Sentenced To Wed

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Sentenced To Wed Page 13

by Adrianne Lee


  “Why was she unhappy as a child?”

  Sookie waved a hand, sending her flowery scent in Livia’s direction. “I’m no psychologist, but I’d say it was anger, pure and simple.”

  “Anger?”

  “Well, of course. It’s natural, isn’t it? She lost her mother to the ravages of cancer at an impressionable age. Though Phillip didn’t agree with me, I told him watching Anne waste away like that—Anne insisted on dying at home—had to have affected the child. It was obvious to me in how possessive she was of her daddy. For a while, she’d had him all to herself. Then I came on scene. In her eyes, I committed two major sins. First, I stole her daddy, then I tried taking her mother’s place. With me in the picture, her daddy just never seemed to have time for her anymore. Plus I had a son, whom Phillip doted on.”

  Livia considered this a moment, then leaned toward Sookie. “Pardon me if this sounds insensitive, but I don’t understand how Phillip could ignore his natural daughter and ‘dote’ on an adopted child.”

  “Son,” Sookie corrected. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but one of the things my Phillip found desirable about me was my son. He’d hoped we’d have one of our own, but it wasn’t meant to be. So, he gave all his time and attention to Reese.”

  Pity for the sad and lonely and obviously unloved little girl who’d become Mark’s wife and Josh’s mother filled Livia’s chest. There were worse things, she realized, than being raised in a home overcrowded with siblings, by parents who insisted on being involved in every aspect of your life. From this moment on, Livia vowed, she would never again complain about her childhood, but count it a blessing. “Poor Wendy.”

  “Save your pity, dear.” Sookie crossed her thin legs and swung one foot, the high-heel pump dangling from her toes. “Wendy was a frustrated, manipulative witch. She particularly enjoyed exposing people’s weaknesses or sensitivities to the ridicule of others.”

  Livia sat back, startled by Sookie’s sudden lack of charity for her deceased stepdaughter. So much for speaking ill of the dead. It sounded as if she’d been the brunt of Wendy’s ridicule. Had she? Perhaps Mark and she hadn’t considered all possible motives. Perhaps someone, say Sookie, had permanently ended Wendy’s tormenting ways? “Who is the executor of Josh’s trust fund?”

  Sookie looked taken aback by the question coming as Livia had meant it to—from left field. But before she could answer, Reese came bustling in.

  “Oh, babe, dinner with the boy is off tonight. Jay just reminded me that we’re taking clients to the Sonics game and—” he broke off, checking his wristwatch “—I’ve just enough time to make a call. You and I’ll do the kiddy-dinner-thing tomorrow, okay? Set it up with Joshie and get back to me.”

  “Right.” Livia wanted to smack him for shooing them from his office, for relegating Josh to nothing more than an appointment on his busy calendar. Why did so many men always put business before family? Surely there were balances and compromises that one could make. She hated that Josh was every bit as lonely as his mother must have been. Mark and she were all he had. And if they didn’t figure out who killed his mommy soon, he would only have one of them at the end of this. “I’ll leave you a message after I’ve spoken with him.”

  Livia followed Sookie out into the foyer, catching up with her at the door. “About Josh’s trust fund…?”

  “How should I know, dear?” Sookie gave a dismissive wave of her long, sharp, glossy red nails. “I don’t keep track of those things. Flowers and fashions, those are my passions.”

  With that she swept out to her car, as brilliant as a fiery sun moving toward the horizon, flaming the afternoon a fireball red.

  “So,” Ali said, startling Livia. She was leaning on the edge of her desk, long legs crossed at the ankles, short skirt hiked inches above her shapely knees. “Is that gorgeous hunk of a chef available? I didn’t see a wedding ring or anything, but then some men don’t wear them.”

  Livia twisted her engagement ring, totally understanding that some rings were only for show. “He’s a widower.”

  “Recent?”

  “No. A few years now.”

  Ali’s dark eyes lit at that. “Steady girlfriend or anything?”

