TICK TOCK RUN (Romantic Mystery Suspense)

by Elliston, H

  She shook her head. Her face had drained to an ungodly pale shade, bordering on white. “I told Paul it was a joke. That the same person would probably spray shaving foam in our bed on our wedding night.”

  Under different circumstances this would have made me laugh. But not now.

  I passed Laura a box of tissues from the nightstand. She blew her nose and screwed the tissue in her fist. I rubbed her back during a brief maddening silence, while discreetly scanning the room for the white handbag of cash. I couldn’t spot it. Where’s the cash? I spoke in my softest voice. “You didn’t hand over the money while I was gone, did you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then we’ve still got a bargaining chip,” I said, brightly.

  My natural impulse was to cuddle her, but my brain began drowning through overload. I couldn’t be a comforter, a problem-solver and a detective all at once.

  I stared at her, regretting all the times in my life I’d moaned about the little things; slow drivers who hog the fast lane, irritating music when your phone call is put on hold, stepping in dog poop... These trivialities, that are so enraging at the time, pale when faced with a genuine problem. Right now, I’d have given anything to be stuck behind a lane hogger with squidgy dog poop on my shoe.

  Laura blew her nose again.

  I withdrew my hand from her back. “Laura, this has worked in our favour.”

  She rubbed her eyes and stared at me. “Did you bang your head on the way up?”

  “How many people know you, Daryl, our email addresses and Paul’s private mobile number?” I pointed my finger at the door. “I hate to say it, but the more I learn, the more I’m convinced that it is one of the people downstairs.”

  “But they’re our closest friends. Why would any of them put us through this?”

  I pointed at the carpet. “Mark’s still downstairs, you know?”

  “I know.”

  “Between one of the girls and Mark, who would you accuse?”

  She bit her lip. “Mark.”

  “I need to show you something.” I pulled my mobile from my pocket and thrust the photo of Mark hugging the sex doll towards her.

  Laura’s eyes, then mouth, sprung open, and then she froze. She looked like she’d swallowed electricity.

  “I think it’s time we showed him this,” I said, and grinned.

  Laura must have been too anaesthetized to speak.

  “Let’s turn this on its head, Laura, and see how he likes having a deadline of his own.”

  Laura’s eyebrows lifted and quivered. “What? Where did you—?”

  “But this is it, Laura. I know you’ve had a tough year, and I’m partly to blame for that. I’ll make one last attempt to help and then I’m out. I want normal problems again.”

  “I’m sorry, Chelsea. I never wanted you to get dragged into this.”

  “So anyway, what time are Paul and Mark leaving for the hotel?”

  “In an hour.”

  “Okay. This is my idea.” I leaned closer. “Tell Mark you want thirty-five grand back and the photos to keep quiet. Say he’s got one hour to reply or you’ll confess to Paul, shop Mark to the police and float the photos of him groping his plastic girlfriend over the internet, and paste them up on every street corner.”

  Laura blinked fast. “You must have banged your head. Are you crazy?”

  “I’m heading that way,” I muttered. “We’ll work out the Daryl thing later. For now, convince Mark that you no longer care about the truth coming out. You’ve had enough. He’s counting on your fear factor here. He knows you’ll do anything to hide the affair from Paul.” I rubbed my palms together. “Let’s see how he likes a taste of his own poison.”

  A crease formed between her eyebrows while, I assumed, she processed my words. Mark was blackmailing Laura, and now we were about to blackmail him in return. No wonder I had to shake a response from her. “Laura?”

  “B, but…” she stuttered, shrugging off my grip. “What if your plan goes horribly wrong, and Mark tells Paul about the affair early because we made him angry?”

  “Then he’ll ruin his chances of getting more money from you, and lose all his friends. Which, I’m sure, he doesn’t want to do.”

  In a weak voice, Laura said, “But what if we’ve got it all wrong and it’s not Mark, not someone in the house?”

  “Unless it was you, someone stopped the clock in the hall at the exact time of your wedding ceremony tomorrow. That can’t be a coincidence, not after everything that’s happened.”

  Laura nodded, a hairline movement. “Really?”

