Dead Ringer

by Sarah Fox

  Susannah and I only made it up one stair before McAllister’s weight became too much for us. The three of us crumpled down into a heap, struggling to draw in cool fresh air between harsh coughs.

  “Is there anyone else inside?”

  I looked up at the firemen looming above us. “Not sure,” I croaked.

  A male voice shouted out orders and several firefighters raced past us. Another fixed an oxygen mask over McAllister’s face as an ambulance turned onto the street, cutting its siren.

  The next few minutes passed in a daze, but I was aware enough to notice that they felt like an eerie repeat of the scene that followed the previous fire. Someone helped me up the steps and away from the building. I sat down on the curb, leafy tree branches above me providing some shelter from the pouring rain. A female paramedic checked me over just as before, but this time tended to my arm rather than my hand.

  “It’s not bad enough to need stitches,” the paramedic said as she cleaned the cut on my upper arm, “but I’ll put a bandage on it for you.”

  I nodded, aware of her words and the pain in my arm but far more focused on what was happening around me. An ambulance pulled away from the crowd of emergency vehicles, carrying Reverend McAllister off to the hospital. At almost the same time, police officers arrived on the scene. A ­couple of them set to work herding the growing crowd of onlookers back from the church property and others conferred with firefighters.

  A commotion at the front of the church drew my attention. A fireman held a hysterical Cindy McAllister by the arm. As he led her down the steps, past the hoses and away from the church, she screamed and clawed at his arm.

  “My husband’s still in there! You have to help him!”

  I jumped up from my spot on the curb, startling the paramedic as she finished bandaging my arm, and marched toward Cindy.

  “Your husband’s on the way to the hospital,” I corrected her.

  Her eyes widened at the sight of me. Fear flashed across her face but it was quickly replaced by fury. “You!”

  She spat the word out, and I was glad I was far enough away to avoid her spittle. The distance between us was good for another reason. Her face contorted with rage, Cindy lunged at me. I leapt backward, out of her reach. She lurched toward me again, her fingernails ready to rake down my face.

  Cindy’s fireman escort grabbed her from behind. “Ma’am, I need you to calm down.”

  She struggled against his strong grip, her screams wild and high-­pitched.

  Three police officers ran over to help the fireman. Even when surrounded, Cindy continued to flail and fight, her angry eyes locked on me.

  My heart jumped around in my throat as the police officers pushed the reverend’s wife to the ground and cuffed her hands behind her back. Finally, the fight seemed to go out of her and she sagged into the wet grass, her body shaking with sobs.

  Two of the police officers pulled her to her feet and the third stepped in my direction.

  “Are you all right?” he asked me.

  I nodded, unable to take my eyes off the sorry, sopping wet figure that was Cindy McAllister. “She started the fire.” My voice was rough and I paused to ward off a bout of coughing. “She tied up Susannah and me and knocked out her husband.”

  The policeman looked at me with an odd expression. “And why would she do that?”

  I hugged myself, only then realizing that I was soaking wet and chilled to the bone. “She’s a murderer.” My words came out heavy with exhaustion. “I think I need to speak to Detective Bachman or Detective Salnikova. They’ll want to know about this right away.”

  I reached for my purse, only to discover that I didn’t have it. “My purse is inside still. And Cindy McAllister took my phone.” I didn’t mean to sound as upset as I did, but the events of the past hour had caught up with me. “All my identification . . . And how will I call the detectives? Can I get my phone back?” I swiveled around to watch the other two police officers escort Cindy toward one of the parked cruisers.

  “Hold on a moment,” the officer at my side said in a calming voice. “If she’s got your phone, we’ll make sure it gets back to you. As for your other belongings, we’ll have to wait and see if they’ve survived the fire.”

  I closed my eyes in disappointment. I knew he was right, but I didn’t like the thought of having to replace my credit cards and identification. At least I hadn’t had a whole lot of cash in my wallet.

  I opened my eyes and tried to focus on what was most important. “And the detectives?” I gestured in Cindy’s direction as an officer guided her into the backseat of the cruiser. “She’s done far more than cause a ruckus on the church lawn, you know.”