  This was a complication Mark and Livia could ill afford. She decided to quell it before it got out of hand. She eyed the curvaceous brunette pointedly. “He prefers small blondes.”

  Ali’s eyebrow arched as she returned the same pointed look. “And how do you know that?”

  Heat climbed Livia’s face. “He, uh, mentioned it.”

  “Oh?” Ali sucked on her pinkie nail, a little-girl gesture. But there was nothing innocent in her big brown eyes, a look that conveyed she could change any man’s taste in women given the opportunity.

  Livia was not about to give her that option, not with Mark. “There is a woman in his life at the moment and from what he’s said, it’s pretty serious.”

  “Too bad.” Ali sighed. “He’s the most interesting thing I’ve seen in ages.”

  Jay-Ray strolled up to Ali’s desk and dropped a file folder. “Five to ten you’re talking about me.”

  The admiring glance Ali gave him was as good as an affirmation, but she added, “Who else?”

  “Ah, I knew it,” he said.

  His grin was teasing, but Livia suspected he was serious. Jay-Ray lacked nothing in the ego department. He might be a model given his height, his short, bleached hair, his boyish good looks. Unlike Reese, who exuded a bottled energy, Jay-Ray was aged whiskey, smooth, slow, with a deceptive bite. He had a lazy gaze that made a woman feel important, attractive—including the lovely Ali who needed only to look in a mirror if she wanted confirmation of her beauty.

  But he was, also, a man who paid attention to detail, who played the odds and often won.

  Livia wondered if his love for gambling made him someone to connect to the money trail. Had he had access to Wendy’s trust fund? To Josh’s?

  “Jay, who’s executor of Josh’s trust fund?” Livia blurted.

  From the corner of her eye she saw Ali’s mouth round. Jay-Ray started to speak, but Reese appeared, caught his arm and said, “Hey, let’s get going. We’ll miss the tip-off.”

  As though Livia hadn’t spoken, the men strode past her, Reese slowing only long enough to peck the air near her cheek. Jay-Ray was rattling off the basketball stats of one of the Sonics’ players to Reese as the door shut behind them.

  Livia turned to Ali. “I don’t suppose you know who the executor is to Josh’s trust fund?”

  “None of my business, sorry,” Ali said, implying it was also none of hers.

  Livia glanced out the window and saw that Reese and Jay had left in separate cars. She’d thought they were going together.

  Ali said, “Looks like I can close up here and call it a day, too.”

  “I guess I’ll go round up my caterer.”

  “I’m going to lock the front door, so you’ll have to have Hank let you out through the warehouse.”

  “Sure.” Livia went around the corner and into the hallway. She waited, pressed against a wall, her heart skipping too fast, her palms damp. The hum of the computers silenced, lights dimmed, then the front door closed and the sound of locks being engaged reached her.

  Livia waited two full minutes, then crept back to the lobby and saw Ali driving away. Her departure sent a heavy quiet echoing through the offices. Livia slipped on her sheepskin-lined jacket, trying to stave off the creepy, shivery sensation that she needed to hurry.

  She turned her attention to the receptionist’s work area, to the row of cream-colored metal filing cabinets and found them locked. Each and every drawer. Where would Ali keep the keys? Frustrated, she spun to the desk. The computer monitor was dark, reflecting her own pale face back at her. She looked like the criminal she was.

  No. Don’t go there. Don’t start feeling guilty about snooping. It might be dishonest, but it was necessary. Deadly necessary. She gripped the handle on the desk drawer. Locked. Damn, wh
at did that woman do—take the keys home at night? Livia growled under her breath.

  Outside she heard the rumble of an automobile. She dipped below the desk, peering over it. Cars paraded past in a mass exit, and she realized the warehouse crew was also leaving for the day. She blew out a breath. Mark and she would have the whole place to themselves, could pry at their leisure. Knowing he’d be with her at any second warmed Livia. She not only missed him, but could use his help.

  She glanced at the computer again, her attention so focused on the task at hand, she failed to notice the dark sedan pulling past the front of the building and moving toward the warehouse.

  But the driver saw her.

