“Yes.” She agreed. “And it’s also my best friend’s life. Trista’s the only one who believed in me during this entire nightmare and I don’t want anything to happen to her.”
“Believe me, neither do I.” He hesitated a moment, waiting for her to back down, then he gave up. There wasn’t time for this. “Okay, fine. Let’s go.”
He headed for his car, and Suni followed.
TRISTA TOOK a sip of the coffee they’d stopped for at the drive-through restaurant in Barrie. The Hawthornes’ cottage was on Lake Muskoka, and the closer they got to their destination, the quieter and more anxious Sylvia became. Her hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly they’d turned white from lack of circulation. Trista could feel the tension shooting out from the other woman—it was as palpable as the coffee aroma that had settled into the luxurious sedan.
“I read in the morning paper that they’ve arrested Suni Choopra for my husband’s murder.”
“That’s right.” Trista shifted uneasily in the leather seat. There was a note of triumph in Sylvia’s tone that made her uneasy. She could understand Sylvia wanting vengeance for Daniel’s murder. But to sound so smug…
“But you don’t think she’s guilty, do you?”
Trista sighed deeply. “I have my doubts.”
“Well, you’re wrong. That woman is guilty. And she’s got to pay the price.”
Trista’s sense of discomfort grew when Sylvia turned off the main highway onto a private access road. For some reason, the isolation made her feel uncomfortable. This early in the season, many of the cottages hadn’t been reopened from the long winter hibernation. Windows were covered in blinds, watercraft safely secured in boathouses. Only the odd cottage had smoke curling from its chimney, or vehicles parked out front, giving evidence of human occupation.
Trista gripped her door handle tightly as Sylvia took a sharp turn at the end of the gravel road. They were on a smaller road now, about thirty yards long and deeply sloped, toward the lake.
Between the thick foliage of pine trees and smaller bushes, Trista could see the outline of an A-frame cottage built out of pine and stained a light honey color. A screened-in veranda protected the front entrance and would provide respite during the early spring from blood-hungry mosquitoes and black flies. About fifty yards to the left, a small white boathouse sat at the base of a long pier. A rowboat rocked gently in the water.
Sylvia parked by the cottage and turned off the engine. In the sudden silence, Trista could hear the lapping waves and the carefree song of jays as they flitted from tree to tree. As she stepped out of the car, the woodland smell of pine and grass, combined with the cleansing scent of water, cleared her head. No question, it was a beautiful setting. And the rustic style of the cottage blended beautifully with its surroundings.
Trista stretched her arms back over her head, and that was when she noticed the second vehicle. It was parked behind a small shack, some sort of utility building. In front of the shack stood an old tree stump, marked with an ax that was stuck in the center. Trista knew it was only for chopping firewood, but it gave her an eerie feeling all the same.
She was letting her imagination get to her.
Sylvia walked round from the driver’s side, pocketing her keys and shifting her purse from one hand to the other. “Come on inside,” she said. “I’ll make you some coffee.”
Trista didn’t want more coffee. She was jumpy enough already. And a new question had just occurred to her. If Nan and Lorne had committed the murder, how had they managed to get the key to her office? Neither one had been on Brenda’s list.
But Sylvia had.
Not possible, Trista tried to reassure herself. Sylvia had been talking to her, Trista, when Daniel was murdered.
But not when Jerry Walker was killed. In her mind she could picture the little chart that Morgan had drawn that night at her apartment. Sylvia had an alibi for only the first murder. So she could have done it—with a partner.
And then Nan Walker came to the door of the cottage, and Trista knew exactly who that partner had been.
“YOU’VE FINALLY made it,” Nan said. “I hope you don’t mind, Trista. Sylvia asked me to meet you down here.”
That explained the second vehicle. Trista felt Sylvia’s presence behind her, propelling her forward. After she’d stepped over the threshold, she heard Sylvia twist the dead bolt behind them. Excessive security measures for an afternoon in the country. But then, this wasn’t your average day in the country.
