by Norma Lehr
“Okay. It does sound interesting and I’m clearly not getting any sleep tonight.” She slung Renee’s bag over her shoulder and followed Jan down a small flight of steps. It was a witching hour to be looking for stuff in the archives, but she tagged along. Jan felt for a light switch and clicked it on. It was still dim, but bright enough to see their way.
Jan pointed to the right, where the upper half of one wall had been replaced with a substantial wire barrier. “That’s the bone yard. Take a peek.”
A rectangular area the size of two large bedrooms housed vintage slot machines, heavy silver monsters lined up side by side, an entire army of one-arm bandits.
Abby peered through the wire. “Good grief! There must be at least fifty slots in there. Do they have plans for a future museum?”
Jan shrugged and bounced the beam of her flashlight around the room. “Cool idea! I’ll pass that one on to the manager. Picture it. Mannequins made up to look like the old celebrities, modeling costumes stored down the hall. Come on. This next place will really boggle your mind.” She turned, and they scurried along another three hundred feet of curving, narrow hallway before Jan came to an abrupt halt in front of a solid wood door. She dug keys from her pocket, She selected a brass one and shoved it into the lock. The door swung open. Jan reached back and, with extraordinary force, grabbed Abby’s shoulder and pushed her inside. The door slammed shut.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
“Shut up and move!” She prodded Abby’s back with something hard, forcing her to move on in front of her.
Where the hell were they? She started to whirl around and face her, but Jan prodded her harder this time in the ribs. Was it a flashlight or, Abby shuddered, a gun? It felt heavier and sharper than a flashlight. Had Jan lost her mind? “I don’t know what you think you’re doing.”
“I said, shut up.” Her voice carried a hint of steel. “You had to get into it. Now you’ve ruined everything.”
Ruined what? The show could still go on as planned. Hadn’t she made that clear? Blythe and Gail would never guess that Jan wasn’t truly a Toppette. Abducting her like this had to be about something else. A deception much more sinister.
Musty. Damp smell. Earthy. Darkness around her—thick, almost tangible. Abby sniffed back her fear. She’d been forced through the celebrity entrance and into the tunnel. No costumes here.
Jan prodded her along. Halfway up on either side of the narrow passage, a brick barrier supported mounds of packed dirt. Abby peered ahead to a glimmer of light from a single bulb dangling from a water pipe twined with heavy electrical wires and spider webs. To her right was a steep carpeted stairway. These had to be the stairs to the lobby entrance. At another painful prod from Jan, she reluctantly moved past the steps but plotted on how to get back here and out of this mess. Felt like a gun poking her back. Jan could be bluffing. If that were true, Abby planned to overpower her, race up those steps, and pound on the door, hollering for help. If she cried out now, and Jan had a gun, she might get shot.
They were moving down the sloping tunnel floor when Pow! Jan buckled Abby’s knees from behind. Abby, dazed, staggered back and landed on the dirt floor. She tried to stand, but Jan slammed her back against the bricks. Abby hit her head then sagged against the wall, gasping for breath. Moments before she blacked out, she saw Jan reach for Renee’s tote and scatter her belongings across the floor.
When she came to, she was down on her knees, resting on her ankles, her hands bound behind her. Jan had used Renee’s tights to tether her wrists, stretching and attaching the ends to a sloping overhead pipe. Abby’s mouth had been stuffed with a sock, held in place with Renee’s thick headband. She lifted her pounding head. Through blurred vision, she took stock of the situation. No sign of a gun anywhere. Only her cell phone smashed to pieces in the dirt.
Jan reached across to a makeshift mantle set up on the bricks. A draped scarf cushioned burning candles. She grabbed a Ziploc bag, shook out a vial, and brandished a syringe like a weapon.
Abby’s heart surged to her throat. She watched in horror as Jan raised the vial to the flame while she pulled the plunger and filled the syringe with a deadly dose. “You want to end up like Melanie? Scream and you’ve had it.” She rotated the syringe between her fingers.
Abby couldn’t scream if she tried. Jan had her gagged, and shock had paralyzed her vocal cords. Jan, the killer. Abby choked back the bizarre image.