  “I’ll get in touch with the detectives for you.”

  I hugged myself again. Rain still pelted down from the sky, soaking my clothes and plastering my hair against my head. My arm felt as though it had a knife—­or a letter opener—­stuck into it, and my recently healed throat was scratchy and sore.

  All I wanted to do was go home, or at least to JT’s house. With Cindy safely in custody I could go back to my apartment, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to be without company right away. It was a moot point anyway. I needed to speak to the detectives before I could go anywhere.

  Another thought struck me.

  “My students.” I put a hand to my head and groaned. “I really need my phone,” I said to the police officer. “My violin students will start showing up at my studio. I need to cancel their lessons, and all my students’ contact information is in my phone.”

  The officer nodded with understanding, and I noted that he had kind brown eyes. He probably wasn’t much older than I was. “Why don’t you go take shelter under a tree,” he suggested. “I’ll see what I can do about your phone.”

  “Thank you.”

  As the officer walked off toward the cruiser where Cindy was sequestered, I wandered back toward my spot at the curb. Susannah wasn’t far off. She stood huddled under one of the many large trees lining the street. She was crying, and a female police officer had her arm around her. I considered going over to help comfort her until a familiar voice called my name.

  “Dori!”

  Relief whooshed over me, and I rushed over to JT and hugged him. He returned the hug and a sharp pain shot through my injured arm. I yelped and jumped back.

  “You’re hurt? What happened? Not another fire?”

  The worry in his eyes was touching.

  “I’ve got a cut on my arm. Nothing serious. And yes, there was another fire. Deliberately set.”

  “Dori, this is like some weird déjà vu experience. What the hell is going on?”

  Déjà vu was right. But this was an experience I definitely could have done without repeating. “When I came looking for Susannah, the McAllisters snatched me. I think Cindy must have used Susannah’s phone to lure me here, or forced her to text me, because they already had her tied up. After the reverend tied me up too, Cindy whacked him on the head with a frying pan and set the fire. She meant for us all to burn to death.”

  JT ran a hand through his damp hair. “Are you saying she’s the murderer?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. And an arsonist twice over. She’s also the one who trashed my apartment.”

  “And she even wanted to kill her husband?” JT sounded incredulous.

  I couldn’t blame him. It was a lot to take in. “Yes. She doesn’t seem too fond of him, and I think he figured out that she was the one who stole the money from the church.”

  “So the whole gambling thing was relevant after all?”

  “More than relevant. It’s what set her off down the slippery slope to her crazy crime spree.” I leaned against him, careful to spare my injured arm. “I’m glad you’re here, JT.”

  He put an arm around my shoulder, and I closed my eyes, listening to the comforting beat of
his heart. When I reopened them, I spotted the brown-­eyed police officer heading in our direction with what looked like my phone in his hand.

  “I have a feeling this is going to be a long, long day,” I said to JT, still leaning against him.

  He gave my shoulder a squeeze. “No matter how long it is, I’m right here with you.”

  I tilted my head back so he could see my grateful smile.

  Even though I’d been the target of attempted murder more than once over the past week, I considered myself lucky. Lucky to be alive, and lucky to have a friend like JT.

  Chapter 26

  TWO DAYS LATER my life had regained some normalcy. I was back to teaching my students, and the following week the orchestra would return to our usual rehearsal space at the Abrams Center. I no longer had any reason to return to the church, and I planned to stay well away from it. Even if the McAllisters were no longer there, I didn’t need to stir up any unpleasant memories. If I ever had the urge to attend a church ser­vice, I’d do so elsewhere.

  I’d heard through Detective Salnikova that the reverend had suffered a minor concussion as a result of getting hit with the frying pan, but he was otherwise fine. Physically, at any rate. He was still in a whole lot of trouble, even though Susannah’s video had only been shared with the police. The fact that he’d be going to jail for his involvement in his wife’s crimes was enough to lose him his position with the church.

