by Penny Warner
I thought I heard the sound of an engine just before I turned the ignition, but I couldn’t make out where it was coming from. Checking my mirrors again, I scanned the road, but saw nothing. I was about to pull out when the crash came.
I thought I’d been jolted by an earthquake.
Then I realized I’d been hit!
The crash sent my MINI sailing into the deep ditch on the side of the road, dangerously close to the precipice that led to the bay. I bumped my head on the wheel—I hadn’t bothered with my seat belt for the short drive—and hit my knee on the dash. That was going to bruise.
With my head throbbing, I sat there gripping the wheel, my body wet with perspiration, my heart racing wildly, my leg aching.
Once I’d calmed myself down and took stock, I looked out the windshield, hoping to catch a glimpse of the monster that had deliberately sent my car careening off the road. But all I could make out in the foggy, semidarkness before it disappeared was the receding back of something big and white.
An SUV?
Chapter 32
PARTY PLANNING TIP #32:
Every party has its surprises. When something unexpected occurs at your event, just pretend you planned it. Guests will think you’re the most creative party planner on the planet.
My hands shook as I pulled my cell phone from my purse, causing me to bobble the phone to the floor. Damn! I needed to put a string on that thing. Searching for it in the dark, I found it underneath the brake pedal and grabbed it up. I held it as steadily as I could and tapped what I hoped was Raj’s number. The ache in my leg went into overdrive as I waited for him to answer.
Finally, a male voice said, “Hello?”
“Raj, this is Presley! I need your—”
“I’m sorry, this is Richard’s Craft Store. I think you have the wrong num—”
Shit. I clicked off before the man finished talking and punched the number above it, my fingers trembling even more. The phone rang forever before being picked up.
“Yes, Raj Reddy here—”
“Raj! Thank God! I’m—”
Raj’s voice interrupted me. “I’m out of the office at this time, but if you leave me a message, I will be calling you back. Thank you very much and have a very nice day.”
Double shit!
I dialed 911.
“Nine-one-one. Hold please.”
Hold?
I hung up.
What the hell was I going to say anyway? I think someone’s trying to kill me? I couldn’t prove it, even with my car in a ditch. I had no ID on the driver, other than the car was big and white. Maybe.
I tried Delicia, then Berk, then Brad. Where the hell were all these people? At some party I wasn’t invited to?
As my pulse slowed and my shaking eased, I realized Raj would call back. Eventually. In the meantime, the menacing SUV seemed to have disappeared. I had to get my MINI Cooper moving in case it returned for a second swipe.
I spun my wheels in the dirt for several minutes, then gave up in frustration. The car was going nowhere. I got out, putting my weight on my sore leg, and immediately tore my shin on a sharp outcropping of rock. The gash burned with pain, the ache in my leg kicked up another notch, and the throbbing in my head returned with a vengeance.
I locked the car and set out for home on foot, using my cell phone to light my way between frantic redials. The walk would take less than fifteen minutes, and I knew some short-cuts that would keep me off the main road where I was more likely to be a target. But my leg injuries wouldn’t make it easy. Still, it was better than sitting in the car. Alone. In the dark.
“There won’t be anyone around if you need help . . . in the night . . . in the dark. . . .”
Damn that Berkeley and his movie game! Pushing scenes from The Haunting away, I limped as fast as I could through deserted backstreets, black alleyways, and makeshift paths, past vacant lots, a long-abandoned gas station, and a decrepit bowling alley. Finally I cut through a dilapidated elementary school until I reached my housing development.
Cursing myself for watching too many horror movies, I sensed I was being followed, but saw nothing big or white in the foggy darkness. Still, I was certain someone had forced me into that ditch. Had Ikea’s killer figured out my plan—and decided I needed to join Ikea and Andi?
