by Kara Lennox
“I think…there must be a misunderstanding.”
“Oh, like I was confused when I saw all that stolen merchandise in the Cuddys’ garage.”
“Yes, okay, you were right about Cuddy, but I refuse to believe Ham—”
“Fine, I get it. You don’t trust me or my judgment. Just keep your eye on him. I don’t care how much he looks like Kermit the Frog, he’s dangerous!”
She stalked away, her eyes filling with tears. She would have to call Daniel and tell him about the car. Daniel would know what to do. Even though he had no faith in her, either. And she’d hung up on him last time they talked.
“Excuse me. Miss, are you in charge?” asked a woman who looked like the Michelin tire man. Jillian didn’t recognize her, but she didn’t know every employee.
Jillian dragged out that ragged smile. “What can I help you with?”
“I forgot my dental floss. Do you have any?”
Okay, she was prepared, but not that prepared. “I’m so sorry, no.”
“Oh.”
“How about a toothpick?” Jillian said brightly, fishing around in her purse for one of the plastic-wrapped toothpicks she kept there.
“No, it’s not the same.”
She’d barely made her escape when she saw another man heading for her, holding up a plastic fork like an avenging sword.
“Excuse me, excuse me, miss, do you have any real silverware?”
“I’ll just go check.” Criminy. She all but ran to the drying shed, again pushing the persistent picture of poor Mark Bowen’s body out of her mind as she entered. She might have to lock herself in the bathroom to get any privacy.
No, scratch that. A line of teenage girls stretched out the door of the ladies’ room.
“Ew, like I’d really use one of those camping bathrooms,” one of them said with a sniff.
The only place she could find any peace was the walk-in refrigerator. In her sleeveless dress she was going to freeze to death in there, but she would make the phone call quick.
Daniel’s phone rang—and rang.
What, did he suddenly develop an allergy to answering her phone calls?
She got rolled to voice mail. “Daniel, it’s Jillian. I apologize for hanging up on you but this is serious. Hamilton Payne’s car has bloodstains all over the trunk. If you don’t want him disappearing forever to live in the Cayman Islands off his Swiss bank account, just—just call me, please.”
She sighed, and idly wondered if the ice cream had been delivered. She remembered seeing the truck, but had the frozen treats actually made it into the freezer?
After slipping her phone into the side pocket of her dress, she opened the chest freezer. There was no light. It wasn’t very cold. Oh, hell, the ice cream was melting. This old freezer didn’t work worth a damn. She found an empty box in a corner and started loading it with the ice cream bars. She could at least pass those out quickly before they ruined.
The refrigerator door opened.
“Whoever that is, grab a box or a bag and fill it with ice cream.” She looked up. It was Hamilton Payne.
“Mr. Payne!” Her voice sounded way to shrieky and cheerful.
“I came up here looking for the bathroom, but those dang girls took over the men’s.”
“I’ll clear them out for you.” She set the box of ice cream down, but Hamilton blocked her way. Oh, dear God, had he overheard her leaving that message for Daniel? Or had he seen something in her face?
“You got a problem with the freezer?”
“Oh, it’s no big deal—”
“We can’t have all that ice cream melting. Here, I’ll help you.”
“That’s really not necessary—”
“Oh, it’s no trouble. Jillian.”
That was when she saw that he held a gun, and it was pointed at her.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SO THIS WAS WHAT IT FELT like when your heart stopped beating. For several moments they just stood there, staring at each other. Jillian began to shiver violently.
“M-Mr. P-P-Payne, this really isn’t necessary.”
“I think it is. I’ll admit, I underestimated you. When I saw you prance into my office in those ridiculous high heels, all that blond hair and shiny lips and long fingernails, I figured I didn’t have a thing to worry about.”
That got Jillian’s dander up. And if she was mad, at least she wasn’t as scared. “Shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. But then, you’re counting on everyone to make the same mistake, right? Kindly old Mr. Payne, with his cane and his shy smile, he couldn’t possibly be guilty of anything.”