Jan removed the headband and pulled out the sock. Abby waited, thinking maybe Jan had second thoughts about keeping her hostage. No such luck.
“Where’s Renee?” Abby croaked. “What have you done with her?”
Jan didn’t bother to reply. “If you scream, you’re aced. Got it?” She motioned with her head. “Not that anyone would hear you down here with all the casino noise up there.”
Aced. She’d cut out the letters on that threatening note herself to mask her identity. She must have arranged for the sound boom to crash on stage. Those were well thought out steps to keep Fromer off her trail. Somehow Dana had suspected Jan long before the pinned note or the crashing sound boom. Dana’s handwritten words came back to haunt her. “Dancing on a dangerous stage.”
Abby’s hands were bound, but she watched for an opening to use her legs and feet. Although she was tethered to the pipe, she hoped the tights would stretch enough to let her move a foot or two. Trying not to draw attention, she wiggled one foot then the other to keep her calf muscles from cramping. Renee’s flat-heeled tap shoe had been scattered out of her tote with the rest of her workout gear and now lay on its side close to Abby’s knee. The metal heel tap mirrored the light from the flickering candles, and Abby spotted the sharp loose edge. The heeltap with the missing screw. The timing had to be right. One false move on her part and a needle jab from Jan would be all she wrote.
Jan sat down on the dirt floor across from Abby and crossed her legs. “Abby, Abby, Abby,” she drawled with mock concern. “Why did you have to snoop around like your friend, Dana? Now you’ve ruined the line for tonight’s performance. Whatever shall we do?” She smiled in a sick contorted way. “If Renee doesn’t show, there’ll be only two dancers left. Can they carry the line?” She gave a fatalistic shrug and widened her eyes. “I don’t think so. You know what that means, don’t you? I’ll have to dance. Me. Can you believe it?” She laughed wildly, stood up, and twirled like a ballerina, holding the deadly syringe high in the air like some grotesque dance prop.
Abby found the courage to speak. She kept her voice low and tried to sound calm. “So, you planned this show to kill Melanie?”
“You’ve got that right, genius. Put a gold star on that dancer’s door.” She hesitated, and her face became stony. “She had to die. She killed my mother.”
Abby gasped. “Killed her, how?”
“She might as well have pulled the trigger. She shattered her dreams. Can you believe it? That selfish bitch emotionally battered that talented, beautiful lady—a former homecoming queen—into believing she didn’t have what it took to make it on Broadway. She tore down her self-esteem by ridiculing her. Making up lies. What a piece of work! Ever since they were kids, that lead-footed hoofer used her when she needed help, then disposed of her after Mother’s talent proved to be superior.”
Abby’s mind raced. Timing was critical. Her only chance out of here was to keep Jan talking while she figured out what to do. “Was your mother a Toppette?
“Well, yeah-ah.” She glared accusingly at Abby. “You danced with her. Gwen Sparks.”
Gwen Sparks! The name leapt out at her—Gwendolyn, the name on Vince’s painting. Abby drew a deep breath. She nodded slowly. “Sure, I remember. Your mother not only danced, but she had a beautiful voice. Some of us encouraged her to pursue a career in musical theater.”
Jan fixed her with an icy stare. “Oh, she tried.” Her voice rose to a high pitch. “She tried so hard, but the Toppettes’ management frowned on dancers doing outside projects, so she ran to auditions between performances on the Q
T. Until ...” Jan made a theatrical sweep with her hand, “Melanie jumped at the chance to get rid of her. She reported her to the director.” Her voice lowered. “Gwen Sparks was replaced.”
“I didn’t know. There were rumors she got a part in a Broadway musical and left the troupe.”
“No, no!” she said bitterly. “All bogus. Melanie spread those lies. Gwen would have made it, but after she got fired, she had to find work. She had a child to support. Me. A two-year-old. Then she got pregnant with Vince. The rest is history.”
“Where was your father?”
Jan gave a hollow laugh. “Old ‘distant dad’? He stuck around for a while, freeloading off Mother’s tips, then left. Who knows where?”
“Melanie knew of Gwen’s hardship and didn’t try to help?”