  Chapter Twelve

  PEEKING DUCK

  Duck

  Peek

  Duck

  Pique

  In the low glow of the night lights, Livia stared at Ali’s computer, wondering whether or not she could find something pertinent on it. She recalled Ali had said Josh’s trust fund was none of her business—which probably meant there was nothing about it on this computer. Even if there was, could she—given her limited techno skills—find it?

  Not likely.

  Besides, what if activating the computer after hours set off a silent alarm or alerted Ali in some way? She thought about calling her brother Chad, the techno geek, then decided he was already asking too many questions about this whole thing. Had already caused the killer to know they were on the hunt to prove Ethan Marshall’s innocence. She couldn’t risk involving Chad further. But damn it all, why hadn’t she paid more attention to the mini crash courses on the feeding and care of computers he kept shoving at her? That made her smile. Self-recriminations at this point were…well, pointless.

  She glanced at her watch. What was keeping Mark?

  She headed into the hallway again, deciding to try a search of Reese’s desk and files. But his office door was closed. Locked. As was Jay-Ray’s. Frustration filled her belly and tightened a band around her head. This was ridiculous. How had she thought she’d be able to snoop into anything private here? She should have figured out a way instead to steal keys from the suspects.

  She’d better go round up Mark.

  She followed the hall to the end and shoved through the double doors into the warehouse. The ceiling was two stories high with row upon row of twelve-feet-high shelves stacked with food, everything from dried apricots to canned zucchini. It was even more eerily quiet than the office area, darker, too. “Mark?”

  He didn’t answer and she called louder, then listened. Nothing but the low hum of the cooling system used for the refrigerators and giant freezer. Still, her own voice seemed to echo hollowly off the racks of food and the slap of her shoes seemed clamorous against the concrete floor.

  She yelled, “Mark!”

  No answer. Her muscles tensed. Something like the scrape of a heavy cardboard box being moved reached her from the end of the building. He was here, he just couldn’t hear her. She hurried toward the sound, vaguely aware that the hourglass was warming between her breasts. “Mark, where are you?”

  Although she’d shouted again, he still didn’t answer. Had something happened to him? The thought sent her heart racing. She chided herself to stay calm, not to jump to conclusions. If he wasn’t in the warehouse, he was out in the van waiting for her.

  But she didn’t believe that for a second. He wouldn’t leave her in here alone. So where was he?

  With caution, she moved near the giant walk-in freezer. A large metal ice chest was propped against the open door, bright light and frosted air spilling out. “Mark, are you in there?”

  The hourglass grew so hot it felt like a match held to her chest. Warning her. Mark. Her mouth dried. Oh, God, something had happened to Mark. She knew it. Felt it. Suddenly felt danger all around her. She stopped and glanced around for a weapon. An open box of half-gallon juice cans stood on a shelf near her head. She grabbed one. It was huge and heavy in her small hands, but she was strong and could hit a target dead-center with a rock. This was bigger than any rock she’d ever thrown, but she figured she’d hit whomever threatened her.

  Unless that person had a gun.

  She crept to the freezer, took a deep breath and stepped into the opening, nerves taut, can readied, expecting anything. The cold air swept over her, and the sudden shift from near-dark to floodlight-brightness blinded Livia as if someone had snapped a camera flash in her eyes. “Mark?”

  As her focus returned, the hourglass vibrated, and Livia tightened her grip on the can. She moved carefully into the freezer. It was deep and wide and lined with shelves of frozen, boxed foods, alphabetically categorized. She stole down the first aisle and into the second, numb to the chill, heated by the fear searing along her flesh like flames on an oil slick.

  She cleared the second aisle and started into the third, then stopped short of tripping over a frozen leg of lamb, its plastic covering drenched in something as red and thick as ketchup. She bent and touched a finger to the red goo. It smelled salty, acridly tinny. Blood.

  Her pulse beat in her throat. She rushed into the next aisle and gasped, “Mark!”

  The can dropped from her grip at the sight of him sprawled on the gelid concrete, his hair wet at the crown of his head, blood pooled on the floor. She rushed to him. Oh, God, was he dead? His lips. They were blue. “No, no, please.”