Although rustic in style, the cottage was far from primitive in design. The west-facing wall was almost completely glass, taking advantage of the splendid view of Lake Muskoka. Pine and hunter green upholstered furniture huddled around an enormous rock-faced chimney that went up the full two stories of the vaulted ceiling. A modern, efficient-looking kitchen was visible behind the granite slab counter that separated the dining table from the food-preparation area.
Trista looked at her two clients. Sylvia was watching her with an air of triumph, while Nan wouldn’t meet her eyes. Striving for a tone of normalcy, she attempted conversation. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”
“Actually we’ve become quite good friends.” The malevolence in Sylvia’s voice sent shivers down Trista’s spine. “After all, we have so much in common. Starting with the woman that our husbands were sleeping with.”
Not necessarily the best basis for a relationship.
“Make us some coffee, Nan,” Sylvia requested with all the charm of an army sergeant. Nan didn’t seem to mind. Obediently she walked behind the counter and began to run water from the tap.
“You can’t use that water, you imbecile!” Spit sputtered out of Sylvia’s mouth, along with the insult. “Use the stuff in the fridge, that I’ve already boiled.”
Nan nodded, but Trista saw the flash of anger in her soft, uncertain eyes.
“I see you haven’t lit a fire. It’s so cold in here.” Sylvia walked over to the hearth and started laying the kindling.
Trista watched Sylvia’s every move carefully. Just what was the older woman up to? That she had some sort of plan was obvious. Her body was practically giving off an iridescent glow, her nervous energy was so high. Nan was nervous too. And scared.
It looked bad, Trista thought. And unfortunately, her options were limited. She could make a run for the door. Maybe she’d get out before either Sylvia or Nan could stop her, despite the dead bolt. But what then? She’d noticed that all the neighboring cottages seemed to be vacant. And she didn’t stand a chance of making it to the nearest town without a car.
Sylvia’s keys were in the pocket of her slacks, and Trista had seen no sign of Nan’s. She was as trapped as she could possibly be. Unless. She eyed the black phone hanging on the wall by the kitchen counter.
“I just realized I forgot to cancel luncheon plans with a friend of mine. Do you think I could use the phone?” She moved toward the counter.
“Sorry.” Sylvia smiled placidly. “We haven’t had it reconnected for the summer yet.” She struck a match and the crumpled newspapers she’d placed in the mouth of the fireplace flamed bright orange. Soon the small cedar chips that had been tucked around the papers were crackling, too.
Trista moved toward the warmth. It was cold, and the air felt damp. What she wanted was the sunlight, warm against her back, but for now the fire would do. Or at least it would have to. “Did you want to go through the photos of Daniel now?” she asked.
Sylvia just laughed.
“But—” Trista turned to remind her of their plans—she had to keep pretending things were normal. But once she saw what Sylvia had in her hands, she knew that was no longer realistic.
Sylvia was cradling an antique revolver like a baby. “Beautiful isn’t it? It belonged to my grandfather, then my father, and now to me.” She looked up at Trista, her dark eyes bright. “It may look old, but it still works.”
“That carving looks intriguing,” Trista lied. “Could I get a closer look?�
�� She held out her hands, but Sylvia just grinned.
“You crack me up, you really do. Can I please make a phone call? Can I please hold your gun?” She mimicked Trista’s voice with a saccharine undertone. Slowly she walked toward Trista, her hands gently stroking the weapon in her hands. “My father taught me to shoot. I have a very steady aim, you know.”
“Really? I’ve never been that keen on guns.” Trista thought about Morgan’s description of the murders. The first one so precise, almost professional. The second a little more sloppy. Now she knew why. Sylvia had killed Jerry Walker. And Nan had killed Daniel Hawthorne. When she thought about it, it was ingenious, really. By killing each other’s husbands, they’d each been able to establish an airtight alibi for their own husband’s murder.
Then they’d framed the whole thing on the woman who had been having an affair with their husbands. Just for icing on the cake.
