Chasing Venus

by Diana Dempsey

  Annie paused in the foyer, experiencing the same reaction to the Boswell/Waring home that she had the night of the book party. So this was what literary superstardom could buy. An acre on California’s coast complete with private beach, designer-decorated interiors, and views to die for. The last would not be in evidence at this hour, though Annie remembered that every room on the oceanfront side boasted enormous windows with unobstructed vistas of the Channel Islands and the Pacific.

  Charles returned to usher her into the expansive living room. Annie remembered it from the signing party: French doors that gave off onto a wide patio, several cozy sitting areas, and a fieldstone fireplace that revealed smoldering evidence of a blaze hours before. Annie sank onto a plump yellow sofa and had to fight the urge to lie down.

  “May I offer you a brandy?” He chuckled, scrutinizing her through thick eyeglass lenses. “You look as if you might need one.”

  “No, thank you.” She doubted she could keep her eyes open if she had even a sip.

  He settled across from her on a settee upholstered in brown leather, pushing aside a legal pad covered with dense script. Annie was relieved that again he chuckled. He showed no upset whatsoever at her impromptu appearance. “I can say in all honesty that you’re the last person on earth I expected to show up at my front door.”

  “I can well imagine. Again, I am so sorry for putting you out like this. I didn’t know where else to turn.”

  “As you said. Though as far as I’m concerned, you’ve come to the right place.”

  Those words were balm to her soul. She let herself relax further into the sofa cushions. “I heard you on the news the other night. Saying you thought the police were way off base focusing their investigation on me.”

  “It just goes to show how clueless they are. It’s getting to the point where I’m amazed they ever manage to crack a case.”

  “You must be so frustrated. I know it’s different than losing a spouse but I was very close to Michael Ellsworth. I won’t rest until his killer is caught. And convicted.”

  Charles looked away. “This has been unbelievably challenging for me. But we all have our burdens to bear.” He returned an assessing gaze to Annie’s face. “You know all about that now, don’t you? Now that you’ve been falsely accused. Of multiple murders, no less. And forced to run. Much like the protagonist in your first mystery. It’s very different when it’s real, isn’t it?”

  “There’s no comparison. I suppose that if I make it through this, I’ll be able to use the experience in my writing.”

  He surprised her by laughing. “Rich material, isn’t it? Very rich indeed.” His hilarity faded away almost as quickly as it had arisen. “So tell me, Annette. You said you needed my help. Exactly what kind of help do you mean?”

  This was it. The moment she had come here for. So far Charles had been remarkably open-minded where she was concerned, which buoyed her hope that, against all odds, he might actually come through for her. “I want your help to get me to Mexico,” she told him.

  “Mexico.” He leaned forward and clasped his hands, resting his forearms on his thighs. “As in the very mystery we were just discussing.”

  “I believe that if I can make it there, I’ll be safe until I can clear my name.”

  “You expect that to happen.”

  “Absolutely. Someday. I have to believe that someday the police will get their act together and find the real killer. Or that I will, from a distance.” With Reid’s help. He might not be at her side now but Annie was sure he would not abandon her cause.

  He settled back in his chair, regarded her. “You’ve had someone helping you, I take it, until tonight?”

  Annie looked away. However much she trusted Charles, she would not divulge the role Reid had played in her ability to stay underground.

  Charles spoke again. “You may not be aware of this, but there’s a great deal of speculation that Reid Gardner was sheltering you.”

  She returned her gaze to Charles. “I’m on my own now.”

  “I see.” He nodded. “I’ve had that kind of disappointment, too.”

  “Will you help me?” She couldn’t keep a pleading note from creeping into her voice. “I know it’s asking a great deal. But you want the real killer caught as much as I do, and so long as the police are focused on me they’re not really open to other possibilities. If I’m out of the picture, they will be.” Because Reid will force them to. Together he and I will find something to push Simpson in a more fruitful direction. “I believe you could sneak me past border patrol. The authorities have no reason to be suspicious of you. And then I’d be safe until this horrible situation is finally resolved.”

  “Interesting proposition.” He squinted into the distance as if giving it thought. Then he leaned further forward and tapped her knee. “Annette, I need to ponder this further and—” He chuckled again. “—it’s late enough and I’m old enough that I’d rather do that in the morning light. So what do you say to letting me sleep on it. In the meanwhile I’ll set you up in the guest house and you can get a good night’s rest. I dare say you need one.”

  It wasn’t a no. Maybe that was the most she could hope for at the moment. And she was exhausted. “That sounds fine. I’m relieved you’re willing even to consider it. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help, Charles. Despite what you said to the press, and on Facebook, part of me was afraid you might want to turn me in.”

  “That’s the last thing I want to do.” Charles rose to his feet. “Let me walk over to the guest house and make sure you’ll have everything you need. We haven’t had an overnight guest in some time.”

  Annie rose to stretch her legs, anticipating the happy moment when she would be able to stretch them out on the bed she was almost delirious imagining. Outside the huge windows, which dulled the surf’s roar, the Pacific stretched black and deep into the horizon. She perched for a moment by the fieldstone fireplace, enjoying the gentle warmth the embers still produced, then caught sight of the legal pad Charles had pushed aside to sit down. He’d probably been writing on it that evening, basking in the fire’s glow. An empty brandy snifter remained on a side table. She wandered over to the settee and glanced down at the pad, not wanting to pry but curious all the same.