  She touched his neck, found a pulse, and released a heavy breath. Thank God, he was alive. But the wound on his head looked deep. She touched the area near it and realized the blood was sticky, tacky. She doubted it had congealed though, just stopped because of the below-freezing temperature in here. The cold had likely saved him from bleeding to death. “Mark? Mark?”

  He didn’t respond. She had to get help. She took off her coat and spread it over him. “I’ll be right back, darling.”

  She darted for the door. But as she reached it, it slammed, inches short of smacking her nose. Livia screamed and stumbled back. Her chest heaved, the cold air burning into her lungs. She tasted her own fear, felt her knees go weak with terror. Wendy’s murderer was on the other side of the door, had locked them in here to freeze to death.

  No. Shot to death. That was how one of them would die. Not like this. Not locked in a freezer. Not both of them together. She inhaled several deep breaths, finally calming. Only then did it strike her that she’d changed the allotted time by falling in love with Mark. What else might that have changed? The mode of death?

  No. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, let Mark die. She had to get him to a hospital. From somewhere deep in herself she found a courage she didn’t know she had, and forced her rubbery legs to move. She grabbed the door handle. Locked.

  For a split second she felt relieved at not having to face the killer. But the sensation fled. She had no idea how quickly it would occur, but she knew if they didn’t get out of here and soon, they would succumb to hypothermia. She hugged herself against the waves of cold already penetrating her thin sweater and tried to think.

  A groan from within the freezer brought her spinning around. Mark. She ran to him. He moaned again and his eyes cracked open. She knelt and touched his face. “Careful there. You took quite a slam to the noggin.”

  “What?” He started to roll onto his back, a hand groping for his head. His face was scrunched in pain.

  “Someone whacked you on the head with a frozen leg of lamb.”

  “Hurts like hell.”

  “I’m afraid it split your scalp open. I have to take you to an emergency room. I think you need stitches.”

  “No hospitals.”

  “A doctor then. You might have a concussion.”

  “No. No doctors. Just get me someplace warm.” He tried to sit up, seemed to reel and she caught his arm.

  “I wish I could. But whoever struck you has locked us in here.”

  He frowned as though trying to grasp what she’d said. Then he shook his head and winced. “No. That’s not right.”

  “It’s not?” She
helped him to a sitting position. “Believe me, we are locked in. By the time help arrives we’ll be matching Popsicles.”

  “No. A safety override.” He grunted, shook off her jacket and attempted to stand. He got as far as his knees and swayed back and forth a moment, then stood with her help. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

  He staggered through the aisles. Livia snatched up her jacket and put it on, following right behind him, ready to grab him if she had to. He stopped at the door, eyeing the area around its frame. He spoke haltingly, “Nowadays…freezers come equipped…with safety releases…”

  “In case someone is unlucky enough to find themselves in our situation?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You mean, we can open the door from inside?” Hope mixed with terror. What if the killer was still out there? In the warehouse? Waiting for them?

  “The lever should be…ah, here it is.” He gave the pull latch a tug, tilting over with the exertion. The lock release clicked and the door gave, darkness bordering the edges, but not swinging wide as it should have. Mark eyed it with leeriness, putting himself between Livia and the gap.

  She caught his arm. “Mark, don’t. The killer might still be here.”

  “Maybe so, but we can’t stay in this icebox any longer.” He was shivering; so was she. But Livia wasn’t sure it was the cold causing her chills. Mark put his shoulder to the door and it moved another quarter inch, accompanied by a scraping sound. “Something’s lodged against it.”

  “The ice chest, probably.” She added her strength to his. The door inched wider. One more shove and they had it open enough to squeeze through.

  “Stay here,” Mark whispered. “Until I’m sure it’s safe.”

  Her heart banged against her ribs. No way was she staying behind, leaving him to face whoever waited on the other side of the door. He began easing gingerly through the opening. Livia followed as though they were connected at the sleeve and pant leg, matching his every sideways step. Wisely, Mark didn’t try to stop her.

 

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