Morgan, Trista thought longingly. If only she could get word to him that she was in trouble. If he got the message she’d left earlier, he’d know she was at the Hawthorne cottage, but he had no reason to suspect she might be in danger.
“Yes, really,” Sylvia said calmly. “Which would make it very easy to kill you right now, but that’s not the way I have things planned.”
Trista’s throat was suddenly so dry it hurt to swallow. “You’re not going to kill me, Sylvia.”
“Oh yes I am.” Sylvia opened the sliding glass doors to the deck that spanned the window side of the house. “But let’s sit down for a minute first. I don’t want the coffee to get cold.”
MORGAN DROVE past the picturesque town of Bala barely noticing the river streaming through the center of town, the old stone church set in a grove of trees by the waterfall, or the quaint, tourist-attracting cafés and shops lining the highway.
“We want the Acton Island turnoff,” Suni said. She was watching the road as carefully as he was. This was not the time to make a wrong turn.
Morgan glanced at the clock. If Trista and Sylvia had started driving shortly after she left that message for him, they would have been at the cottage about half an hour ago. He didn’t want to think about the possibilities that amount of time could provide. Did Trista know she was in danger? Exactly what plan had Sylvia and Nan cooked up?
If anything happened to Trista it would be his fault. True, he’d warned her to keep out of police business. But if he hadn’t made the mistake about Suni, she wouldn’t have felt she had to investigate on her own.
The only reason he’d stayed on this case was to protect Trista. If she was hurt, or worse, he knew he’d blame himself forever.
He wasn’t ever going to stop loving Trista. She was his wife, dammit, he didn’t care what the lousy divorce papers said.
And all this crap about building a new life and going their separate ways. He didn’t think she really believed it. She was just hiding. For some reason, she couldn’t admit what it was she really wanted from life. But he wasn’t going to let her get away with that kind of hiding anymore.
Morgan cursed as he advanced on a slow-moving farm vehicle. Steady traffic from the opposite direction made it impossible for him to pass. He slapped on his siren, and within seconds the rickety half-ton truck had pulled to the shoulder and he resumed speed.
“There’s the sign,” Suni said, pointing ahead.
He nodded. “How much farther from here?”
“At least another ten minutes.”
Ten bloody more minutes. He glanced at the clock once more. Hang on, Trista. I’m coming.
SHE DIDN’T WANT TO DIE. Most people don’t, but for Trista the realization was a revelation. Because after Andrew’s death, she’d always thought it would be the perfect solution. Now that it was facing her—in the form of a gun held by a woman who had killed, and who would kill again—she found the prospect terrifying.
Sitting at the patio table with the two women who had been her clients and who she now knew to be murderers, Trista could feel her every nerve screaming out in protest against this fate. The very beauty of their surroundings made it seem all too absurd. Yet there was the gun, gleaming in the sunlight beside Sylvia’s cup and saucer. And there was the woman whose crow-black eyes promised death.
I want to live. Trista could feel the longing and the need expanding within her, soaking up positive energy the way a bag of peat moss soaks up moisture. She wanted to fling off her clothes and swim naked in the glittering blue water of the lake. She wanted to pick the berries that would soon be growing on those bushes by the rocks. And most of all she wanted the chance to tell Morgan that she loved him. The chance to make him happy. To walk hand in hand, to cuddle while watching a movie, to make love under the stars and between freshly washed sheets, and anywhere else it might occur to them.
“More coffee?” Nan asked her. She was presiding over the table like the mistress of the house. Or maybe the servant.
Trista could see that whatever her plans, Sylvia hadn’t shared them with Nan. Nan looked almost as apprehensive as Trista felt, and her eyes kept pulling back to the gun in morbid fascination.
Trista shook her head to the offer of more coffee, then turned to Sylvia. “What I don’t understand is, where was the satisfaction? I do see why you had to kill each other’s husbands, so you could have your own alibi, but if it was revenge you were after, wouldn’t it have been more fulfilling to pull the trigger and watch Daniel die?”