  “He’s toying with us. And those red roses, well, Mark admitted to sending them.”

  “Hardly original, but sweet, I guess.”

  Bewildered, I said, “Sweet?”

  “Let the flowers do the talking when he daren’t step up and...” She paused and shook herself. “What the hell am I saying? That is, if he wasn’t stealing my inheritance and going all out to kibosh my wedding.”

  “So, you mean sickly sweet?”

  Laura looked ready to cry again. “I know I deserve to, but I can’t lose Paul, Chelsea.”

  “Lee’s viewing surveillance discs as we speak, trying to spot who took that photo.”

  “He is? Well, I won’t hold my breath.”

  “Exactly. So we need to do this.”

  Laura pulled the mobile from her pocket, but hesitated. “I’m just not sure.”

  I snatched it from her hand. “Give it here. I’ll do it. Time’s in short supply.”

  In a hurry, I typed: ‘I want money and those photos within one hour or I’ll shop you to the police, stick this pic of you and your plastic girlfriend on Facebook. One hour, Mark. Chelsea.’

  I sent the message and photo to both Mark’s personal mobile and the anonymous number Laura received the demands from, edging my bets in the hope that Mark would have at least one mobile switched on.

  I handed the phone back to Laura and gripped her shoulders. “It’s done. Now, listen.” My voice fell low and serious. “I want you to promise me something.”

  She wiped her eyes and looked at me.

  “You’re not paying any more money.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t promise that.”

  “If it is Mark, we’ve reached checkmate. He’ll not want this photo plastered around town. Either agree not to pay, or I’ll tell Paul what you did, myself.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  I perched a hand on my hip. “Try me. I love you, Laura, and I don’t like seeing you hurt. But I can’t let you hand over any more of your parent’s inheritance.”

  A tear slipped down her cheek and she trembled.

  I put steel in my voice. “No more money. Understand?”

  “You’d really tell Paul?”

  Attempting a poker face, I glared at her while nodding.

  Eventually, she copied.

  I hugged her so tightly. We were now knitted to each other more than ever before. She pointed to the white cash bag at the far side of her feet. The handle looped out from under the bed.

  “I’ll hide this.” I dragged the bag across the cream carpet. “Then you can’t change your mind.”

  Laura stayed upstairs to fix her make-up.

  I weaved in and out of several bedrooms, so she wouldn’t know where I’d hidden the cash. In the end, I dashed down to the kitchen and stuffed it in a cupboard behind Emma’s nest of bags. I figured it best to keep it close by, and intended to stash the cash under my duvet at bedtime.

  Surrounded by my cheerful friends, I sat on a kitchen stool. I downed a much-needed glass of bubbly. Blackmailing a blackmailer? Crikey! Had I done the right thing, or inflamed the situation?

  “Top up, Chelsea?” Emma said, bottle in hand.

  “Sure, thanks.” While Emma refilled my glass, I pulled my purse out of my bag and admired the photo of Laura and me taken on her hen night, trying to remind myself why I was doing all this. There was a scratch on the side of the
photo. Fortunately, it was to the left of Laura’s head, so didn’t spoil the picture.

  While sipping Champagne, I scanned the smiling faces of our friends, ignoring my guilt for suspecting them. There was no room for emotion. If we were wrong about Mark, then it had to be one of these girls, and time was ticking.

  Nearly half an hour went by. Laura dashed into the kitchen wearing fresher eye make-up. She looked more composed, at least artificially.

  Laura tapped my thigh discreetly, showed me a text message she’d received on her ‘hot’ phone. It read: ‘Nice try. Slut.’

  Mark didn’t leave the lounge to confront me, but receiving this text message after threatening him, more than suggested he was indeed the blackmailer.

  I replied:

  ‘Tick, tock, shithead. Make your choice.’

  I passed Laura the mobile.

  After finishing her drink, Emma waved an empty bottle in the air. “We’re out of champagne. Got any more booze, Laura? Or does someone need to go to the shop? Any volunteers?”

  “Paul might have some in the garage,” Laura muttered. “I forgot to stock up.”