“Thank God!” I whispered, spotting my condo. In my excitement to reach the safety of my home, I tripped over a chunk of concrete left over from a recently razed building. I sank to the ground in pain, gripping my wounded leg, and wincing at my own touch, tears brimming my eyes. I could feel the warm blood ooze down my shin, between my fingers. I tried to push myself up, clinging to the thought of reaching the safety of my nearby home. Once there I could lock the door, arm myself with my big knife, and hide under the bed with the cats until morning.
With as much energy as I could muster, I pushed myself up and tested my leg. It hurt like hell every time I put weight on it. “Ow!” I said, every time I took a step. Only a few more feet and I’d be home.
I hauled myself over the low fence and headed for my end unit. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of something big and white. An SUV sat across the street from my condo.
Windows dark. Engine idling.
No CRIME SCENE CLEANER sign.
Keeping my eyes on the SUV for any sign of movement, I pulled out my keys, my hands trembling. I dropped the keys, bent over stiffly, and picked them up, nearly overcome by the pain in my leg. Hobbling on, one eye on the SUV, I jammed the house key into the lock. I yanked the door open, dragged myself inside, and gave a last glance toward the white menace.
Gone.
I shivered and slammed the door behind me, sending my scared cats flying in three directions. After bolting the lock, I shoved a chair under the knob like I’d seen a frightened Eleanor do in The Haunting.
Not that it did her any good.
What had happened to the SUV?
I flicked on every light in my condo, including the one over the oven. Next I checked to make sure the windows and backyard sliding glass door were secured. Finally, I set down my purse and called my boys, who had fled in terror.
At the sound of my soothing Here, kitty-kitty voice, they crept in, one by one. I sat down in my kitchen chair, my wounded leg outstretched, and gave them all fur massages, while I tried to slow my racing heart and catch my breath. My cats are just about as good as Ritalin for calming me down in a crisis.
Once I’d gathered my wits, I cleaned up my bloody, swollen leg with damp paper towels, dabbed it with Mercurochrome, and carefully covered the three-inch-long scrape and two-inch gash with half a box of Mickey Mouse cartoon Band-Aids. Limping over to the cats’ bowls, I filled them with food shaped like little mice, then helped myself to three Tylenol and a beer with still-trembling hands.
Pulling the video camera from my purse, I sank into the clothes-strewn couch, propped my throbbing leg on the coffee table, and switched on the recorder. I rewound the mini-tape while chugging half the beer, then restarted it, bracing myself for the footage. Holding the viewer up close, I watched for clues to the identity of the person holding the camera. Nothing. Just poorly framed shots of the couple doing their thing. Funny how sex can be so wonderful in person, and so silly-looking when you’re a third-party voyeur.
I was about to turn off the tape when the camera zoomed in close on Ikea. Naked, she sported only a delicate necklace I hadn’t noticed before. The camera jiggled, and I lost sight of the necklace. A few minutes later, it came into view again. In fact, it seemed as if the person holding the camera was trying to feature it: a tiny silver triangle.
Where had I seen that before?
I remembered Berk’s copy of the party tape I had yet to see, and leaned over to retrieve it from my purse, trying to avoid moving my leg. I removed Ikea’s tape and popped in Berk’s tape, also micro. After another long sip of beer, I switched on the PLAY button.
Berk had apparently videotaped “the whole parade,” as he called it
. He’d started with footage at the barracks, where we were preparing for the wedding party—Delicia working on decorations, Raj surveying a map of Alcatraz, Rocco arranging his chocolate birds, and me running my fingers through my hair and shaking my head, mumbling something unintelligible. There were also several more shots of me chugging champagne.
I rewound to Rocco and slowed down the video to watch him work. As Berk panned the kitchen, I saw no sign of poison vials or toxic containers anywhere. I fast-forwarded through the rest of the preparations, then slowed it again as the guests arrived—Dakota, the admiral, Cruz—and briefly Miss Marple, aka Andi’s party sidekick. I slowed the tape again as Mayor Green and Ikea, aka Bonnie and Clyde, stepped from the ferry onto the Alcatraz dock.
