Killer Kisses

by Sharon Buchbinder

  “What can I do for you?”

  Rather than detracting from his good looks, the scar added to his rugged appeal. A sudden urge to reach over and trace the path of its smooth whiteness nearly overcame her. Instead, she unbuttoned the top of her coat, pulled off her knit hat, and brushed strands of hair out of her eyes.

  What was wrong with her? She felt like a high school cheerleader with a major crush on the star quarterback.

  “You were right," he said. "Bob is a registered sex offender.”

  She allowed herself to gloat—just a little. “I’d say ‘I told you so,’ but I’m too busy trying to understand why they hired a creep like that.”

  “Seems Louise Carson was short-handed, in a rush to fill the position, and skipped the criminal background check,” he said. “Which explains why she called her boss before giving Bob first aid.”

  “Told you so. Sorry. I could help that, but decided not to."

  Harrington smirked.

  She was a sucker for men with dimples. A tingling sensation emanated from a region of her anatomy that hadn’t been excited in years. Her inner cheerleader shouted: “Not dead yet!” Her rational, sane self said: Sit down and shut up!

  “Erin’s not off the hook. Detectives are coming up from Long Island tomorrow with her father. Any chance you’d be willing to sit in on the interview with her? With your background as a CASA, you’re the perfect choice to be her advocate, help her feel safe. I bet you’re a pit bull when it comes to advocating for your kids, beating people up until you get what the child needs.”

  Sandra stared at him, shocked by his laser accurate assessment of her personality and work style. “Who have you been talking to?”

  He gave nothing up. “Consider it a good deed and say yes.”

  “Hmmm.” She took a moment to consider. “That would mean you’d be indebted to me, right? I might need a favor from the local PD, just in case I punch Louise Carson in the face the next time she talks down to me.”

  Harrington laughed. “Getting an assault charge dropped might be beyond the scope of my duties. How about dinner instead?”

  Her stomach flip-flopped while her inner cheerleader performed an intricate tuck and roll.

  “Why, Chief, for all you know, I could be a serial killer.”

  “I’ll be sure to carry my sidearm. Here’s your stop. Watch your step.”

  A tall, handsome, and funny guy had just asked her out for dinner. Lake Placid was suddenly looking better and better.

  ~*~

  A wall of framed diplomas attested to Allison, ‘call me Allie’, Johnson’s education in counseling.

  “After what you've told me, and based on today’s battery of tests," Allie said, “my professional assessment is that you need extensive talk-based therapy and good, old-fashioned pampering. Lucky you saw our ad and called. Tell me about you and Jim.”

  Allie was half Sandra’s age. Would she understand why she’d put up with his wanderlust for so many years when Sandra wasn’t sure she understood it herself?

  “If it was just about sex, I could have dealt with it. He’s had plenty of affairs. After a month or so, he’d get tired of his latest fling and come back to me. But this woman is different. He’s been with her almost six months. And now I know why: she’s pregnant.”

  “How does that make you feel?”

  “Depressed and humiliated. Like I let us both down. He’s ten years older than me and wanted children. I wanted to be a mother, but I’ve had four miscarriages. I can’t carry a baby to term. Seeing her so pregnant with his child—well, it was the final straw. He’s gone for good. For the past ten years, I’ve deluded myself that we had a good marriage. I guess you could say I’ve bottomed out.”

  Allie nodded. “Understandable. But, what do you want to do with the rest of your life?”

  The question caught Sandra off-guard. “I hadn’t even thought past this afternoon’s manicure and pedicure.”

  “Can you consider this a time to regroup and work on a plan?” Allie tapped a pen against her milk chocolate-colored cheek. “Today’s Wednesday. Let’s get together again on Monday. Is that okay? You’ll have time to get a massage, maybe a seaweed wrap and facial. The plastic surgeon comes on Fridays to do Botox injections and implant assessments. I see Louise made an appointment for you.”

  “You know what?”

  Allie looked up from her notes. “What?”

