The Quick and the Thread

by Amanda Lee

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Good,” he said. “Go.”

  We went out and got into the Jeep. I got in the driver’s side, Vera sat on the passenger’s side, and John got into the backseat, where he could continue threatening us with the gun.

  “This is ridiculous,” I said. “No one will believe I took Vera to a hospital in California because you were in an accident if you were never in an accident in California.”

  “Of course they will. My wallet was stolen, and the thief was the man in the car accident. Unfortunately, on your way to see about me, you and Vera had fatal accident yourself. It’s tragic; it’s poignant. All the neighbors will bring wonderful food, and I’ll grieve my heart out.” He looked all around. “Drive slowly, Marcy. I don’t want you raising the suspicions of anyone who might be about. Although, I suppose it’s reasonable that you’d be driving too fast . . . just as long as you don’t get stopped by law enforcement.”

  I glanced at Vera from the corner of my eye. “Are you all right?”

  “Not really.” Her voice broke, and she rested her head against the glass.

  “You know,” Mr. Langhorne said, “I really will grieve over you, Vera. No man could’ve asked for a better wife.”

  Vera closed her eyes.

  I drove slowly down the street where the Seven-Year Stitch was dark and abandoned. Good-bye, Jill, I thought. I almost cried in a fit of self-pity at that point, but I refused to believe this was it for me, that I was going to die at the hands of some psychopathic old man.

  We met Blake’s van. He was coming in to work early. I was glad. That meant he’d get my message and go check on Angus when he had time.

  “Why Mr. Trelawney?” I asked.

  “Excuse me?” Mr. Langhorne asked politely.

  How strange was that? He was holding a gun on me and had already planned my demise, but he refused to be rude about it.

  “Why did you kill them?”

  “Oh, well, Tim was a blackmailer, and Bill had a real problem with Tim’s death. I didn’t think he could live without telling someone what I’d done. I couldn’t risk that. Did he ever tell Margaret about my involvement with Four Square Development?”

  “No. She told me she had no idea who the fifth partner was.”

  “Well, that’s good. It’ll save me an unpleasant task in Portland next week. Mark has a football game, you know.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “Wish him luck for me.” I slammed on the brakes. “Let’s just stop this. We can work this out.”

  Mr. Langhorne cocked the gun. “Drive, Marcy. Or else I’ll have to kill you and then wreck the Jeep myself. Take this time to pray or something. It’ll make you feel better.”

  Taking that gun and beating you over the head with it would make me feel better.

  I resumed driving. It was all I could do until I figured a way out of this.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Can I ask you a question?” I asked Mr. Langhorne. “I mean, it’s a long way to California. We might as well chat.”

  “Sure. Ask whatever you’d like.”

  “What happened to the money Timothy Enright took out of his account?”

  He laughed. “He never took any money out of the account. He intended to, but there was no money to take.”

  “How could there be no money to take?” I asked. “Lorraine said Timothy was going to close out the account. How could he do that if there was no money?” I looked at Mr. Langhorne in the rearview mirror. He chuckled and shook his head as if I were a simpleton.

  “When he entered the bank that afternoon,” Mr. Langhorne said, “there was money in the account. He told me his plans, and I invited him to have a cup of my Café Cubano. Have you ever tried Café Cubano?”

  “No. What’s that?”

  “It’s Cuban coffee. Very strong. It’s not a sipping coffee. You shoot it, like tequila. And it will disguise the taste of anything.”

  “Like rubbing alcohol,” I said.

  “You’re quite bright, Marcy. I think under different circumstances, you and I would have been great friends.”

  “Oh, sure,” I said. “So, what were Timothy Enright’s plans?”

  “He wanted to get out while he was ahead, withdraw his money, leave town, yadda, yadda. Like you and Vera, he promised to take all his information to his grave . . . which he did. I mean, he tried not to, but in the end, he did.”

  “Why don’t you trust anyone?” I asked. Yeah, I know it was a stupid question, but I was still trying to talk him into not killing Vera and me. “How do you know Mr. Enright wouldn’t have kept his word?”

