Targeted: A Ray Schiller Novel (The Ray Schiller Series Book 3)

by Marjorie Doering

  “Hugh took one out on him, too. That’s normal business practice.”

  “Sure,” Jessica said, “but Larry’s not the one who’s dead now. Besides, he might have seen getting rid of Hugh as a way to clear his path to you. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “Come on! You’ve got to be kidding. He’s a letch, but a murderer? No way.”

  “Don’t be so sure, Amy.” Jessica’s features scrunched together in the center of her face. “Holy crap. I just thought of something. I’m probably giving the bastard more credit than he deserves, but what if Larry decided to do a little multi-tasking? Suppose he killed Hugh for the money and framed you at the same time so he could come along like some kind of freaking knight on a white horse and rescue you? Hugh’s life insurance money and your undying gratitude. What a parlay.”

  “Larry’s a womanizer, I’ll give you that, Jess, but he’s not a psychopath.”

  “Okay. So even if he didn’t kill Hugh, here you are all vulnerable and stuff. Do you honestly think if you took him up on his offer, he wouldn’t use that to his advantage?”

  “Maybe he just wants to help me.”

  “Wake up, Amy. You’re so naïve.” Jessica unfastened her seatbelt and poked her head between Amy and Liz. “He’ll expect something in return, and it doesn’t take much imagination to figure out what that might be. And in case it didn’t occur to you,” she added, “the lousy bastard would probably pay the attorney fees out of the proceeds from Hugh’s insurance policy. That miserable, conniving… I can’t even think of a word awful enough to finish that sentence.”

  “Maybe Jess is right,” Liz said.

  “You’re both nuts,” Amy told her. “Anyway, Larry was in Florida when Hugh was killed.”

  “Ever hear of murder for hire?”

  Amy heaved a sigh. “Even if you could convince me he did it…or had it done…there’s no way either of you can make me believe he’d have done it with me in mind. For one thing, I’m just not that desirable.”

  “Naïve and humble,” Nicki muttered.

  “All three of you are out of your minds.”

  “Think about it,” Jessica said. “Larry and Hugh worked together, for crying out loud. It wouldn’t have been that hard for Larry to get his hands on Hugh’s house key just long enough to have a duplicate made.” She waved her finger at her. “He could’ve used the key himself or turned the key over to the guy he hired to—”

  “Stop. Enough.” Amy pressed the palm of a hand to her forehead. “Please, I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  “All right, Ames,” Nicki said. “Jess and I will get in our cars, drive away and let you have some peace and quiet…unless you’d rather have us stick around.”

  “Thanks. You’re terrific, all three of you. What I really need right now is a giant aspirin and about twelve hours of sleep.”

  “Are you all right?” Liz asked. “Really I mean.”

  “Right now, I feel numb. The possibility that I was drugged still freaks me out, but if it’s true, that should help me in court, right?”

  “It could help a lot,” Nicki said as they pulled up to the curb at Amy’s house.

  Amy leaned over and gave Liz a hug. “Thanks for playing chauffeur today. I appreciate it, Liz.”

  Opening her door, Nicki slid out. “Get some sleep. If you need anything, give me a call.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll be fine.” Amy got out and started up the walk to her empty house, dreading the loneliness, the uncertainties, and her memories of blood.

  Ray returned to the station after dropping Gail off at home after the funeral lunch. He smelled coffee and stale tobacco but no Old Spice aftershave. He did a visual check without any luck. “Hey, have any of you seen Dick around?”

  Detective Salazar clamped his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone. “He was sick as a dog. He checked out to go home about two hours ago.”

  Not surprised, Ray tossed his jacket over the back of his chair, grabbed the desk phone and punched in Waverly’s home number.

  Three rings later, he heard Phyllis Waverly’s voice. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Phyllis, it’s Ray. How’s my partner?”

  “Sick and ornery. How about you?”

  “Just ornery.” He sat down at his desk. “Listen, I’m sorry to ask, but I need to talk to Dick for a minute.”

  “Can you wait, Ray?”