“Nope! Not Ms. Mars, and Gwen was her cousin, for God’s sake. You can’t guess how many times I heard that story growing up. All those years. All the tears shed. You know what? It had to end here. The planet needed to have that vicious bitch removed. My plan finally came together when she won the lottery!” She stood and reached for the tabloid on the mantel and shook it. “Look at this picture. She’s holding a six-foot check for millions in one hand and her roll-on pain reliever in the other. She made it so easy. A quick switch of her roll-on for the poisoned one that morning and voilà!”
This woman was clearly unhinged. “All of that happened in New York so long ago. Why now?”
“To punish the one responsible,” Jan replied simply. Her eyes took on a faraway look. “Do you know what it’s like to grow up with a depressed mother? A mom who kills herself because of unfulfilled dreams? Well, we do.” She stomped her foot on the dirt floor. “I was seventeen at the time. From then on I had to take care of myself and Vince.” She looked up at the ceiling, as if trying to recall a distant memory.
Abby drew a deep breath. “Does Vince know what you’ve done?”
Jan rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. Her eyes flickered almost imperceptibly. “Motor mouth? Of course not. He adjusted that boom and made sure it dropped because I convinced him I needed that stunt for publicity. Nope. This is my production. I’m the director.” She grew silent.
If Vince wasn’t involved, Abby thought, then Jan must have murdered Dana. She was certainly strong enough to smash her skull. Shivers tightened her scalp and raced along her spine. “You followed Dana to the beach that morning.”
“Don’t give me that shocked face.” Jan came out of her dark reverie. “Dana had to go. She figured things out when she and Vince had their little chat that evening, and he blabbed that I was his sister. She recognized his last name and asked if he was related to Gwen. Vince just had to brag and let it out—after I’d warned him not to—that his mother had been a Toppette. Dana was the only one here who knew Gwen was Melanie’s cousin. She knew what Melanie had done.
Abby suddenly realized her blouse was soaked in sweat even though the room was cool and clammy. Two dancers had already been killed, and now she sat across from the woman who planned to kill her. Could she talk Jan into letting her go? No chance. Jan’s hatred was too deep and convoluted, and Abby knew way too much.
“I’m feeling sad, Abby. Really I am. I like you. If only you and Dana had kept your noses out of it.” She slumped one shoulder. “This wasn’t on my schedule.” She tapped the tabloid paper. “Oh, well. Too late now.”
She carefully replaced the paper on the mantle with the scarf and the candles—the altar she had created, a memorial to Gwen, hidden down here where she could light candles and plot her revenge.
Abby studied Jan’s profile in the flickering candlelight. Now that she knew about her mother, she could see the family resemblance.
Jan removed a clipping, yellowed and crinkled from age, and read it, then reread it out loud. Gwendolyn Sparks’ obituary. After each sentence, Jan paused and rattled on about how she and Vince and Gwen were all three victims of Melanie Mars, starting way back during Gwen’s years in kindergarten. She would pace awhile, stop, locate the place in the obituary where she left off, and continue on, lost in a world long past.
As Jan paced, Abby worked to free her hands. The tights made strong cord when stretched, but they did give. She managed to get her right thumb out and worked that thumb to release the other. Using her nail, she dug deeply, scraping the skin from her knuckles as she worked the tights down. Her hands felt wet and sticky, and she knew her fingers were bleeding.
Jan turned her back to her. One more fierce tug and the tights slipped over her fingers. She scraped up loose dirt from the edge of the floor with one hand and grabbed the flat tap shoe with the other. She scrambled to her feet as Jan whirled around, fury flashing in her dark eyes. Abby threw the dirt in those eyes, swung her arm back, and, with tremendous force, lunged at her with the heel of the tap shoe, slicing the metal edge across Jan’s cheek and creating a gash from her eye to her chin. Blood poured down Jan’s face. She screamed—a piercing sound—and cradled her cheek.
Abby bolted for the steps leading to the casino. Jan’s feet pounded behind her.
She scaled the steps to reach the top, where she frantically tugged at the handle, hammering on the door with all her strength.
Jan grabbed her from behind and pulled her down. They tumbled head first to the bottom. Stunned, Abby pushed Jan off her and climbed the stairs again, this time on her hands and knees. She looked back. Jan didn’t move. “Help!” she hollered, pounding with all of her might. “Someone help me!”
