning already, trying to get her to confess. So far she’d refused to speak. At present, she wasn’t speaking to me either.

  “I’m flying home today,” I said. “I wanted to see you before I left.”

  She responded with a shrug.

  “Mind if I tell you a story?” I asked. “It’s more of a theory, but I’d like to run it by you anyway.”

  Another shrug.

  Tough crowd.

  “I used to admire this writer. She was well known, respected. She was murdered one evening after a book signing, poisoned by her own daughter after the daughter discovered a secret her mother had been keeping from her all her life. At first it was hard for me to see the daughter as a suspect. I’d seen the agony in the daughter’s eyes after learning what happened to her mother, and I didn’t want to believe it was possible for her to do what she did. As the facts came out, I learned the writer was penning a memoir she hadn’t told many people about. When news of the memoir started getting around, those affected by what the writer might say about them in her book began to worry.”

  I paused then said, “How am I doing so far?”

  “How would I know? It’s your story. Not mine.”

  “Like all good stories, this one has a twist. See, even after the police figured out the daughter was responsible for her mother’s death, the daughter still didn’t confess to killing her mother. The man who raised her said he did it, even though I knew he didn’t. But he loved her enough to do it anyway. Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

  She remained silent.

  I layered in a dose of reality, made it personal.

  “Here’s what I believe happened, Chelsea. You poisoned your mother with pesticide you stole from one of your fiancé’s parents’ ranches. The day he came with you to my hotel, I noticed he had a bit of hay stuck beneath his right shoe. I asked Detective Murphy to check out where Bradley’s parents’ wealth came from. Because of the Claibornes’s political affiliations, he didn’t need to check them out. They’re well known here. He told me the Claibornes own several ranches in this state. Turns out fluoroacetate is used to control the predators on their farms, so naturally, it would be easy for you to get your hands on it, and you did.”

  She lowered her head. I kept going.

  “Once your mother was dead, you must have told Porter what you did. Not at first, I don’t think. I’m guessing you did it after I broke into your house looking for the flash drive. It scared you, and even though you were angry with him just like you were at your mother, you confessed, and he tried to help you cover it up the only way he knew how—by leading police to bel
ieve someone else did it, so the focus wouldn’t be on either one of you. He also wanted to contain the fact you were Elias’s daughter, and that’s why he wanted the flash drive. He didn’t know whether Alexandra wrote about you in her book or not, but he wasn’t taking any chances. And if he could get his hands on it before Barbara did, he could contain it. While I admire his love for you, his plan wasn’t well thought out.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” she said. “You can’t prove anything.”

  “But you did, Chelsea. You were angry. Not just because she lied, and not just because she wasn’t the kind of mother she should have been, but because if your secret got out, not only would the world see you differently, the people around you would see you differently. Bradley. Bradley’s parents.”

  I reached across the table, grabbed her hand. “My story might not be one-hundred-percent accurate, but I’ll bet it’s close. Whatever happens now, I want you to know one thing. Even after what you’ve done, you’re not your mother, and you’re not Elias Pratt. One of the best ways you can prove that to yourself and to everyone else is to tell the truth.”

  I slid the chair back, stood, and walked to the door.

  “Hey.”

  I turned back. “Yeah?”

  “Interesting story. Too bad it’s not true.”

  I shrugged. “What do I know? I’m just a writer.”

  CHAPTER 56

  One Week Later

  I fidgeted with my skirt, fighting my inner urge to grab it, pull it down a couple more inches or find a pair of scissors and cut it off. I despised skirts almost as much as I despised dresses and all manner of dressy things. What fun was an outfit if it didn’t offer some breathing room, or the kind of fabric that could be washed in a regular old washing machine when it got dirty?

  To get my mind off my choice of attire for the day, I thought of Chelsea. Murphy had called me a few days before to say she’d done the right thing, and after three grueling days of interrogations, she’d confessed to her crimes, admitting to poisoning her mother and attempting to poison Barbara Berry. One thing she didn’t admit was Porter’s part in it. No matter. He’d done a stupendous job of incriminating himself the night he was arrested.

  Murphy still found it hard to believe that both flash drives were empty. Truth was, they weren’t. I suspected the one Barbara planned on exchanging for a wad of cash was just a prop. The one I’d taken from Alex’s house, I wiped clean, deciding Roland was right when he said some things in life didn’t need to be revealed. Whether or not the manuscript itself was still out there somewhere, only time would tell.

  Finch had glanced at me several times over the past two minutes, probably wondering what had me so self-absorbed that I’d abruptly stopped the conversation we’d been having.

  He parked the car, walked over to me, and offered me his arm. I’d never been the damsel in distress type, but I was out of my element in a skirt and heels so I took it anyway.

  “You look beautiful,” he said. “Don’t be nervous.”

  Before I could utter something stupidly sarcastic, he pulled open the chapel door. My eyes darted around, hoping for an empty row in the back so I could slip in unnoticed. My wishful thinking soon ended when my mother’s eyes locked on mine.

  The second she saw me, she shot out of her seat in the second row and speed-walked in my direction. She threw her arms around me and squealed, causing all those in attendance to look at us. “I knew you’d come, Joslyn! I just knew it!”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  She planted a kiss on my cheek and pointed in the direction she’d just come from. “I saved you a seat.”

  “It doesn’t look like there’s enough room for both of us, so we’re just going to sit in the back.”