  “I could, but he’ll want to hear this information today.”

  “No, no, I meant for a minute or two. Dick’s been in the bathroom for the last fifteen minutes. He’s bound to be out any time now.”

  In the distance, Waverly’s baritone voice boomed, “Geezus, Phyllis, why don’t you tell him what brand of toilet paper I’m using while you’re at it?”

  It was obvious she’d moved the phone away from her mouth, but her words came through loud and clear. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Dick, just pull up your boxers and come talk to Ray.” She’d put the phone back to her ear. “I told you he was crabby. Here, Ray, you deal with him. Say hi to Gail for me.”

  “I will.”

  “Hey, Ray,” Waverly said, “what’s up?”

  “The way you took off at the cemetery, you must be feeling really crappy.”

  “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  Ray laughed. “No, that was supposed to be concern; I don’t do puns.”

  “For which I’m eternally grateful. Anyway, I still think Phyllis laced my food with something.”

  She piped up in the background. “Don’t go giving me any ideas, wise guy. Hurry up with your call and get back into bed.”

  “Hear that? The old girl still loves me, buddy.”

  “Look, I won’t keep you long, but I want to fill you in. There were a couple of interesting developments at the funeral lunch.”

  “Are you kidding me? I leave for a few hours and… Forget it. What’s going on?”

  Keeping it to the bare essentials, Ray told him what Gail had witnessed between Amy and Bridget Conley in the restaurant restroom. The incident that followed in the parking lot led to a stunned, five-second silence from Waverly.

  “You think she’s in danger?” he asked at last.

  “Amy insists we don’t need to worry about her in-laws,” Ray told him, “but I’m not convinced. Still, they’d have to be idiots to try anything after what they pulled today. And if they headed back to Missouri, they’ll still be trekking through Iowa about now. I can tell you this much: I’ll feel a lot better once we’re sure they’ve left Minnesota.”

  “I hear ya,” Waverly said. “I’ll check out their whereabouts as soon as I get to the station in the morning.”

  Ray hesitated. “You’re coming in?”

  “Yeah, Another three or four bowls of Phyllis’s homemade chicken soup and I’ll either be dead or cured. If I’m still alive, I’ll be there.”

  Coming from what must have been a room away, Phyllis’s voice came faintly through the ear piece. “If your temperature is over a hundred and one tomorrow, don’t even think about it, Dick.”

  “I swear the woman has ears like a bat. I’ll see you tomorrow, Ray.”

  14

  Since Hugh’s funeral service that morning, the sky had steadily deepened to a more melancholy shade of gray. A fine mist had hastened her goodbyes to her friends. She’d made it as far as her living room before shedding her coat and removing her shoes.

  Numb except for the dull throbbing in her head, Amy proceeded to wander aimlessly around the first floor of the old, three-story home. Within minutes, the large rooms seemed to close in around her. Never-before-noticed shadows loitered in every corner.

  In desperate need of sleep, she considered resorting to sleeping pills. Not one to rely on pharmaceuticals, she dismissed the idea as she recalled the feeling of well-being brought on two days earlier by Nicki’s homemade hot chocolate. The powdered variety she kept tucked away in the back of a kitchen cupboard couldn’t compare to hers, but it would have to do.

  Four minu
tes later, Amy carried a steaming mug from the microwave to the living room stairway. At the sight of the gloom at the top of the landing, she flipped the light switch out of habit although she’d already discovered the light wasn’t working two days earlier. Regardless, she tried again and sighed. As she started up the steps, she tried to make light of her absurd fears. No garlic cloves or silver bullets. I hope vampires and werewolves have an aversion to hot chocolate. With each step she envisioned other terrors awaiting her on the second floor: Jason Voorhees, Freddy Krueger, Michael Myers.

  Hugh.

  Amy shuddered.

  As she passed the master bedroom, Amy clutched the mug in both hands and drifted toward the far side of the hall. Eyes averted, she hurried past. Since removing her clothing and other essentials from the room, she hadn’t set a foot inside.