A hand seized her ankle. She looked down. Jan had made it up the steps, crawling on her stomach. Abby kicked back at Jan’s head while she pounded on the door.
It seemed like an eternity before the door flew open, and she was pulled from the stairs and into the bright lights of the lobby. Her vision blurred, and before she collapsed, she made out two gray forms.
Minutes later, when she opened her eyes in the Indian Room, the first thing she focused on was the stuffed cougar crouched and glaring down at her. Renee held a glass to her lips and was pleading with her to take a sip.
“Where have you been?” She pulled Renee into a hug. “We were worried.” She glanced around and her heart began racing. “Where’s Jan?” She gripped Renee’s hand and tried to stand. “Someone has to stop her, she murdered ...”
A deep voice responded. “We know. Everything’s under control.” Detective Fromer moved from where he’d been standing behind Renee. “The medics are busy working on her right now. She’s still in the tunnel. They’ll take her to Urgent Care; then we’ll book her. You put up quite a fight, Ms. Rollins, but you’re safe now. We’d feel better if you were checked out at the hospital, but the medics are leaving that up to you.”
Abby’s heartbeat leveled off and returned to a nearly normal rate. The glass doors to the Indian Room were closed, but she could see Blythe and Gail anxiously watching from the other side. “I’m okay. I’d just really like to lie down. Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“We were moving in on the killer.” Detective Fromer cleared his throat. “Thanks to Blade Garret and his contacts on the computer. But we couldn’t find any serious motive. When you’re feeling stronger, we’ll count on you to fill in the gaps.”
Abby nodded and rested her head back on the big leather chair.
“Try to get some rest. I’ll leave you ladies alone now.” Detective Fromer left through the glass doors, shaking his head ‘no,’ barring Blythe and Gail from entering.
Renee sat on the arm of the chair, still holding the glass. “Just one sip, Abby. Brandy’s good for the circulation.”
Abby frowned up at her. “Where the hell were you all night?” Her eyes welled with tears. “I thought Jan had done away with you.” Her voice lowered. “I was scared she’d killed you and dumped your body in the lake.”
Renee patted her shoulder. “It’s a long story, and I’ll tell you later when we’re alone.”
“You will not. You’ll tell me now!”
The door flew op
en and Blade rushed in, shutting the door on Blythe and Gail. He slowed down when he spotted Abby in the chair, and sauntered over. “Of all the gin joints in all the world,” he said with a Bogey lisp.
Abby managed a weak smile. Renee removed herself to another chair.
“Heard you went ballistic on the killer. Just had a look in the tunnel. They’re bringing her out now. Couldn’t find the syringe, but now Fromer got it.” He gently lifted her hand, which was crusted with dried blood. “Tough battle, huh?”
Abby stood, leaned on Blade, and with a slight limp crossed to the door. “I want to see them take her.” It chilled her to watch the pain on Vince’s face as the medics helped his sister through the sliding front doors and into the ambulance. Fromer climbed into his patrol car and the strobe lights flashed as he followed the ambulance into the night.
Chapter 21
Abby awoke and peered out through the open drapes. It was still dark outside. Had she only slept an hour or so? Before she crashed, the clock read 4:00 a.m. Now the red digits blazed 7:30 p.m. Wow! Total fade-out for more than fifteen hours.
The reality of the previous night hit her like a slap in the face. She pushed the comforter away from her chin and let out a groan as she struggled to sit. Stiff. Every joint in her body throbbed. Felt like she’d been run over by a truck or—alternatively—pulled down a flight of steps by a killer.
She switched on the table lamp. She recalled taking a hot shower in the early hours before limping over to drop into bed. It seemed like ages ago—Renee hovering, making sure she could manage on her own. She’d been able to get around by herself then, but what about now? She stood unsteadily. No choice. She had to either go to the bathroom or burst.
Inching along, grasping the side of the bed, she reached a chair, clutched the back, and straightened up. She caught sight of herself in the vanity mirror and winced. One side of her face was red and swollen while the other side had a puffy eye turning black and blue. It had been one helluva fight!