by Lisa Jackson
The same was true of the copperheads, which took a little more work and were put into separate pouches, again with tiny little air holes. At least this customer came prepared.
“Here ya go.”
The guy pulled the drawstring tight on the last sack and cinched it, the bags moving as the snakes jostled inside. Easily, he clipped them to his belt.
“Good doin’ business with you,” Alfred said as the customer reached the ladder with his new purchases strapped to his belt.
“You too.”
Alfred was already thinking about his whiskey on the side table, ice melting as the news had already started, when the customer stepped on the first rung of the metal ladder. Alfred took one last look around the bunker and didn’t see the blow coming, a sharp, painful crack to his skull.
“What the fuck,” he whispered before his bad knee buckled and he went down. He was already losing consciousness when the client jumped over him and quickly took off the lids of the terrariums, one after the other. Alfred tried to reach for his gun, but it was too late: blackness was coming over him, and the guy had already vaulted him and was climbing quickly up the ladder.
He saw the first rattler moving in its case, raising its head, flicking its tongue, and then, sensing freedom, slide upward over the Plexiglas wall and slide down the side, dropping to the floor less than three feet from where Alfred lay, unable to stay awake.
“Sleep tight,” the customer said as he climbed the rungs and snapped off the light before slamming the trapdoor shut.
CHAPTER 9
“I’ll take a small caramel Jazzachino,” Nikki said, placing her order at the local coffee shop, All That Jazzed. She’d spent a couple of days at the computer, digging up addresses and phone numbers, hoping for a call from Jada Hill, Blondell’s defense attorney, that had never come through, and she was frustrated as hell.
But things were going to break, even if she had to force them, she decided as the coffee grinder whirred and shots of steaming water hissed into cups. The tiny shop was full, not a table to be found, customers lounging in overstuffed chairs, or working on laptops, or reading or doing crossword puzzles, or playing games on phones or tablets or whatever electronic device they had with them. The buzz of conversation was low, but constant, the lights a soft amber.
“Hey,” a voice behind her in line called, “Nikki!”
Turning, she spied Effie Savoy three people behind her. She tried to muster some enthusiasm when she answered, “Hi.” Sliding her debit card through the card machine, she left a tip, then moved to the end of the counter to wait. In the time it took for her drink to appear, Effie had caught up with her at the “pickup” end of the counter.
Great.
There was nothing really wrong with Effie, at least nothing Nikki could put her finger on, but the woman, a few years older than she was, bothered her. She always stood just a little too close, as she did now, not giving Nikki her space, and it seemed to Nikki that she was nosy, too nosy, a quality that of course came with the job, to some extent. The long and the short of it was, Effie was pushy and she had instantly made Nikki want to avoid her.
“How’re the wedding plans coming?” Effie asked as they stood in the cluster of customers awaiting their drinks. She was a couple of inches taller than Nikki and, though not heavy, a big-boned woman whose blue eyes stared a little too intensely when you spoke with her, as if she was trying to figure out all the hidden meanings to what you were saying. She was just too damned intense, and she rarely cracked a smile.
“I’ve got everything put together.” A bit of a lie, but who cared? What business was it of Effie’s?
“It’s coming up now, isn’t it? Next month?”
“Around Christmas.”
Where was her damned drink?
“A busy time,” Effie pointed out. “Especially now, huh? Since you’re, like, the go-to person at the paper about Blondell O’Henry.”
“I suppose.”
“Kinda funny,” she mused aloud. “You getting that assignment and your fiancé investigating the case, or reinvestigating it, I guess. Oh, here. That’s mine!” she said as the server was about to shout out the order. “Regular coffee with room for soy milk? Right?”
The barista, a redhead, nodded without looking up, and Effie snagged the steaming cup.
“Perfect.”
The waitress was already handing out the next drink.
“Tom told me that I’m supposed to work with you on the O’Henry pieces,” she said.
“What? I didn’t hear this. I thought you did more homey, domestic stuff.”