  Reaching around the guestroom doorjamb, she flipped the light switch before entering. Bathed in light, the soothing pastel colors within calmed her racing heart, but outside, dusk was fast approaching, doing its best to force its way inside.

  Like fingernails drumming against the window pane, the pitter-patter of rain created a persistent tick, tick, tick like the sound of a clock counting down the remaining seconds of her life. For an instant she thought she saw Bridget Conley’s face contorted in anger on the other side of the glass. Stop it! You’re on the second floor; you’re imagining things.

  Amy stripped down to her bra and panties, downing the hot chocolate as she stood outside the closet, letting long seconds drag by. Just open the damn door! No one’s in there. She turned the knob and, like ripping off a bandage, gave it a quick yank.

  Something flashed from right to left past her face with an accompanying ‘thwack’.

  Amy jumped back with a terrified yelp. Catching her breath, she uttered an oath and picked up the dust mop lying across the doorway at her feet. Propping it more securely in a corner of the closet, her heartbeat slowed to normal and she stepped inside. Moments later she exited wearing her favorite robe, the one Hugh had berated her for buying.

  For the hundredth time, his rant played over in her head. “Flannel. You’re kidding, right? I don’t know why I’m surprised. You’ve got no fashion sense—no idea what it takes to please a man. That robe is as unsophisticated as you are. It’s tacky, but then, that suits you.”

  He’d insisted she return it; she’d refused. For the first time, she’d stood her ground, defiant in the face of his browbeating. To Amy, the blue, full-length robe with its shawl collar and satin piping became symbolic of her resilient, if bruised, spirit. She’d worn it again the night she told Hugh she wanted a divorce. Tonight, like then, it was a security blanket disguised as a robe.

  With the robe still securely wrapped around her, Amy turned off the light and climbed under the covers, the relentless tapping against the window panes unsettling her. Pulling the comforter over her head, she murmured, “It’s just the rain. That’s all it is. Just the rain.” In her mind, she recited the words like a mantra until she fell into an uneasy asleep.

  Amy awakened to an odd scratching sound. She struggled to open her eyes and turned her head toward the window where the dreary light of late afternoon filtered into the room. Still thoroughly exhausted, she realized she’d only slept for a matter of minutes.

  The strange sound returned, grating on her raw nerves.

  Despite the warmth of the comforter, the scraping noise created a chill from within. Amy focused on the window. Raindrops no longer struck the glass. The soft tick, tick, tick had been replaced by the more worrying sound.

  “What is that?” she whispered to herself.

  She heard it again and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress, her breaths becoming faster, shallower. Pulling the robe more tightly around her, she stepped into slippers as the rhythm of the sound became more persistent. If someone was trying to get into the house, she could only imagine they were trying to claw their way in.

  She looked through the window to the ground two floors below and saw nothing out of place. Making her way back along the hallway, the noise grew louder as she crept down the stairs to a window in the study. Concealing herself behind a wall, Amy peeked between the curtain and window pane.

  A man stood with his back to her, his arms moving forward and back in time with the unnerving noise. She dared to take a better look. “What in the world?” Rushing to the kitchen, she walked out the back door and hurried around the corner.

  “Ronald.” Her voice was stern—nearly a shout. “What are you doing here?”

  Startled, seventeen-year-old Ronald Retzinger looked up. “Ron,” he reminded her. “I’m raking leaves.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it needs doing.”

  “No, I mean why now?” She looked at his expressionless face and took a steadying breath. “You do know I buried my husband today, don’t you?”

  He stared at her, his eyes dark and eerily lifeless. “All the more reason for me to take care of this. He won’t be doing the yard work anymore, or anything else either.”

  The murky meaning of his remark sent a trill of uneasiness up her spine.

  “Ron…go…home.”

  “If it’s about the money, I’m not looking to get paid,” he said, leaning on the rake, “It’s no big deal.”

  Amy’s shoulders sagged under her growing frustration. “But the leaves are wet.”

  “Just keeps ’em from blowing around.” His eyes traveled down the length of her body, then back to her face.