  It was immediately apparent that Charles was plotting a mystery. The page was divided into six squares, each with a chapter heading, and in each square were bullet points delineating several scenes. The script was small and neat. Very little was crossed out. It bore no relation to the hectic notes she produced when she plotted out a new book.

  She heard a small noise and raised her head. Charles was watching her from across the room.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” She stepped back from the settee. “I didn’t mean to snoop.”

  “That’s all right,” he said immediately, but Annie got the idea he was annoyed.

  She distanced herself further from the settee. “I really am sorry. You’re being so kind. And I should understand better than most people that a writer’s work is for his eyes only until he shows it to someone else.”

  He arched his brows. “You consider me a writer?”

  “Well, if you’re writing, you’re a writer.”

  “Not the same as my wife, though.”

  Charles’s mood had changed somehow. He seemed edgier than before.

  Annie found herself wanting to placate him. “Well, your wife enjoyed phenomenal success but the act of writing is the same regardless.” Her voice trailed off.

  “And now you’re enjoying phenomenal success.”

  “Well, yes and no.” Given that she was on the run from a killer, her literary prowess hardly seemed to matter at the moment. “And it was hardly a smooth ride at the beginning.”

  “If I recall, a number of people thought your debut mystery was exceptional.”

  Annie noted the reference to “a number of people” did not appear to include Charles himself. “I was pleased to get some positive reviews.”

 
; “And of course you were nominated for an Edgar.”

  “Which I didn’t win.” She produced a hollow-sounding laugh.

  “Naturally Maggie won several times. Which she never let me forget.”

  Annie wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Eventually she filled the silence. “I think you’re right that we should call it a night. It is awfully late.” She pointed past him, in the direction he’d gone before. “The guest house is that way?”

  “Yes.” He seemed to snap to attention. “All right, then. I’ll show you the way.”

  The night air when they exited the main house was colder and whippier than an hour before. Annie was deeply grateful she wouldn’t be spending the night under a bush. And she was ready to have some time apart from Charles Waring. His demeanor had darkened notably after he’d spied her reading his notes. She had to wonder if she had destroyed for good the positive atmosphere she had felt earlier.

  But Charles’s voice was again friendly as he led her down a longer flagstone path to the guest house. “I did think you handled the hanging scene in your debut mystery very well. It was truly chilling.”

  “Thank you. I remember spending a lot of time trying to nail that down.” In the end, during the copy edits, her editor had killed the scene. It wasn’t consistent with the character’s behavior, she had argued. Eventually Annie had seen her point, and agreed.

  Ahead of her, Charles pushed open the front door of the guest house. It was a mini version of the main residence and, Annie could tell from the foyer, just as gorgeously decorated. He stepped back to allow her to walk past him and, entering the bedroom, Annie caught a glimpse of herself in a small oval mirror hanging on the wall. Even days later it still came as a shock seeing herself with short, spiky blond hair. It was surprising Charles hadn’t remarked on it.

  He lingered in the foyer, where he began to fidget with the double-hung window near the front door. “This’ll just take a moment,” he called to her.

  “No problem.” Annie pivoted to regard him, and stilled. Seeing him from this new angle, seeing his profile, his build, she was all at once returned to the horrors of the night before.

  It came back to her in a cold flash, the coiled rope slung over the killer’s shoulder as he broke into the cabin. I did think you handled the hanging scene in your debut mystery very well, Charles had just said. How did he even know about that? That scene never made it into the published book.

  But he had read the manuscript for her first mystery, she knew, when her editor had submitted an early version to Maggie Boswell for a cover quote she had never deigned to bestow. Annie and Charles had talked about it at a conference years before.

  Jumbled thoughts crowded into her head.

  The killer meant to hang me. That’s the murder scenario he chose for me, from my first book. That’s why he had the rope.

  And that explains why Charles didn’t react to the dyed blond hair. It’s not new to him. He’s seen it before.

  Because he’s the killer.

  And here she was in his home. Alone with him. In his home.

  He must have seen the recognition dawn in her face when he turned from the window and looked at her again, because he leapt the short distance between them with a speed Annie hadn’t imagined he could produce. He muscled her backward.

  “No!” She shouted, tried to beat him back. But he had the benefit of size and surprise, and he pushed her, hard, back against the wall, then back into an open space. She tumbled ass first onto the floor, just in time to see a door slam shut in front of her.

  Pitch blackness descended. She lurched forward, aware she was in a closet, running her hands over the inside of the door to find a knob, some way to get the door open. She heard Charles ram something against the door.

  She found the knob, twisted it, pushed. Nothing happened. Charles had rammed something under the knob and now the door was jammed shut.

  The world around her was black and cold and all was abundantly clear. Charles Waring was the killer. And she was in his hands.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  None of this felt the way Reid had imagined it would.