Sylvia’s eyes glittered, like hard polished marbles. “The main thing was that they knew why they were being killed.”
“And how did they know?”
“Because we told them. Say it Nan. The way I made you practice.”
Staring at the table, Nan raised her hand, index finger pointing right at Trista’s chest. “This is from your wife,” she said, enunciating clearly, if flatly. Then she squeezed her lower three fingers tight against her palm. “Bang!”
Sylvia smiled proudly, like a mother whose child has just played the piano for company. “Enough coffee. It’s time for a boat ride, don’t you think?”
“I’ve never been that keen on boats either, Sylvia,” Trista said.
“Really?” Sylvia seemed amused. She lifted the gun, not pointing it in Trista’s direction, merely making its presence known. “But I’d like you to take a boat ride. And so would Nan. Right, Nan?”
Nan had begun to tremble. Still staring at the table, she said, “When is this going to stop, Sylvia? This wasn’t in our plan, it wasn’t part of our agreement.”
“It’s your mistakes that have made this necessary, not mine!” Sylvia snarled. “Who forgot to wear her gloves? Who blurted out a stupid comment about her husband’s gun while she was sitting in the therapist’s chair? I never did manage to find that file…” She turned to Trista. “Is that what tipped you off?”
Trista didn’t answer. Instead, she fingered the tender spot on her head that was only just beginning to heal. So it was Sylvia she had to thank for this. She might have known.
“And who couldn’t wait until the trial was over before slipping between the sheets with her new boyfriend?” Sylvia continued. “Now get out of that chair and lead the way to the dock.”
For a moment Trista knew a brief hope as Nan hesitated. Would she stand up to Sylvia, finally take a stand? She must realize by now that the woman was seriously disturbed. Didn’t Nan realize that once Trista was disposed of, she would be next?
If she did, she didn’t appear to care. Wordlessly she got up from the table to lead them down the stairs and along the dirt path to the boathouse that Trista had noticed when she’d first arrived.
A warm wind mussed Trista’s hair as they stepped away from the protection of the house. The dirt path was carpeted with needles and felt springy under her black loafers. It gave her the urge to run, to experience the joy of physical exertion and the illusion of freedom. So what if she was shot in the back? At least that way it would end quickly, and it would be a difficult scenario for Sylvia to talk her way out of.
&nbs
p; But she didn’t run.
Because there was still a chance, wasn’t there?
She couldn’t die now. She wouldn’t. As they neared the dock, Trista knew instinctively that Nan was her best hope.
“Nan,” she pleaded. “You can’t go along with this. You know it’s wrong, don’t you? You let your husband dominate you when he was alive. Now you’re in an even worse situation. You have to draw the line somewhere.”
In front of her, Nan hesitated. Immediately Sylvia barked, “Don’t listen to her, Nan. We have no choice now. Our marriage counselor is going to have a little boating accident. It’s my cottage. No one will ever make a connection between the two of you. I’ll phone the police in a couple of hours and report that my guest went for a ride and still hasn’t returned. They probably won’t find the body for months. You have nothing to worry about.”
Trista shivered at the cold heartless description. The woman was clearly psychotic. But clever. Probably the worst combination that the fates could have provided.
“How can you justify killing me, Nan?” Trista persisted. “I can understand how you felt about Jerry. He treated you badly. He didn’t love you and he was having an affair. But what have I done? I tried to help you. Is killing me something you want to have on your conscience?”
Nan stopped and slowly turned around. “She’s right, Sylvia. It would be wrong to hurt her. Let her go.”
“Are you crazy?” Sylvia raised her gun, switching it from one woman to the other, as if she couldn’t decide who to shoot first. “You let her go and we go directly to jail. How do you think your son’s going to feel when he finds out that his mother killed dear old dad? He may not have had any love to spare for the old man, but believe me, when he finds out you were behind his death…”
Trista had to give it to Sylvia. She knew how to pull Nan’s strings. Nan’s defiance melted like snow in warm rain. Wordlessly she continued to walk along the boarded dock, to where the boat was tied.
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