  “It’s hard to keep secrets. I know. They eat away at you. Besides, he’d grown a conscience. He’d seen Bill’s ledger and knew we were taking advantage of . . . well, of people like you. He didn’t think that was right. Especially when so many others were willing to give their consent.”

  “Like Blake.”

  “Sure. Blake didn’t care what Bill did with his information as long as his debt was wiped out and he didn’t get into any trouble. That one was a win-win.”

  “Then why did you start duping Bill’s renters?”

  “Once again, people have a hard time keeping secrets,” he said. “If people don’t know they’re being used, they don’t whine about it.”

  “So, why didn’t Mr. Enright go to the authorities as soon as you told him there was no money in his account?” I asked.

  “Because I told him I’d moved the money to another bank and wouldn’t have it until the next day. Now stop talking. You’re tiring me.”

  “Sorry.”

  We drove in silence for a few miles. I hoped Mr. Langhorne would doze off or something. But he kept sitting there in the middle of the backseat, holding the gun, as unwavering as a statue. If he’d only put the gun down at his side, maybe I could open the door and roll out onto the pavement. It would leave Vera in the lurch, but maybe Mr. Langhorne would be too busy trying to control the vehicle to hurt her. And maybe she’d take my cue and jump out also. Self-preservation is a powerful motivator.

  “Up here,” Mr. Langhorne said. “You need to get onto the 101.”

  Great. We were starting onto the highway. If I couldn’t get Mr. Langhorne distracted on the secondary roads, how could I hope to catch a break on the highway? On the other hand, maybe a truck driver would glance down into the Jeep, notice a man with a pistol in my backseat, and alert the highway patrol.

  “I’m too warm,” I said, feigning a yawn. “It’s making me sleepy.”

  “Then turn the heat off or put on the air conditioner,” Mr. Langhorne said.

  “Couldn’t we stop up here at the side of the road and stretch our legs before getting onto the highway?” I asked.

  “Needing to stretch your legs is the least of your worries. Keep driving.”

  I pulled onto the entrance ramp of the highway. “So, what’s the plan, Mr. Langhorne? You’re going to make us drive all the way to California to stage a car accident? Wouldn’t it be easier to stage the accident here?”

  Vera shook her head vehemently.

  “You’d be found too quickly. Besides, I want it to appear realistic.”

  “How will you get back home?” I asked.

  “In a rental car.”

  “But how—”

  “Once again, you are making me weary with your chatter. Shut up and drive.”

  I had to figure out how to get away from this maniac. I looked at Vera. She was obviously terrified. I wondered if up until now she’d had any clue what Mr. Langhorne was capable of. Had she suspected his trips weren’t strictly business?

  As I merged into traffic, I cut off the car behind me. The driver blew the horn. I slammed on my brakes, and the driver of the other car had to swerve onto the left side of the road to avoid hitting me.

  Mr. Langhorne hit me with the butt of the gun. “Stop driving like a lunatic. Are you trying to drag some innocent person into this?”

  I want
ed to scream that Vera and I were innocent and he’d dragged us into it, but my head was hurting and I didn’t want another blow from the gun barrel. I didn’t want to be shot, either. I decided to drive normally for a little while and maybe it would lull Mr. Langhorne into thinking I’d resigned myself to my fate.

  We’d been driving on the highway for about fifteen minutes when Vera snapped out of her funk.

  “Marcy, do you have a tissue in your glove box?” she asked.

  “I believe so. If not a tissue, I’m pretty sure there are some restaurant napkins in there,” I said.

  “Thank you.” She put her hand on my arm and squeezed. “You’re very kind.” Her eyes bore into mine.

  That squeeze meant something. She was getting ready to do something, and she wanted me to follow her lead.

  She opened the glove compartment. Instead of a tissue, she took out my travel hair spray bottle. She whirled around in the seat and sprayed her husband in the eyes. I turned the Jeep toward the guardrail and slammed on the brakes.