  He was on the 101 freeway heading east, a few miles from Encino. As was typical in Southern California, there were four lanes in each direction. At this midnight hour, unimpeded by traffic, he was well over the speed limit, pushing 80 miles an hour, keeping an eye out for the CHP.

  Not for one second of the ride had he been at ease. Oh, he was confident of his ability to bring down Bigelow when the time came. He had the advantages of surprise and obsessive motivation. The greater risk was that Reid would harm himself by gunning down the bastard once he finally had him in his sights. Even if you were one of the nation’s most popular crime fighters, the law didn’t take kindly to vigilante justice.

  Over the last five years, whenever Reid anticipated this juncture in his life, he had expected that he would feel a drive, a purposefulness, that would crowd every possible distraction from his mind. Instead he had to struggle to keep Larry “Eight Ball” Bigelow front and center. For someone else repeatedly intruded on his consciousness.

  Annie.

  He couldn’t get her out of his head. He couldn’t comprehend how he had been so cavalier with her. You will be fine. You will be safe. And I won’t be gone long ... All while she was the target of a serial killer.

  He had taken such precautions when they moved from the cabin to the motel. He had been certain, absolutely certain, that no one had followed them. If that were true, then in the immediate term Annie truly had nothing to fear. He needn’t worry about her. She’d be fine, just as he had assured her. He’d take down Bigelow, then go back to her. No harm, no foul.

  Better than that, Reid corrected himself. He would be a free man. His hunt for Bigelow would be over. He would be free to be with Annie, the way he wanted to be. He would have fulfilled his final obligation to Donna. At long last he could move on.

  Reid passed a white-on-green freeway sign that indicated his exit was a mile ahead. He made his way to the slow lane, then exited. Stopped in a line of cars halted by a red light, he caught himself looking around for an on-ramp to the westbound direction.

  His hands tapped restlessly on the steering wheel as he fought a feeling he couldn’t deny. He wanted to turn around and go back. Now. This second. Without nabbing Bigelow. How could that be? He was minutes from the lowlife. Minutes. The scumbag he’d been hunting for years.

  The scumbag who shot Donna, he reminded himself. Him. Bigelow.

  Reid didn’t doubt the worthiness of the tip. Sure, there was a chance it wouldn’t pan out. But he considered that possibility remote. That security guard was Bigelow.

  Annie. He imagined her back at the motel. Alone. Frightened. Waiting for him.

  Alone. Frightened. Waiting for him.

  Just like Donna had been. All those years ago, in the cab of his truck.

  This night reminded him of that night. Although all of the circumstances were different, in some bizarre way he couldn’t pinpoint, it had the same hallmarks. And he was doing the exact same thing now that he had done then.

  The light turned green. In front of Reid’s truck, the traffic cleared. His foot hit the gas. Within seconds he was once again on the freeway heading back in the direction he had just come.

  *

  Cowering in the dark provided Annie with ample time for reflection. She had gotten past the grotesque irony that she had put herself in the clutches of a serial murderer. She still had her voice, which she had spent some time exercising, but behind these walls, in this moneyed neighborhood where homes were laid out for maximum privacy and minimum contact with neighbors, she had little hope that anyone but her captor would hear her.

  Nor did her cell phone work. There wasn’t a single bar of coverage. It was useless to her here on the coast. Positively useless.

  Action was called for. She could not let her life end like this, in the hands of a mad man. He had slain Michael—and Seamus O’Neill and Elizab
eth Wimble and his own wife—but she would do her damnedest not to let him slay her. It was time to prove that the fearless Annie of old was back and would fight Charles Waring with whatever she had.

  Which wasn’t much.

  The closet had little in it, and what there was could not be taken in at a glance because the switch for the lone bulb was outside and hence unreachable. Annie quickly ascertained that the space was perhaps six feet wide by three deep, with a bar extending all the way across and a shelf above.

  Feeling her way around in the dark, Annie’s hands alighted upon one item and then another, finding first spare bed linens, including a blanket and pillow, then a beach bag stuffed with towels, swim goggles, a bathing cap, and a tube of sunblock. Next a handled basket, the kind one might carry to the farmer’s market. A board game. A stack of paperbacks. A small electric fan. An ironing board, and an iron. A yoga mat. In short, a variety of items house guests might find handy.

  The question was whether this particular house guest might find one useful.

  Noises outside the closet door informed Annie that Charles had returned. A paralyzing chill coursed through her. She had no idea how much time had passed. It might have been minutes; it might have been an hour. She crammed her body against the closet’s rear wall, steeling herself for the moment when Charles opened the closet door.

  Which he would have to do to kill her, unless he chose to burn down the guest house. That was a course of action she had weighed for likelihood and discarded. He wouldn’t want to have to explain a charred corpse.

  Other horrifying possibilities seemed only too imaginable. Hanging her, for one, his original plan. Or he might open the closet door only to pump a few slugs into her body. That would leave him with a grisly mess, but she supposed a serial killer might be able to find it within himself to sanitize a crime scene.

  He answered the question uppermost in her mind without her having to ask it. “I’ve come back to poison you,” he called through the closet door.

  An image of the dead curare-doped frogs unearthed from her back yard rose in Annie’s mind. She had to struggle not to retch.