“That’s exactly right. Apparently you’re the only one who saw through me.”
Small comfort that was. She couldn’t enjoy any bragging rights if she was dead. What should she do? She would play for time. “How did you know?”
“Conner. He said you’d found some invoices with my name on them, and I knew that reporter must have shared what he knew before he died. But Conner doesn’t suspect me of a thing. But you…you figured it out. I saw the fear in your eyes.”
Damn it. She was going to have to work on her poker face. Assuming she lived long enough to ever use it.
“I already sent the evidence to Daniel Logan,” she said. “If I figured it out, he will, too. Killing me won’t help you.”
“It will buy me some time.”
“So are you going to shoot me, too?” Keep him talking. That was the only thing she could think of to do. She had nothing at hand to use as a weapon. A box of melting ice cream wasn’t exactly intimidating.
“If you don’t cooperate, I’ll have to.” His voice was tinged with regret, but Jillian didn’t buy it for a minute. The man was as cold and calculating as they came.
Then she remembered something. The sunglasses, perched on top of her head. She pretended to wipe a tear from her eye and casually switched on the video recorder. She couldn’t don the sunglasses in this dimly lit room, but she could tip her head down so the camera caught Payne with the gun pointed at her.
She looked down at her feet. “I’ll cooperate,” she said. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”
“Why don’t you finish emptying out that freezer?”
That didn’t sound good. “Why?”
“Just do it.”
“O-okay.” She moved as slowly as she dared, picking up one box of ice cream sandwiches and placing it on the floor, then another box of drumsticks.
“Move it! I don’t have all day. I don’t want to shoot you. I had no problem killing Greg Tynes—the guy was a slimeball. He got greedy, trying to pull the same scam here in the States as we were doing in India and the Amazon. I told him he’d get caught. And when it all started crumbling around him, he suddenly found a conscience and wanted to come clean.”
“So you killed him?”
“Had to. And that reporter—he was at least smart. He’s been on to the scam for a while, but when some of my customers said he was asking too many questions, checking into permits and such—well, I couldn’t let that go on.”
“You aren’t going to get away with this. Someone will hear the shot. They’ll see you.”
“You have a point.” He looked around. Trying to find another weapon, perhaps? “Killing you is like killing a pretty, fluffy kitten. It’s hard, you know?”
She raised her head, taking him out of the range of the video camera. But that was okay. The camera had caught plenty already. She looked him square in the eye. “I understand it’s hard to kill someone who’s looking you right in the eye.”
“Yeah?” He turned his head and looked away as his finger tightened on the trigger.
Jillian didn’t think, she just acted. She lifted and swung her leg in a wide kick, knocking the gun out of his grasp just as he pulled the trigger. The bullet ricocheted off the freezer and hit a jug of orange juice on a high shelf.
But Payne wasn’t going to be defeated with a little thing like having his gun taken away. He came at her with his bare hand
s, growling like something uncivilized. His hands went around her neck in a surprisingly strong grip. She scrabbled at his fingers and tried to scream, but she didn’t have enough air. She tried kicking again, but he got too close to her, pressing her against the freezer with his body so she had no room to maneuver.
He didn’t choke her to death. Instead he kept pushing until he toppled her over—right into the half-empty freezer.
“No!” she shouted just as he slammed the lid down on her and her world went dark.
“Goodbye, Jillian,” came Payne’s muffled voice. The key turned in the lock. “Maybe someone will find you before you freeze to death.”
* * *
CONNER MADE THE ROUNDS at the picnic, chatting up everyone he could find who was in any position of power—anyone who conceivably could have been involved in the illegal harvesting Mark Bowen had revealed to Jillian.
She actually thought Hamilton could be involved. It was bad enough the police had so quickly settled on Stan as a murder suspect, but what if Project Justice convinced the cops to focus on Hamilton instead? Stan might be happy that the heat was off him, but he’d be horrified to learn suspicion had fallen on one of his oldest, dearest friends.