  “I’m going to hold off on injections and surgery for a while,” Sandra said. “If I don’t know what I’m doing with my life, what difference does it make what I look like?”

  “All right." Allie nodded in understanding. “You’re a pretty woman. You don’t need all that stuff. Just don’t tell anyone I said so. Management likes us to push services.” She shrugged and rolled her eyes. “It is a for-profit clinic, after all.”

  Sandra walked back to her lodging, admiring the converted cure cottages along the paths. Long open porches spoke to the genteel days of old, when locals opened their homes to men, women and children suffering from Tuberculosis who came to the Adirondacks, hoping for a cure. They spent months, sometimes years, living on the porches, eating nourishing meals, allowing fresh mountain air and sunshine to heal their bodies. The Cure Center was built on the local history of spas and sanatoriums, only on a cash or credit card, no-insurance-accepted basis.

  She paused for a moment, took a deep breath of the biting cold air, and considered Allie’s question. What was she going to do now? She couldn’t bring herself to hate Jim. True, the humiliation of seeing him with his pregnant mistress ripped a big hole in her self-esteem. Her volunteer work with CASA, looking out for other people’s kids, had been satisfying—but hadn’t assuaged the grief over her inability to have children. Perhaps she’d been blind to Jim’s sorrow and greater need. She was jealous he’d have a baby to enjoy, and saddened that she would never be a mother.

  Picking up the pace, she decided she'd pitied herself long enough. No more self-delusions. She and Jim had been friends and co-workers over the last years, but the love needed to sustain the relationship had long been extinguished—and both were culpable. Her priority now was to figure out how to make a fresh start.

  ~* ~

  The next day when the Long Island detectives arrived, everyone crowded into an overheated conference room in main building of the spa.

  “Ms. Blake, nice to meetcha. I’m Tom Jones. This here’s my partner, Vic Martinez.” The Long Island police officer bore no resemblance to the popular Welsh singer. With his build and pure Bronx accent, Jones looked like a former football player. His partner nodded, but didn’t say a word.

  Erin continued to cling to Sandra’s arm, but pulled back when her step-father, a weasel-faced man named Webster, tried to kiss her cheek.

  Louise’s eyes flicked back and forth between the detectives, Chief Harrington, and Webster. “Ms. Blake, we don’t need you here during this interview.”

  “Yes. I demand that you leave,” Webster said waving Sandra away. “This is a private matter.”

  “Okay.” Standing with some difficulty, she peeled Erin’s hand from her arm, then headed for the doorway.

  With a shriek, Erin threw herself at Sandra.

  “What the hell have you done to my step-daughter?”

  Sandra turned and glared at the man. Harrington gave her shoulder a light squeeze. Suddenly she didn't feel so alone.

  “As I said before, Mr. Webster,” Harrington replied, “Erin has bonded with Ms. Blake. If you want to determine who killed your wife, you’d best let her stay.”

  “Very well, then. She can stay, but that woman.” He pointed to Louise. “Has no need to be here.”

  Sandra wondered why the three cops were allowing this weasel to run the show. Was this a set-up?

  The nurse marched from the room, slamming the door behind her.

  “Officers, let’s proceed,” Webster said. “I’m wasting time, and time is money.”

  Jones started off. “Let’s begin with
the night in question. Please tell us what happened.”

  “I’ve already been through this a hundred times,” Webster whined.

  Jones pulled out his notepad and pen. “I know, but not with your step-daughter present.”

  Webster sighed. “I’d been out to dinner with some clients. My wife had a migraine and couldn’t come with me. When I arrived home, the first thing I noticed was that our front entrance lights were out. I thought it was odd, because we always leave them on. After I pulled my car into the garage, I saw those lights were out too, and I began to get concerned." He took a deep breath. "I noticed the door to the kitchen was damaged—there were marks around the doorknob, like someone had used a screwdriver to open the door.”

  Erin dug all ten fingers into Sandra’s arm.