“Well, my blog’s gotten big, y’know. Got men readers, and this story about a mom who killed her kids and is getting out of jail is perfect.”
“One kid,” Nikki corrected. “And now that’s in question, and she’s in prison, not jail.”
Effie nodded. “I’ll get the details straight later. The important thing is that it’s to dovetail into yours, right? We can compare notes. I read that you knew Amity, that she called you on the night she died, so I was thinking that I might even interview you for the blog, get an insider’s view. You were a teenager at the time, right? And a lot of moms of teens read me. It could be good. And it would add interest to your stories, get young readers who don’t really remember Blondell O’Henry reading your articles, either online or in the paper itself.”
Nikki’s stomach dropped. The thought of spending hours being interviewed by Effie wasn’t her idea of a good time. “You know, I work best alone, but I’ll talk to Tom.” And tell him there’s no way in hell I’m working with you.
“Do that,” Effie said with such conviction that Nikki realized this was already a done deal. A ghost of a superior smile touched the corners of Effie’s mouth, but it quickly vanished.
“Medium mocha, extra whip. Sugar-free vanilla latte!” the barista called as Nikki backed up to let two teenagers grab their frothy concoctions. Seconds later the same redhead announced, “Caramel Jazzachino” as she placed Nikki’s hot drink on the tall counter while Effie doctored her drink at a cupboard where creams, milks, sugars, and artificial sweeteners were surrounded by lids, stir-sticks, and napkins.
Wending her way through a line of customers and emerging outside, where the Georgia rain was threatening, the skies darkening, a chilly breeze blowing over the river, Nikki tried to get over the feeling that her chance meeting with Effie wasn’t just a coincidence. Lately Effie had turned up in a lot of the same places Nikki did and seemed to know a lot about Nikki’s life. She hadn’t quite reached stalker status yet, but there was something more to Effie than met the eye—at least where Nikki was concerned.
She’d just stepped onto the street when her cell phone jangled, and she plucked it from its pocket in her purse. Ina’s name and number appeared on the screen.
“Hey!” she said, answering and glad for an excuse to ignore Effie if she tried to catch up to her.
“I love it!” Ina exclaimed, her raspy voice filled with enthusiasm. “This proposal is exactly what I was talking about! Oh. My. God. Nikki. You have to write this!”
“I hope to.”
“No. Not hope. Plan to!” She was emphatic. “Of course, you have to flesh this out, it’s just a bare-bones idea now, but this is the kind of story with that personal twist, it’s just what we need! Look, if you could put it together quickly, as there’s all this buzz about Blondell O’Henry’s release right now, all the better. But we’ll have to jump all over this. You won’t be the only one with this idea, you know.”
Unfortunately, that was a fact, Nikki silently agreed. A lot of true-crime writers would be interested in the story, just as reporters for rival papers and television stations had been at the prison to try to secure an interview with Blondell.
However, those authors wouldn’t be able to claim to be best friends with the murder victim. And Nikki had come up with a twist.
“I know,” she admitted, walking toward the office and the parking lot where she’d left
her Honda, “but I thought I’d tell my story with a twist.”
“Such as?”
“This won’t exactly be the Blondell O’Henry murder retrial book—that’s what everyone else will be doing. I want to put a new spin on it. The story won’t be centered on Blondell O’Henry, but on her daughter Amity, the real victim. That’s where I have the connection, and that’s the angle that will cut more deeply emotionally.”
“Huh. I don’t know.” Some of Ina’s enthusiasm trickled away. “People know Blondell O’Henry’s name. That’s what’s going to grab them.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Nikki said, turning the corner. Pedestrians were scattered along the sidewalks—some tourists, some shopping and strolling, others, like Nikki, keeping a brisk pace. She glanced into the windows of storefronts that she passed, half expecting to see Effie’s reflection as she hurried to catch up to her. Dear God, was that her, in the long, black coat? Glancing over her shoulder, she saw, sure enough, that Effie was half a block behind her, texting as she hurried.