Speaking of which…where was Hamilton, anyway? Conner had left him sitting at a table, his wife solicitously waiting on him while simultaneously interrogating him about which pills he’d taken and which he needed.
Both of the couple’s chairs were empty now.
Without mentioning Jillian, he’d asked Ham point-blank about the invoices. But Ham had sounded confused and bewildered. And hurt that someone was trying to set him up. First Stan, then Conner, now Ham. Someone was trying to wipe out the whole board of directors. Conner’s money was still on Isaac Cuddy. The man was power hungry, and he’d have been the obvious one to take over Mayall Lumber—if Jillian hadn’t implicated him in the theft.
Jillian. His heart sank every time he thought of her. Of what had gone on between them…and what hadn’t gone on. If things had been different—like maybe if she really was an administrative assistant—he felt certain that they could have overcome their differences. But now they were at such cross purposes…
She’d begged him to trust her. But had she really earned that trust? First she’d sent him on a wild-goose chase to Isaac Cuddy’s house which had nearly gotten Conner fired…oh, wait.
He shook his head. She’d been right about Cuddy. But trust was a two-way street. He knew Ham better than she did. Couldn’t she trust him to know whether a man he’d known for years was capable of murder?
“Why so glum?”
Conner’s head jerked up to meet the confident, brown-eyed gaze of his ex-wife, looking picnic chic in a plunge-neck silk halter top, white shorts that showed a long expanse of tanned leg, and wedge sandals with a high enough heel that Jillian would have been proud to wear them.
“Chandra. What are you doing here?”
“Last time I checked, I was still the CEO’s granddaughter. I always come to these shindigs.” She looked around. “Although I must say, this one lacks a certain elegance.”
“It’s been a tough year. Our workers don’t want to see us blowing money on champagne and caviar. They just want to have a little fun, to know that they’re appreciated. Look around. Everyone’s having a great time.”
“Everyone except you, apparently. What are you so worried about?”
“I’m worried about Stan.”
“Yeah, me, too.” Chandra’s guise of invincibility slipped slightly.
“Don’t lose hope. Some very smart people are working on things behind the scenes. We’re going to get to the bottom of this.”
“If anyone can, you can.”
“Chandra, darling.” A Latino man, painfully handsome in an underwear-model sort of way, sidled up to Chandra. He wore a pirate’s shirt open practically to his navel and wrinkled khaki shorts almost as short as Chandra’s. “I wondered where you’d gotten to.” He had a thick Spanish accent. “Is this him, the ex-husband?”
“Alessandro, this is Conner.”
Conner wasn’t in the mood for his ex’s one-upmanship. Did she think he would be bothered by the fact she’d replaced him with someone much prettier and more exotic than him? All he could say was, good luck with that. It would last until she tried to domesticate him. He wished he could be a fly on the wall the first time she asked him to take out the garbage or change a lightbulb.
“Nice to meet you. Excuse me, I need to go find Hamilton.” The man’s prolonged absence was slightly worrisome. He hadn’t seen Jillian lately, either. He hoped to God she hadn’t decided to confront him in some misguided effort to coax a confession out of him and prove her case.
“Oh, I saw Hamilton and Beatrice in the parking lot when I first got here,” Chandra informed him. “They seemed to be in an awful hurry.”
“Huh.” Maybe they had to finish packing? Beatrice had told Jillian something about a vacation, though Hamilton hadn’t said anything about it.
The kernel of unease that had started in Conner’s gut grew to the size of a tennis ball. Something wasn’t right. He looked around for Joyce and finally found her at the dessert table, cutting a pan of brownies into small squares. She had on baggy denim shorts and a T-shirt with a hot-sauce stain down the front, her hair unsuccessfully contained in several barrettes.
“Oh, hi, Conner. Isn’t this party fabulous? I told you Jillian was a gem. This was just the sort of party we needed to lift our spirits—all apple pie and family values. The kids are having a great—”
“Joyce, did Hamilton Payne have a vacation scheduled?”