  “I’ll go.” I pushed up off the stool. The wired energy branching in the room had blurred my concentration. A minute or two of timeout was in order. “No need to bother Paul. Keys for the garage by the front door, right?”

  Laura was unresponsive.

  I made my way along the hall and found the key.

  Outside, strolling towards the garage with nothing but my own thoughts, I hesitated, just a beat. It seemed like approaching the summit of breakneck decisions. I felt torn, in turmoil.

  The deadline was less than a day away. We didn’t have any solid evidence proving Mark responsible. I’d crossed the lines of the law by attempting to blackmail him. Laura was losing her footing.

  Knowing things were way out of control, twisted my gut. However, worse than this, was the fear of something terrible happening to Laura. The prospect intensified the more I thought. What if Lee has been right all along about Daryl being murdered, and he wasn’t just a grieving brother desperate to assign blame like Laura believed? Out of the three of us, Lee appeared to be the most sane. What if Lee was right again, and that car really had intended to run me down?

  I felt panic setting in. It felt like a strap tightening around my forehead. I realised I was afraid of what might happen tomorrow, scared of Laura slipping beyond the hope of recovery if Paul left her, and worried about being the one to blow her secret. However, right now, standing here shaking, I was more petrified of losing the people I love if we were indeed being led along a path towards an awaiting murderer.

  I couldn’t control the car crash last year, but I sure as hell could try to prevent this nightmare reaching its peak.

  Was sacrificing my friendship and risking Laura’s sanity on a ‘what if’, a price I could pay in order to keep her safe?

  Laura might not speak to me again, but at least she’d be safe. I would phone the police as soon as I’d found some Champagne. And hopefully, convince them to keep Paul in the dark about the affair. Right or wrong, decision made - though it felt like my heart had been sliced down the middle.

  Laura’s driveway was jammed with vehicles. It would have resembled a small car sales forecourt if only balloons had been tied to the wing mirrors.

  I pulled the white, grooved door of the garage up and over my head and stepped inside. I walked around the bench press to the shadowy back wall. The same dull shade of grey cloaked everything in sight. I squinted to let my eyes adjust and saw boxes, tins of paint, and a stack of tattered magazines. Everything except Champagne or a fridge.

  I rummaged through cupboards. On opening the last one, I jumped back, unable to believe my eyes. “Jesus! What the hell?”

  Stuffed inside sat a crumpled rucksack. Purple. Identical to Laura’s bag which we’d used to deliver the blackmail money on the bridge. Why on earth is it here in her garage?

  I edged back, rattled and confused. Then I heard footsteps approaching from outside, and a faint scrape like a shoe along concrete.

  “What are you looking for?”

  The rankled voice startled me. I kicked the cupboard door shut with my heel and swung round in the shadows.

  Paul’s silhouette loomed under the garage door.

  “Oh!” I held a hand over my thumping chest. “You scared the life out of me.”

  He clicked a wall switch and the garage flooded with light. His gaze shot over briefly to the stack of magazines. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, remembering this was his boy zone. “I’m looking for Champagne, wine, or anything really. Do you have any?”

  Paul sighed, then gave a little laugh. “Did Laura forget to buy booze?”

  I rolled my eyes and nodded.

  He smiled. “I’m not surprised, what with organising the wedding ‘n’ all.”

  “Yes. It’s not easy.”

  “Sorry for startling you. I came in for a can of beer for Mark. He’s looking stressed.”

  My cheeks warmed. “He is?”

  “Just between you, me, and the bench press, I think he might be nervous about his speech tomorrow. He’s more a corporate stiff than a comic. Go inside and enjoy yourself, Chelsea. Tell everyone more booze is on its way.”

  Paul stepped inside and blocked my view of the magazines.

  I caught a brief glimpse of a topless lady on the front cover.

  “Go on,” he said. “Join your friends. You look like you need some fun.”

  “Okay,” I replied in an uncertain voice.

  My shoes felt glued to the ground, my feet numb and heavy. Somehow I managed to shuffle sideways.

  I prayed that Paul wouldn’t come across the purple bag.

  God knew what lay inside.