  Amy snugged the robe more securely around her. “Ron, please leave.” To reinforce her demand, she reached out and took hold of the rake.

  His palm slid down the handle until his hand met hers. “I brought the rake with me. It’s mine.”

  Damn. Of course it was his. Hugh stored his lawn tools in the detached garage and the doors were kept locked.

  “Oh.” Amy snatched her hand away. “Sorry.”

  His face a blank slate, Ronald said, “I can come back whenever you want.” He stood there as though he expected to hear a time and day.

  Rattled by his cold stare, she looked away. “Ron, this has been an extremely difficult day for me,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s cold out here, and I’m going inside. Please, go now.”

  He shifted the rake from one hand to the other. “I’m glad he’s gone,” the boy mumbled.

  She thought she’d heard him wrong. “What?”

  “He didn’t treat you right.” His message conveyed, Retzinger pivoted on his heel and walked away.

  All of Minneapolis didn’t have enough hot chocolate to soothe Amy’s frayed nerves as she went inside and locked the door behind her. She turned on every light in her path as she made her way back to the staircase, but the growing darkness awaiting her on the second floor landing stopped her in her tracks. “You’re being ridiculous,” she told herself, but her feet remained planted firmly on the first floor.

  The living room couch suddenly looked irresistible. For her head, the colorful accent pillows propped in the corners would do. To keep her warm for the night, the intricate, ivory-colored afghan draped across the back of the couch would be perfect. Made for her by her late grandmother, Amy hoped the afghan might do double duty and shield her from her inner demons as she slept, if sleep was even possible.

  Reluctantly, Amy walked to the liquor cabinet. Her father, an alcoholic for as long as she could remember, had died in a single-car accident when she was only twelve—his blood alcohol level a staggering 0.24. Amy’s resulting arm’s-length approach to liquor left her with a low threshold to its effects, and she waded through knee-deep, self-imposed guilt as she chose a bottle from the cabinet.

  Cornelius Applejack the label said. She selected it for its pleasing, pale yellow color. The pleasant aroma, the taste of apples, vanilla and allspice surprised her. Drink in hand, she settled on the couch, sampling the beverage in slow, measured sips.

  As the alcohol began to take effect, the doorbell rang
. Even before she rose from the couch, knuckles beat a message of anger and impatience on her door. Definitely not a social call.

  “Just a second. I’m coming,” she shouted.

  From the other side, she heard a gruff, male voice. “C’mon. Open up.”

  It was a voice she knew but couldn’t place. Amy peeked through the glass and pulled the door open. Ronald Retzinger’s father looked like the adult version of his son: not tall, but trim and solid.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  Curt Retzinger stepped past her into the house like he owned it. He poked a finger at her face. “I want you to stop playing my son like a fool.”

  “What?” Amy backed away, repelled by the overwhelming odor of whiskey and Retzinger’s open hostility. “Wait a minute. I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  Over the course of two months, while Retzinger and his crew had worked on the house, he’d been standoffish, but polite. Well, civil anyway. Now, his eyes were bloodshot, his attitude aggressive. “My kid does a job, he gets paid for it. Understand?”

  “Are you talking about the raking? Look, Mr. Retzinger, I didn’t ask or want him to do that. Ron came over on his own and—”

  He jabbed his finger at her again. “You prance around over here knowing Ron can see you from our place. You give him a free peepshow and figure you can get whatever you want for nothing, right? I’m wise to you, lady.” He made ‘lady’ sound like an obscenity.

  “What?” She gritted her teeth. “First of all, keep your finger out of my face. Secondly, I do not prance around—not here or anywhere else. Thirdly, if I chose to prance around in my own house, I’d be within my rights. Furthermore, your son has no business spying on me. I’ve caught him watching from his window at night. You tell him I want that to stop. I shouldn’t have to turn off my lights or close the blinds like I’ve been doing in order to protect my privacy.” The words came boiling out of her unchecked. She had tamped down her anger, frustration and anxiety for too long. The release felt amazing.