  “I ran into the house, calling my wife’s name—‘Rose! Where are you? Are you okay? Rose!’ No answer. I found my wife on the floor of the study, a fireplace poker next to her. Her face was broken—like a porcelain doll—and covered in blood. She took a few breaths as she lay in my arms. I called 9-1-1, but by the time they arrived, she was gone. My beautiful Rose was dead, killed by an intruder. I think I must have surprised him, and he took off when he heard my car.”

  He pulled a crisp white handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow.

  Staring at Webster, Martinez asked, “Where was Erin during all this?”

  “She wasn’t my concern at that moment,” Webster snapped. “I needed to attend to my wife.”

  “Your thirteen year-old step-daughter may have been in danger, possibly raped, possibly kidnapped by an intruder whom you say killed your wife." Martinez leaned down to get into the weasel’s personal space. “Weren’t you worried about her whereabouts?”

  “I wasn’t thinking about anything but my wife, and the fact that she was dying.” He pursed his lips and stared at the girl. “I’m sorry, Erin. I should have looked for you sooner.”

  The girl buried her face into Sandra’s shoulder and dug her fingers deeper into her arm. Her little body shook so hard that Sandra began to shudder, too.

  Martinez plowed ahead. “Weren’t you, in fact, in the middle of making arrangements to send Erin away to a boarding school for the emotionally disturbed? Weren’t you and your wife fighting almost nightly about this?”

  Erin started to grunt in a rising scale of notes. “Unh, unh, unh, unh!”

  Webster clenched and unclenched his hands with each grunt. “Have you no mercy? She’s just lost her mother. Now you’re coming after me. You’re upsetting her!”

  “One more question, Mr. Webster,” Martinez said. “We’ve been doing a little research. Seems your wife has no other living relatives. Who becomes the beneficiary of her estate if Erin is declared incompetent?”

  Webster glared at him. “What the hell is going on here?”

  “We checked with the restaurant.” Martinez again, put his face close to Webster's, nearly nose-to-nose. “They confirmed you left at half past ten. Your 9-1-1 call was logged in at five minutes before midnight. The restaurant is only ten miles from your house. What took you so long to get home?”

  Webster looked close to losing it. Red-faced and sweating profusely, he roared, “I thought we were here to see if Erin could assist in the investigation. You obviously have a different agenda. I’m done here. You can speak to my lawyer."

  Erin continued to sob and grunt, while Sandra wondered if she’d ever be able to peel the girl off her arm. Putting together the pieces of what she’d just witnessed, she said, “You guys think Webster killed Erin’s mother for her money. You wanted to see what she would do while you interviewed him. Am I right?”

  “Bingo,” Harrington said. “This young lady is the key to the case—if she could talk.”

  “Don’t you think you took a huge risk she’d be driven further into her shell?”

  “That’s why you’re here,” Harrington said.

  “I can be her advocate, but I’m not a shrink.” A queasy feeling came over her. “I’m worried about leaving Erin alone now. Webster is pissed enough to try something."

  “Don’t worry.” Harrington gave the Long Island cops a meaningful glance. “We’ve got an undercover cop to watch over her when you have other things to do.”

  “Then, gentlemen, if you don’t mind, my best girlfriend needs to get some food and rest. Maybe Erin will eat some of those little chocolates.” Sandra moved toward the girl’s suite with Erin still attached to her arm.

  “I owe you,” Harrington said when she passed him.

  Sandra nodded and replied, “You bet your ass.”

  ~*~

  “Where are we going?” Sandra asked as she climbed into Harrington’s beat-up, non-LPPD Ford Explorer on Friday evening.

  “Call me Doug, please. We have reservations at a quaint little place called The Veranda. If it was good enough for President Clinton, it’s good enough for us.”

  “Are you sure Erin will be safe? I don’t trust Louise to protect anyone but herself,” Sandra turned in her seat to look back at the cottage. “On second thought, maybe I should go back.”

  “Relax. She’s covered.”

  “Don’t you ever get upset?”

  “The last time I got upset was two years ago, when my wife left me. She claimed I was married to my job, not her. She never understood that a police chief—especially on a tiny force—is always on call. She remarried a younger guy, a nine-to-fiver, who comes home every night for dinner.”