  My heart raced at the thought.

  CHAPTER 29

  Laura’s kitchen sounded like a battleground of female voices fighting to be heard above the dance music. Food cartons, drinking glasses and mobile phones lay scattered across the central worktop island.

  “Laura,” I whispered. She needed to know I’d found her rucksack. “I have to tell you something.”

  She felt across the bench, reached for a drink but continued staring blankly across the room.

  The house phone rang and Laura snapped out of her trance. She skulked across the room and picked the phone up.

  I waited with baited breath, half-expecting Mark to be on the line listing new demands.

  Thirty agonizing seconds later, Laura said down the phone, “Stop fretting, Aunt Carol.”

  I sighed and flopped my head back.

  “Yes, I have something old.” Signs of irritation came through in Laura’s hissing voice. “Give it to me tomorrow. No. Please don’t come round.”

  She banged the phone down on the receiver. Poor Laura. The last thing she needed was her slurring aunt to show up.

  Laura trudged across the room towards me. I noticed a bulge in her hip pocket. Looking at it mentally stung my eyes. There was really only one thing it could be. That damn phone. The very object that could make or break her relationship, her wedding, her dreams, her life…

  Annoyed that we were both jumpy, and growing impatient, I whipped the phone from her pocket. I sent a text to Mark’s anonymous mobile to nudge things along: ‘Seen the rucksack. Give us the photos then get the hell out of this house! Chelsea.’

  I would send another, another, then another text until I got what I wanted. The blackmail photos and Laura’s cash.

  A minute later, the mobile bleeped. A reply: ‘You’ll get what you deserve, Chelsea, sweetheart. Be patient.’

  I bit my lip, confused. Me? What I deserve? This is about Laura.

  During a lull in conversation and music, I heard the front door open then close. The sucking sound of the door seal reminded me of an airplane hatch plugging shut and, for some bizarre reason, I now felt enclosed, trapped. I looked into the hall.

  Paul was back inside the
house.

  At last.

  I pushed the phone into Laura’s pocket and sat rigidly, preparing to sneak back out to the garage.

  Laura leaned close to my ear as though to whisper. Before she spoke, the house phone rang again. Laura let the answering machine kick in. “Probably checking I’ve got something new, or blue, this time,” she mumbled. “At least she’s stopped pestering me for jewellery.”

  Paul emerged through the kitchen doorway. He held the throats of two bottles of bubbly and had a beer can tucked under his arm. Many thirsty girls faced him.

  “My kind of man,” Jayne said in a flirty voice. “Eye candy and armed with booze. Have a drink with us, Paul.”

  “I can’t,” he said. “I’ve got to drive.”

  While I waited, willing Paul to leave the kitchen, I became aware of something else bugging me. It was a similar feeling to realising I’d left the gas cooker on at home. I frowned, trying to place the sensation.

  “Cheers, Paul.” Emma took the bottles. “I really need a drink.”

  Ditto, I thought.

  Paul stepped next to Laura and swept a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Did I hear the phone ring?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “My aunt keeps phoning in a panic.”

  “In a panic?”

  “Yeah. Over silly tradition stuff. And she keeps apologizing for something. She’s driving me mad.”

  “I bet she’s been hitting the bottle again. Take no notice. Next time she phones, I’ll deal with her.” Paul grabbed the house phone off the cradle and stuffed it into his pocket. “We’re leaving for the hotel in about half an hour.” He winked at Laura, placed a tender kiss on her lips, then briefly glanced at me before returning to the lounge.

  Emma popped the cork then poured Champagne into my glass.

  “Thanks.” I chugged down a few mouthfuls in one, felt the cold liquid fizz in my stomach. A minute or two later, I was trying to collar Laura and attempt once more to tell her about the bag before I went to retrieve it, when Mark stomped into the kitchen.

  I turned and saw his expression clearly. His face glowed, had a brilliant red sheen to it. My heart began to thunder. Paul was spot on when he’d said Mark looked stressed. Christ! His puffy blood-filled face seemed ready to explode. Mark crushed the can in his palm, threw it onto the worktop, and stomped over to me.