From their body language, it appeared that Ikea and Mayor Green were having an argument. Odd. I hadn’t noticed that before. They’d certainly tried to keep it private. I couldn’t hear their hushed words, thanks to the background noise of the water, the ferry, and the foghorn, but their knitted brows and unsmiling lips told the story.
So Ikea was already upset by the time she’d arrived at the party. Was she still bothered about her costume? Or was it something else?
The videotape missed the tram ride, but picked up again as the couple entered the cellblock building. I could hardly believe this was the same couple. By the time they arrived, the mayor had a full-on grin, obviously expecting a joyful reaction from his future bride. And Ikea had pasted on her public smile.
But as soon as Ikea took in the scene and realized what was happening, her mouth dropped open. Her confusion quickly turned to anger, evident in Berk’s close-up of her face. When he pulled back, I caught a glimpse of Chloe, glancing around. Probably looking for a way off the island.
Then Berk swung his camera toward the door, catching Ikea as she stormed out. He focused on a close-up of the mayor’s grimacing face just before he bolted out after the runaway bride-to-be. A pan of the crowd showed half a dozen others following him out the door, their backs to the camera.
I watched the video a while longer, hoping to see something in the faces of the other guests that might indicate an intent to feed Ikea poisoned chocolate. Although he had done his best, Berk never focused on any one person for long. It was just a blur of guests enjoying the loud music, gourmet snacks, and plentiful bubbly.
When the mayor finally returned, Berk was there to capture the unfolding drama. As he panned the room full of partyers, I tried to make out some familiar faces, but there was no sign of my new list of suspects—Stadelhofer, Cruz, or Dakota Hunter. And Siouxie was long gone.
Or was she?
Berk shot a close-up of the grieving mayor. Someone was patting his back in an effort to comfort him. I recognized Chloe’s fingernails, painted black to match her outfit. She turned around and waved off the camera. Something caught my eye.
I backed up the video and reran the close-up of the mayor in slow motion, with Chloe at his side. As she turned around to face the camera, I saw it clearly this time. Around her neck she wore a small silver triangle.
I rewound the tape back to the point where Ikea entered the cellblock. Berk had not only filmed a close-up of her horrified look when she realized this was to be her wedding, he’d also captured the details of her oddly mismatched jewelry.
The gold earrings.
And a silver necklace.
I stopped the tape and stared at the necklace. The sharp tip of what looked like a triangle peeked above her neck-line, the rest of the charm hidden beneath black fabric.
The video camera suddenly clicked off by itself.
Then the lights went out throughout my condo.
My home was plunged into darkness.
A floorboard creaked.
Someone was in my home.
Whoever it was must have been waiting for me. After trying to run me off the road.
The white SUV.
The sound had come from my bedroom. I held my breath, not moving.
I had to get out of there.
I slid from the couch to the floor, dragging my aching leg, half crawling toward the front door. Another creak of a floorboard at the threshold of my bedroom stopped me cold.
The intruder was only a few feet away. But where exactly, in the dark, I couldn’t be certain.
I scrambled forward to the door on my hands and one knee. Just as I was about to reach it, I bumped into something hard. The damn chair I’d propped in front of the door. It came crashing down on my sore leg.
I cried out in pain
Shit. That was a dead giveaway of my location.
I tried to pull myself up but the chair now blocked the door. Using the chair as a crutch, I tried again to stand up, but couldn’t get my balance.
Another noise only inches behind me.
A second later something slammed into me, hitting my leg again, knocking me back to the floor.
I felt—and heard—my ankle snap from the impact. I cried out again from the searing pain.
My ankle throbbing, I dragged myself back toward the living room as silently as possible, trying not to groan with every movement. When I reached the small hall closet, I had an idea. Straining to find the knob, I finally managed to open the door, hoping to use it as a temporary shield. My leg and ankle throbbed with each heartbeat, but the adrenaline of fear kept me focused on survival.
The big question was, where was the killer?