What was her deal?
“Nikki?” Ina said, bringing her back to the present.
“Oh. Right. Blondell’s name will be there, front and center, of course, but so will Amity’s.”
“Hmm. Well . . . sure. That concept really didn’t come across in the pages you sent.”
“It’s a work in progress,” Nikki assured her. “You know, Amity was killed first. Before Blondell was injured. At least that’s the way Blondell tells the story. So I want to explore that. It just didn’t make sense to me.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Ina declared as Nikki managed to take a sip of her drink. “Can you spell psychopath? What happened is nuts, just plain psycho nuts. And remember, the police think she lied. So did a jury.”
“But why? That’s what I don’t get. Why the attack? I don’t buy that she would try to kill her kids just for a new man’s affection.”
“Again. Nuts.”
“There’s more to the story, more to tell. I was Amity’s friend. I knew who she dated. I think it’s important to find out who was the father of her child.” She took another drink.
“Amity’s?”
“Of course.”
“And Blondell. What about her? I know she miscarried, but who was the father of that unborn child? Is he still in the picture?” The wheels were really turning in Ina’s head now. “Okay, you run with your gut. I passed what you sent me to Remmie, who’s promised to read it in the next couple of weeks, but I think she’ll get to it earlier, what with all the press this story is going to generate. So the sooner we get this going, the better.”
Remmie Franklin, Nikki’s editor, worked for Knox Publishing, an independent publisher in New York.
“Hey, slow down. Look, I’m glad you’re all over this, but it’ll take time to write the book.” She jaywalked across the street and said, “I’m hoping to put it together as the story unfolds, of course, but it’s going to be months.”
“Don’t know if you have months. I gotta be honest here; I hear the sound of computer keyboards clicking all over the country even as we speak. Authors frantically putting together the Blondell O’Henry story. Publishers willing to pay for ghostwriters so she can put her name on her story, an autobiography. There’s bound to be some shirttail relative hoping to cash in on this. People are desperate to sell anything to a publisher, you know, and a story like this . . . guaranteed best-seller, if the timing is right. We have to work fast. If we come in late and the market is already flooded with Blondell O’Henry ideas or unauthorized biographies, then we’re in trouble.”
“I can only do what I can do.”
“Well, at least you’ve got an inside scoop,” Ina agreed. “Friendship with the victim, your uncle being the accused’s attorney. The cabin where the crime took place on property owned by your family. Yeah, we’ve got the upper hand on this one. So far. As soon as I hear from Remmie, I’ll let you know, but I’m assuming we’ve got the green light. See,” she said, a lilt in her voice, “I knew if you dug deep, you’d come up with the right story!”
Nikki didn’t argue, even though she hadn’t really “come up” with the story idea; it had fallen into her lap. She glanced over her shoulder. No Effie. Good. She must’ve veered off somewhere.
“And it doesn’t hurt that you’re engaged to a detective working on the case. The more personal connections you have to Blondell O’Henry, the better.” Nikki didn’t put up her usual argument. They’d been through it before. “So, you said in your e-mail that you were going to the prison to interview Ms. O’Henry. How’d that go?”
“It didn’t.”
“No?”
“So far I’ve been roadblocked.”
“Too bad. You’ll need to talk to her, see what she thinks now, after all these years. Has she altered her story? Had a change of heart? There’s no reason for me to speculate, of course. It won’t do any good. You know what you’re doing, so just run with it, and I’ll get back to you the minute, and I mean the minute, I hear from Remmie, but I think we’ve got a winner here!”
“Good!”
“And trust me, if I don’t get a call soon, I’ll nudge again. Meanwhile you keep working! Talk later!”
Nikki dropped her phone into the pocket of her jacket and kept walking, sipping her drink, her mind lost in the story she was going to write. Ina was right, she needed something more than what any author could offer, something deeper about Blondell’s daughter.