  Mr. Langhorne lurched forward. His eyes were watering, and I don’t think he could see well. I grabbed his wrist and beat his bony hand against the console until I was able to take the gun.

  “Run, Vera!” I shouted.

  I unbuckled my seat belt and flung open the door. Vera was a little slower than I was, and Mr. Langhorne grabbed her by the arm. I opened the backseat and hit him with the butt of the pistol until he let her go. I owed him that one.

  Vera and I began running back down the highway. We’d just passed an exit; and we knew if we could get to a gas station or somewhere else safe, we could call the police and be home free. Naturally, we’d left our purses and our cell phones behind in the Jeep as we’d made our escape.

  I heard the Jeep roar back to life. I looked over my shoulder. “No way.”

  Mr. Langhorne plowed through the median and was racing down the other side of the highway. What was he doing? Was he going to get off at the exit and come back after us? Even if he did, I had the gun. What did he hope to do? Run us over with the Jeep?

  Turns out, that was exactly what he hoped to do. When he got down below us, he ran through the median again and came after us.

  I looked at Vera.

  “Do it,” she said.

  “But I don’t want to—”

  “I’ll do it.” She jerked the gun out of my hand and began firing. She emptied the pistol into the windshield of the Jeep. She was a surprisingly good shot.

  As the Jeep started to crash for the second time, I grabbed Vera and dove into a ditch on the other side of the guardrail. The Jeep crashed a few feet away from us, the horn blowing in one long, monotonous groan.

  A couple of people—a skinny black truck driver and a heavyset Caucasian cowboy in a pickup truck—saw what happened and stopped and asked whether they could help. Though there was a lot of rubbernecking, no one else was brave enough to stop . . . which was understandable, considering John had tried to kill us with the Jeep and Vera had emptied the contents of the pistol into the windshield.

  Neither Vera nor I had the courage to go look into the Jeep to see what condition John was in. The cowboy went. He came back, looked at me, and shook his head.

  I tried to explain the situation to the cowboy and the trucker, but everything came out in a jumbled mess. The trucker put a blanket around Vera’s and my shoulders and told us everything would be fine.

  A blue Oregon State Trooper’ s patrol car drove up. The officer got out of the car, assessed the situation, and radioed for paramedics and backup. That’s when I realized Vera was still holding the gun limply at her side.

  “Drop that,” I told her as the officer drew his gun. “It’s okay. She wouldn’t shoot you. She was using it only to defend herself . . . and me.”

  “Put your hands where I can see them,” the officer said. “Both of you.”

  We held up our hands. The trucker and the cowboy backed slowly toward the officer. They put their hands up, too.

  “What’s going on here?” the officer asked.

  The cowboy and the trucker started talking at once, telling the officer what they’d seen. Vera and I kept quiet.

  And then, like John Wayne riding in to save the day—albeit an Indian John Wayne, which is, in a way, the epitome of irony—Manu Singh of the Tallulah Falls Police Department pulled up in his bronze-colored Bronco. I don’t know when I’d ever been happier to see anyone. And when he spoke, I don’t know when I’d ever heard sweeter words.

  “You can put your gun away, Officer. I know these women.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  After the paramedics had left with a deceased John Langhorne, and the tow truck had left with a deceased Jeep, the officer put Vera into his patrol car. I rode in the backseat of another officer’ s car—which was not a pleasant experience, but it was, like, fourth on my list of unpleasant experiences so far that day and it wasn’t even nine a.m. yet. Manu followed us to the police headquarters.

  The officers had already spoken with the truck driver, the cowboy, and Manu. They’d spoken briefly with Vera and me, too, but they had to “take us downtown” to talk with us a great deal more and to make everything official. Since it was determined that Vera had acted in self-defense, no charges were filed against her.

  The gun was turned over to Manu as evidence after Manu told the officers at the scene that he believed ballistics tests would prove John Langhorne had used the gun to kill Bill Trelawney. I volunteered the information that Mr. Langhorne had confessed to killing both Mr. Trelawney and Mr. Enright, and that he had intended to murder Vera and me and make it look as if we’d died in a car accident. I told Manu how Mr. Trelawney had murdered Mr. Enright by putting rubbing alcohol in a cup of Café Cubano.