Blindly groping in the darkness, I pulled boxes of stored party goods down from the closet shelves and heard them crash to the floor. So much for stealth. I patted the floor around me in search of anything I could use as a weapon. Feeling around in the dark, my hands touched something familiar.
Party poppers!
“I’ve got a gun!” I screamed into the black hole that was my condo.
Grasping the party popper, I found the string and pulled it.
A loud pop rang out.
I set off another and another until I ran out. Hearing shuffling nearby, I threw the exploded favors in the direction of the sound. Panicked, I felt around for something else to use as a defense.
My fingers touched a spray can, but as I grasped it, a cold, bony hand grabbed my uninjured foot. Frantically, I ripped off the cap of the spray can, aimed the nozzle toward the person yanking on my foot, and pressed the button. I heard the hiss of streaming tendrils of Silly String being released.
Pressing the spray button down until my finger ached, I emptied the can, then threw it at the killer. But before I could find any more props to use as weapons, a beam of light hit my face, blinding me.
The intruder had a flashlight.
I put up my hand to block the light and see my attacker, but I could make out only a shadowy outline.
“I think you’re out of party favors,” the voice said calmly.
I recognized it instantly.
Chloe Webster.
Chapter 33
PARTY PLANNING TIP #33:
If you find a boorish guest is monopolizing other partygoers, step in and distract her with a task, such as carving butter tabs into seashells or making radish flowers. That way she won’t ruin the event for everyone else.
Ice flowed through my veins. I stammered, “Chloe! What—?”
“Shhh, shhh.”
In the glow of a flashlight, I saw Chloe lift a finger to her lips. She was shushing me as if I were a crying baby.
“Don’t talk,” she continued. “It’s not necessary.”
“But . . . why?”
“I said shhh!” This time she said it like an overworked librarian. But instead of lifting her finger, she lifted a gun.
My heart dropped into my bladder. I may have wet my pants.
Holding the gun on me, she pulled up a kitchen chair and sat down. Resting the flashlight by her side, she raised her other hand. In it she held what looked like a Baggie, but in the dim light, I couldn’t make out the contents.
“I know you’re scared, Presley, but you need to calm down. Here.” In
the shadow of the flashlight, she looked completely different from the friendly, caring administrative assistant I thought I knew. Instead of her professional suit, she wore black slacks, a black turtleneck, and black athletic shoes. Only the silver triangular necklace caught the light now and then. While her mouth and eyes were smiling, there was no warmth behind them. She held out the bag to me. “These should make you feel better.”
I didn’t move, just sat frozen to the spot, holding my swollen, throbbing ankle. She tossed the bag at me, and I jumped. The pain in my leg increased exponentially.
Chloe picked up the flashlight and shifted the beam to the bag that now rested in my lap.
I looked down and grimaced.
Chocolates.
“Go on. Eat one. They’re good for you. Full of antioxidants. Helps prevent cancer. And chocolate gives you a natural high, you know. Makes you feel good. I think it has the same stuff that’s in Prozac. Serotonin or Valium or something.”
I stared at her. She spoke so sweetly; I think that’s what scared me the most. This was not your average sociopath.
“Chloe, why?”
“I’ll tell you what,” she said, sounding condescending. “While you eat, I’ll explain everything, okay?” She waved the flashlight, gesturing for me to get started. “That’s what you want, right? That’s what you’ve been trying so hard to find out, isn’t it?”
I nodded. I figured I’d pretend to eat the chocolates while listening to her brag about her accomplishments and her superior intelligence—classic behavior for a sociopath. Meanwhile I’d stall as long as I could.
She waved the gun at me, this time more menacingly.
I pulled a chocolate from the bag.
“Good girl.” Chloe sat back in the chair, the flashlight in one hand, the gun in the other, both resting on her thighs, but pointed in my direction. In spite of the outfit, she still gave the appearance of the perfect administrative assistant. Expensive outfit, right down to the shoes, and not a hair out of place. Maybe once she started her story, she’d forget about the chocolates. Obviously they were tainted.