  With Cindy McAllister locked away awaiting trial, I had moved back to my apartment. The burn on my hand had healed enough that it no longer bothered me, and I could play my violin without pain. The cut on my arm had mended, and the smoke-­induced scratchiness in my throat had all but disappeared.

  Even though I was no longer camped out at JT’s house, I stuck around after my last student of the day left the studio. It was Friday evening, and JT and I had plans.

  After a delivery boy brought pizza to the front door, JT and I got comfortable on his couch with drinks and food. Finnegan settled on the floor between us, his brown eyes keeping a sharp lookout for any bits of food that might drop to his level.

  “How was your day?” JT asked as he passed me a can of root beer.

  I popped the top. “Blissfully without incident.”

  “You mean you managed to stay out of trouble?”

  I elbowed him in the ribs and nearly spilled my root beer. I took a long sip and swallowed the delicious, fizzy liquid. “I’ll have you know that I was instrumental in solving several crimes. If not for me, the police would still be looking for the killer.”

  “True. But you scared me half to death, you know that? I got worried when you didn’t answer my texts or phone calls, and when I got to the church and saw all the commotion . . .”

  “I know. The whole thing scared me too. But it’s over now.”

  “And Susannah?”

  I selected a piece of pepperoni pizza and took an experimental bite. It was hot. “I talked to her last night. She’s upset, of course. Did you know that Cindy lured her to the church with a text from my phone?”

  “How did she manage that?”

  “She must have used my phone when I left it in her office while I talked to her sister-­in-­law. Sneaky woman. I had no clue. She also sent Susannah a threatening e-­mail.” I paused to blow on my pizza. “I think Susannah’s a strong kid though, despite her tendency to cry a lot.”

  “What about Ray? He didn’t have anything to do with the murder in the end?”

  “Nope. But he did break into Jeremy’s basement suite. Apparently he was hoping to recover some marijuana he’d sold to Jeremy the day before his death. So he could resell it to someone else, I guess.”

  JT picked up a piece of pizza. “And you’re doing all right now?” His eyes watched me carefully.

  “I did have a nightmare last night,” I admitted. “But I’ll be okay. I’m looking forward to getting back into my regular routine. Teaching, rehearsals, hanging out. No fires, no crazy murderers.” I tested my pizza again. It was cool enough to eat, so I took a bite.

  “Speaking of rehearsals,” JT said, “how are things between you and Clausen?”

  I chewed and swallowed. “I think it’ll be okay. Maybe a little awkward at times, but okay.”

  “You’re not going to turn him in for lying about his previous job?”

  I shook my head. I’d thought about that over the last ­couple of days. I didn’t want to cause a kerfuffle in the orchestra, and even if I no longer held Hans in the highest esteem personally, he was a good conductor. And I wasn’t vindictive. If someone found out down the line, maybe he’d be in trouble, but I didn’t want to be the one to stir things up.

  In fact, there was only one thing I wanted to do right at the moment.

  “Let’s get this marathon started.”

  JT popped open his can of root beer. “Where do you want to start tonight?”

  “Right at the beginning.”

  He picked up the remote and cued The X-­Files pilot.

  I settled deeper into the couch cushions and smiled with contentment.

  Life was good.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Nicole Bates, Sarah Blair, and Sarah Henning for being such amazing critique partners and such great friends. Sincere thanks also to my agent, Jessica Faust, for believing in Dead Ringer and for finding it a home, and to my editor at Harper­Collins, Rebecca Lucash, for her enthusiasm and guidance.

  About the Author

  SARAH FOX was born and raised in Vancouver, British Columbia, where she developed a love for mysteries at a young age. When not writing novels or working as a legal writer, she is often reading her way through a stack of books or spending time outdoors with her English Springer Spaniel.

  www.facebook.com/authorsarahfox

  www.witnessimpulse.com

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  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEAD RINGER. Copyright © 2015 by Sarah Fox. All rights reserved under International and Pan-­American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-­book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-­engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of Harper­Collins e-­books.

  EPub Edition JUNE 2015 ISBN: 9780062413024

  Print Edition ISBN: 9780062413031

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