  “But how did you know where to find us?” I asked Manu.

  “Blake MacKenzie called me,” Manu said. “He said you’d left a message on his answering machine, telling him and Sadie you were taking Vera Langhorne to California because her husband had been in a car accident and was in the hospital there. Then he explained that he’d seen you and Vera drive by in your Jeep and that there was a man in the backseat. Blake thought the man looked like John.”

  Manu had agreed with Blake that the situation was suspicious.

  “I called the California Highway Patrol and confirmed that they had no record of any of their officers calling a Vera Langhorne of Tallulah Falls, Oregon, and reporting that her husband had been in an accident. That’s when I got in my Bronco and tracked you using the GPS signal from your phone.”

  After all the Oregon State Police paperwork had been completed, the officers turned us over to Manu, who said he’d take us home. Manu warned Vera that an insurance investigator would be looking at the events surrounding John’s death prior to paying out any benefits. She surprised us both by saying that was fine with her. She had her own accounts, which had been provided for her by her parents when she’d married, on the condition that they remain in her name only.

  “They were filthy rich,” Vera said. “Mother still is. Dad died in ’ninety-two. I guess the money is probably why John married me in the first place. My dad got John his job at the bank. We were members of the country club. Everyone thought highly of the Breck family.” Her voice trailed off.

  “I never knew your parents,” Manu said. “I suppose they were before my time.”

  “They were before everyone’s time,” she said. “They left Tallulah Falls about forty years ago.” She sighed. “Now what? What do I do with the rest of my life?”

  “Now you go on,” I said. “You go on and have a terrific life.”

  “I guess you’re right. What other choice do I have?”

  That was more than two months ago. Both Halloween and Thanksgiving came and went, and we were heading into December. Mom has visited twice and said my adventure would make a fantastic movie. She’s planning to put the word out among various producers and directors. She thinks Ron Howard could “do it up right.”

&n
bsp; I got a new red Jeep. It’s exactly like the old one, only it’s shiny and not smashed up. I don’t think Angus has noticed the difference, but, of course, he never saw the Jeep when it was smashed up. I’m grateful for that. Who knows how that might have affected him?

  Mrs. Trelawney has returned home, but Sylvia still comes to visit fairly often. They seem to have reached a new level of . . . let’s call it tolerance. I wouldn’t call them friends, but they seem to have a certain responsibility and grudging affection toward each other, for Mr. Trelawney’s sake.

  I still think Mr. Trelawney was a nice old man. I don’t think he meant anybody any real harm. I believe he merely got caught up in John Langhorne’s scheme and either enjoyed the money or the thrill of the game. I never found out how he knew Mr. Enright had been disruptive at the open house but didn’t know he’d died in the storeroom. I also never found out why he suspected John Langhorne of killing Mr. Enright or why he went to confront him. Some secrets die with their keepers.

  Manu, Reggie, and I discussed it over dinner one evening.

  “I believe Tim Enright found out about John Langhorne from Bill Trelawney,” Manu said. “I think it was accidental on Bill’s part. But once the horse was out of the barn, there was no getting him back in.”

  “And I think John brought Timothy into the fold because his other coconspirators had been arrested,” Reggie said. “He needed some new blood to liven up his operation.”

  “But why did Mr. Enright come to the open house looking for me?” I asked.

  “He must’ve known Mr. Trelawney had stolen your identity and wanted to warn you,” Manu said. “After searching John’s offices at the bank and at home, here’s what I was able to piece together. John, Bill, and Timothy had put their heads together in a new real estate fraud scheme.”

  “Lorraine told me she and her husband had fought about his working relationship with Bill Trelawney, and that’s why she left him,” I said.

  “Which is why Tim wanted out,” Manu said. “He went to John, intending to close out his and Lorraine’s joint accounts so the two of them could leave town.”