The wind nearer the river seemed more brittle, the air a few degrees colder, and as she stared across the steel-colored water, she watched a container ship as it chugged up the narrow channel. For a second she got that same unnerving sense that someone was watching her, but as she took another swallow from her cup, she glanced over her shoulder and saw no one who looked out of place, no one who reminded her of the tall figure she’d seen in the park—and now, thankfully, no Effie Savoy anywhere near. Her nerves were still strung tight, that’s all it was, and reading about the O’Henry case hadn’t helped calm her. Thinking of Amity and the horror she’d suffered only added to Nikki’s anxiety.
Her gaze followed a couple walking into a restaurant, and she told herself she was being silly. Again. And it was getting old. She’d never been one of those mousey women afraid of their own shadow, and she certainly wasn’t going to start now.
Nikki’s cell phone jangled again, and as she fished it out of her pocket, she saw her mother’s number flash across the small screen. “Hey, Mom,” she said as she waited for a pedestrian light to change. “What’s up?” she asked, but she had a pretty good idea of what was to come.
“I got a call from Ariella this afternoon,” Charlene said, confirming Nikki’s guess. “There seems to be some problem with the photographer, something about double-booking. Anyway she wants you to call her and straighten it out. You might have to hire someone else.”
The light changed, and Nikki, not the least bit interested in her wedding at the moment, said, “I thought we had a contract with Jacques.”
“I know, but there was a mistake on the photographer’s end, and something has to be done. The wedding is only six weeks away, you know.”
Inwardly Nikki groaned. How often had Charlene reminded her that her nuptials were soon approaching? As if she didn’t know the date.
“There also seems to be an issue with the chairs for the reception, or the slipcovers. I think they can’t get enough of the off-white ones, and to have some white and some ivory would look odd, I think. Also, I know we need to talk about the seating. Ten at a table just won’t work—”
“Mom!” Nikki said, hearing the little tremor in Charlene’s voice over the sound of street traffic and the sigh of the wind. “Look, I’m working right now. Can’t Ariella figure it out? Isn’t that why we hired a wedding planner?”
“But she can’t get hold of you, and these decisions have to be made. By you. Soon. You’re the bride.”
“I know.” This is why she’d wanted a simpl
e wedding, just family, but that idea had been squelched, not intentionally, but just as the guest list had grown, so had the event, and her frail mother had actually seemed healthier and stronger now that she had a purpose, that of marrying off her daughter. “Look, I’ll call her as soon as I’m off work,” Nikki promised.
“I’ll let her know. Five, then.”
“Mom, you know I don’t work regular office hours. I’ve got a major story I’m working on!”
“That Blondell O’Henry business, yes, I know.” There it was, the underlying tone of disapproval in her mother’s voice—if not of Nikki’s chosen profession, then of the woman who had been convicted of murdering her own daughter. Charlene had never minced words when it came to Blondell O’Henry.
“Just let Ariella know that I’m busy and not purposely avoiding her. I’ll call her the minute I get a second.”
“Do that, honey,” her mother reprimanded gently, her Georgian drawl a little more evident. “Remember, this is your wedding we’re talking about, the most important day of your life.” And with those words of wisdom, she’d managed to lay down the law, along with a good measure of guilt.
Great, Nikki thought as she stepped off the curb. A horn blasted. From the corner of her eye she saw motion. Quickly she jumped backward, twisting her ankle just as a black sports car sped through the intersection.
“What the hell?” she cried as the BMW sped off.
“Whoa!” a teenage boy on a skateboard said, his eyes rounding beneath the edge of his watch cap. “That dude almost hit you! Man, it was like he was trying to run you down!”
“He missed. This time,” she said, flashing a smile as she looked after the car that was racing away, windows dark, license plate smudged. An accident? Probably. Just some anxious, lead-footed idiot who hadn’t seen her or maybe even wanted to scare her as he sped through a red light. Nothing more. Nothing the least bit sinister.
Right?
But she couldn’t stop the little frisson of fear from running down her spine.