  “Nonsense! You never said Finchie was coming with you, but that’s all right. We can all squish in right next to your brother and sister.”

  My sister, whose personality was a mirror image to my mother, smiled and waved, furthering the interest of all the gawkers in the room. My brother smirked like he was all too happy to let me endure a little fresh hell for a change. In my mind, I rewound myself back to when I’d stepped on the plane bound for Salt Lake City, back to the moment I’d made the decision to make the trip in the first place.

  Sensing my discomfort, Finch tried to alleviate the tight seating situation by saying, “It’s just fine, ma’am. I’ll wait back here until it’s over.”

  “I’ll sit back here too,” I said.

  “You won’t either.” She tugged my shirt sleeve, leading the way to the second row.

  My brother cupped a hand over his mouth, attempting to control his laughter. Finch, thinking he was free to do as he pleased, Finch stepped into an aisle in the back row only to be scolded by my mother when she turned around. Five squished minutes later, the wedding ceremony between my cousin and my ex’s brother began. Twenty minutes after that, it was over, and I was successfully outside and free, or so I thought.

  The sound of Lucas’s boots pounding the asphalt surface as he chased after me derailed my plans for a quick getaway. “Joss, wait up. Just a second. Stop. Will you stop, please?”

  My head said to keep going, but my heart disagreed, and just this once I listened.

  I stopped. Finch stopped too, his feet spread apart, arms folded in front of his chest.

  “Why are you leaving so soon?” Lucas asked. “You just got here.”

  “I came for the wedding. It’s over.”

  “Stay a while. At least for the reception tonight.”

  “It’s better if I go.”

  “Who’s it better for? You?”

  “Why do you want me to stay, Lucas?” I asked.

  “I haven’t seen you in ages. I thought we could catch up.”

  “Why? Because we have history? Because we were married? Because we had a daughter together? You don’t know me anymore, Lucas. You knew me. That woman, the one you married, she no longer exists. Nothing you can say or do now can ever bring her back.”

  “Joss, come on. Hear me out.”

  Knowing Finch was close to stepping in, I flattened a hand, held it out in his direction. “No. I was done hearing anything you had to say the day Elena died.”

  “Why? Because you’d rather pretend like she hadn’t existed? Is it easier for you, because it sure as hell isn’t as easy for me.”

  “Don’t talk about Elena. You don’t get to talk about her. Not to me.”

  “Maybe we need to talk about her. Maybe it’s time.”

  “I choose to live my life for today, not yesterday,” I said. “If yesterday is where you want to live, that’s your choice.”

  Lucas glanced at Finch. “Look, man. Can you give us a minute here?”

  Finch looked at me. I smiled and nodded, and he backed away. Not far, but far enough.

  Voice lowered, Lucas leaned toward me. “I know you’ll never be able to forgive me for what happened, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t take it back. If I could, I would. I should have been a better husband to you. I should have shown you the respect you deserved. If I had, everything would be different.”

  His eyes filled with tears. Except for the night Elena died, he’d never been emotional in front of me before.

  “I still love you, Joss. I’ll always love you.”

  His heartfelt words appealed to the younger version of me, and just for a moment, I saw the boy I fell in love with in high school. I reached out, squeezed his hand. “We had some great memories, Lucas, and a beautiful daughter together. But, you have to let her go now, and let me go. Find someone who makes you happy.”

  He stood for a moment, then nodded. “It was good seeing you.”

  I smiled. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

  CHAPTER 57

  One hour later

  I knelt in front of a headstone, placing the colorful flowers against it. I brushed a hand across an oval portrait of a young, sweet-faced girl. My sweet girl. Part of me wanted to claw my fingers into the ri
ch earth, crawl inside, and wrap my arms around her, joining her in eternal rest. I would give anything to run my hands through her silken hair one last time, hear a single syllable from her melodic voice, hold her in my arms again.

  I wiped a tear from my eyelid, waved Finch over. “I want to tell you something.”

  “Joss, you don’t have to—”

  “I was driving, coming back a day early from a trip to my aunt’s house in St. George, Utah. Elena was in the back in her car seat. She was three years old. We had the music going. We were singing and laughing. My cell phone rang. I didn’t answer it, didn’t even look to see who was calling. I never answered my phone while I was driving. A minute later, it rang again. Then again two minutes after that. The person called four times in six minutes. I thought it was an emergency, so the next time, I answered it.”

  “Who was calling?” Finch asked.

  “My cousin Courtney.”

  “The one who got married today?”

  I nodded.

  “She was upset,” I said. “Yelling into the phone. I couldn’t understand her.”

  “What was she upset about?”

  “She kept saying, ‘I have to tell you something. Don’t be mad at me, okay? Promise you won’t be upset with me when I tell you.’ I told her I was driving, asked if it could wait until I got home. We were so close. Ten more minutes and I’d be there.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She’d driven by my house earlier that day, saw my friend’s car there. She knew I was out of town and found it odd my friend would stop by when I wasn’t at home. Two hours later, my cousin drove by again. The car was still there. Courtney parked up the street, crept up to the window in front of the house, peeked inside. Lucas was naked on the sofa with my best friend, both of them all tangled up in each other.”

  Finch bent down, placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve been through it myself. I’m sorry.”

  “When Courtney told me what she saw, I was furious. The more she talked, the madder I became. I ended the call with her and called him.”