  “Oh.” She settled back to enjoy the scenery as he drove around Mirror Lake to the restaurant. Snow-covered pines blazed with red, pink, and purple tones from the setting sun. She made out the trails of cross-country skiers in the wide-open spaces. The road wound around the lake, which was frozen in pristine beauty and unmarred by the sound of snowmobiles.

  When Doug broke the silence, his voice gave Sandra a little frisson of anticipation. “In the daylight, there’s a pretty view from the deck. You’ll have to take my word for it tonight.”

  “I’ll use my imagination.”

  A fireplace blazed in the restored wood and high-beamed Adirondack manor, filling the intimate dining room with warmth. Conscious of Harrington’s physical proximity with each bump of his knee under the small table, Sandra perused the menu while hoping the butterflies in her stomach would eventually cease the downhill slalom course they'd been taking for the past hour.

  “You a meat eater?"

  “Love it.”

  He ordered for both of them: A Chateaubriand for two, accompanied perfectly by a bottle of Merlot.

  As they speculated about what would happen to Erin, she realized that his knee was resting on hers—and that it felt natural. Where had he been all her life? How had she missed him that fateful day in 1980? Or had he not been in Lake Placid then?

  She glanced around and noted they were the last two people in the dining room. A fleeting vision of making love to him in front of the roaring fireplace danced through her mind. She started to suggest they should think about leaving and caught him staring at her left hand. “Something wrong?”

  “You tell me. Why didn’t you mention your husband is Big Jim Radcliff?”

  Sandra froze, the fantasies about bedding him coming to a screeching halt. She felt a rush of heat into her face; her ears burned with anger as she glared at him. “Why is that any of your business?”

  “Let me see.” He tilted his head and put his finger to his chin in a pose of mock puzzlement. “You arrive in the middle of a series of unusual events. You become a mother-bear for a girl involved in a murder investigation. And, it just so happens you’re a CASA. I’m a cop. You do the math, as you told me once. I made some phone calls, to see if you were legit and not some wacko.”

  Sandra lowered her eyes and stared at her bare left hand.

  “As of this week, he and I are through. Long story short: I caught him in our office with another woman. Another pregnant woman.” She let the statement hang out there for a few moments before l
ooking up to catch his gaze. “I’m over forty, have had multiple miscarriages. My husband never kept his pants zipped, but as long as he kept coming home, I pretended we were okay. He’s not coming home anymore.”

  Hot tears filled her eyes. She was not going to cry. She tossed back the rest of her wine and thumped the glass down on the table.

  He grabbed her hand. “I’m sorry. I’ve met so many women who come up here for the spa, get Botoxed, and conveniently forget they’re married. I was afraid you might be one of them. I like a woman with a few gray hairs and laugh lines.”

  Sandra wasn’t sure if he’d just complimented—or insulted her. “Are you saying I look like I need Botox?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant!” He motioned the server for the check.

  Maybe this date wasn’t such a good idea. Here she was rushing into another relationship, and she wasn’t even legally separated, much less divorced.

  The ride back to the cottage was frigid, and not only from the temperature. He pulled the car next to the curb. “Let me walk you to the door.”

  “I’m fine, thank you.” She pushed the door open to cut off further conversation.

  “God, you’re hard-headed.”

  Screams cut the air. Sandra bolted out of the car only to fall on the icy walkway. Harrington pulled her to her feet before they raced up the stairs. More screams came from the back of the cottage. They ran toward the sounds and slammed into a locked door.

  Harrington pulled his revolver, pushed Sandra away from the door, and flattened himself against the wall. “Police. Open up.”

  He kicked in the door; Sandra raced in behind him. Strapped to a table, Erin struggled and kicked at Louise’s attempts to restrain her feet. A man in a white coat stood at the head of the table, holding a paddle over Erin’s head.

  “I said shock her, God Dammit!” Webster shouted from the corner of the room.

  “Nobody move!”