“Hamilton? No. He always takes two weeks over Christmas. Is something wrong?”
The tennis ball grew to a grapefruit. “I’m not sure. Have you seen Jillian?”
“Not for a few minutes. I’m sure she’s chasing down some tiny detail. I’ve never known anyone as organized as she is. Did you know she has a photographic memory? Here, have a brownie.”
Conner stuffed the whole brownie into his mouth. At least that way he wouldn’t be expected to explain himself or his quick departure.
He pulled his phone out and dialed Jillian’s number. It went directly to voice mail. Maybe she was on the phone handling some emergency. “Jillian, call me back, please. Even if you’re mad at me. It’s important.”
The second he disconnected from that call his phone rang. “Jillian?”
“Ah, no. Daniel. I guess she’s not with you, then?”
“No. Why.”
“She won’t answer her phone. Conner, listen very carefully. Jillian sent me some files earlier. I had a chance to look at them. There’s no time for detailed explanations, but she was right about Hamilton Payne. He’s definitely behind some illegal wheeling and dealing—”
“Hamilton just left. In a hurry. I think he might be about to flee the country. And I don’t see Jillian anywhere.”
“Find her.”
* * *
JILLIAN HAD NEVER BEEN so cold. Granted, the deep freezer was on the fritz, but she was still wedged in among boxes of ice cream bars and other frozen treats, and it couldn’t be more than thirty-five degrees in here.
Plus it was dark. Completely. She couldn’t see even a crack or pinprick of light anywhere, which meant she was sealed in. She remembered reading once that a child could suffocate in a locked freezer in ten minutes. How much time would an adult woman have?
Had anyone seen Payne follow her into the refrigerator? Had anyone heard that shot? Would someone come looking for her? A few minutes ago she’d been in high demand as a problem solver. But the party was in full swing now; probably no one would miss her unless the beer ran low.
“Hello?” she called out. “Can anyone hear me?”
She couldn’t hear a thing. Chances were, no one could hear her either unless they were very close by.
She had no way to get herself out. Payne had locked her in—she’d heard the lock turn. She prayed he hadn’t pocketed the key or i
t would take a hacksaw and precious minutes she didn’t have to get her out.
Despair descended on her. Her life couldn’t end like this, as a human Popsicle. Sure, she had all the evidence anyone could need that Hamilton Payne was a crook and a murderer. But would anyone even recognize that her sunglasses contained a video camera?
Just then the Mission: Impossible theme song filled the freezer interior, jarringly loud. Her phone! She’d put it in her pocket earlier. But, dear God, she couldn’t reach it. She had landed on her side, and the phone was under her, her arms wedged tightly against her sides.
It stopped ringing as the phone went to voice mail.
Jillian sobbed. She had to reach it.
She could still move her left hand. Maybe she could rearrange the ice cream. Or eat her way free, she thought with a semihysterical laugh. But she was able to shift one box and give herself an extra inch of room right at hip level. If she could just twist a bit so that she was no longer lying on top of the phone…yes. Definite progress.
It rang again. She still couldn’t get to it. Her right arm, pinned beneath her body, was completely numb now, which was better than cold. Unless they had to amputate. Could she still be a Project Justice investigator with one arm?
Could Conner ever love her if she couldn’t type a hundred words a minute?
The cold was getting to her. Or the dwindling oxygen. Or both. Furious that her last thoughts might be about Conner, whom she’d fallen in love with all over again despite the hopelessness of it all, she elbowed a box off her hip. It fell across her legs, spilling the contents—felt like ice cream bars.
By moving them, she’d given herself another inch. She twisted again, but her dress stayed stuck. She grabbed a wad of fabric in her left hand, raised her hips and yanked. The pocket with its precious contents came free.
Her fingers were so cold, she could barely pull the device out of her pocket. It took her three tries to punch a button, and suddenly she had light. She couldn’t see the screen, couldn’t bring it up to her face. How was she going to dial? Could she feel her way through 9-1-1?