Now You See Him

by Stella Cameron

  “Nothing’s going to happen before morning,” she said. He had to know how hard it was for her to send him away. “You’d best get going.”

  “Okay.”

  She didn’t have a chance to get out of his way when he took her by the shoulders and kissed her forehead. Not that she wanted to.

  “‘Night, Joe.” She touched his jaw and the skin felt rough against her fingers.

  He didn’t answer her. Outside the door he waited for her to lock up before backing away and standing on the sidewalk, looking at her.

  Walking away seemed too hard. She shivered, but not from being cold, and raised her hand in a wave.

  Joe waved back. He didn’t attempt to leave and Ellie returned the kiss he blew.

  Torment her into submission, that’s what he was up to. But he smiled and all the feelings, the sensations that he could cause so easily, rushed in. They’d work it through.

  Carrying the mail, Ellie picked Zipper up again and tucked her under one arm. She walked through to the vestibule at the bottom of her stairs and shut the door to the shop without glancing in the direction where Joe probably still stood.

  By the time she climbed into bed, Ellie could easily have called and begged him to come back after all. Or she could throw on some clothes and go to him. But she could hang on. At least he was nearby.

  “Zipper, what are you doing on the bed?” she asked the cat, who usually preferred her own room. Zipper turned around and around, took time out to chew a few claws, then curled against Ellie’s side.

  And she was glad of it, so glad of it she ought to be embarrassed.

  Bills, bills and more bills.

  She riffled quickly through the mail, dividing it into piles. Book catalogs made up a hefty chunk of what she’d got. She started turning down pages. The shop did a good trade for a small place. Being the only bookshop in town helped. She smiled at that.

  Zipper slithered onto Ellie’s stomach and purred while she kneaded with spreading paws.

  A fat letter had come from a sales rep who operated out of New Orleans. Ellie slit open the envelope. This was a guy she liked because he took the trouble to make the trip and visit her personally every few months. Most of those folks didn’t have time to go out of their way for such small orders.

  The letter sounded just like the man himself. Enthusiasm jumped off the page. This is a chance to double your profits on our Sonja Elliot books. She recalled putting in an order for the paperback version of Death in Diamonds about two months ago, and had more recently upped the quantity because of all the fuss about the series. The books should arrive soon. No doubt with all the publicity there would be an extra rush on buying this one.

  The rep had written:

  We have an exciting offer to make to you. You’ll love it. In a surprise move we’re rushing out Ms. Elliot’s next hardback two months early and putting it on sale at the same time as Death in Diamonds in paperback. Not only that, but be sure not to miss our special discounts to clients who make an effort to take more copies.

  Ellie checked the date on the letter and that on the envelope. This piece of mail must have circumnavigated the globe. The latest Sonja Elliot would be out in a few days. Ellie would have to call first thing in the morning to see if she could place a rush order. The publisher had played this one close to the vest and dropped it on the bookselling world. They had not even printed advance reading copies for the industry.

  She read on:

  Capitalize on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. See how close you can get to matching your mass-market buy with a like number of copies of the hardback Death of a Witness: The Chosen Victim.

  30

  Spike drew his cruiser in beside the deputy who had pulled guard duty on the property behind Ellie’s place. He rolled down the passenger window and leaned across. “Evenin’,” he said to a husky blond guy. “I’m Spike Devol.” He hadn’t seen this one before. The sheriff made extra officers available on an as-needed basis.

  “Yes, sir. Tom Turner, sir. From Belleville.”

  “Glad to have you.” Yeah, Spike remembered the name on tonight’s detail. “How long ago did the Jeep arrive over there?”

  “Around forty minutes, sir. Two people—one male, one female—went into the bookshop, then the male left and went in there.” He pointed to Joe’s offices where the bougainvillea over the porch whipped insanely in gusts of hot wind.

  The only upstairs light Spike could see shone in Ellie’s room and that went off a moment later. He’d feel a whole lot more secure if Joe was with her. What in hell was that all about? he wondered. Rotten timing for a spat.

  Joe’s windows were dark, too.

  A white van slid along the right side of the square toward them. “Forensics,” Spike told Turner. “If another officer comes, direct him out back.”

  “Will do, sir,” Turner agreed.

  Carrying two bags, a man with wispy white hair left the van and joined Spike. “Mike Wills,” he introduced himself informally. “Let’s take a look, shall we? Probably a good idea to take another close check now. If we do get the storm it’s likely to take out any useful traces.”

  The other officer Spike had expected, Castille, arrived in time to accompany them along the alley and through Ellie’s back gate. “Any need to inform these people?” Mike indicated where Joe lived, the empty house next door and Hungry Eyes.

  Spike shook his head. “On either side, Ellie and Joe know there’s activity out here. The middle place isn’t lived in.”

  “Lucien came through the surgery,” Mike said. “But his condition is guarded. You heard they think there could have been two assaults? Or at least two weapons?”

  “Yeah. I hope Lucien makes it,” Spike said, meaning it fervently for a number of reasons.

  Castille carried a camera. “Where would you like me to start?” he asked Spike.

  “That’ll be up to the doctor,” Spike told him. “He’s in charge of this one. Doc, do you think Lucien tried to eat the glass because he’s involved?”

  “Nope,” Mike said. With the other officer’s help, he set up lights, and soon the area around the guest house glared under white beams. “It’s much more likely he was forced to put the glass in his mouth. We’re looking for a source of wood slivers under his fingernails.”

  Spike grunted. “Do you know if they’ve had any luck tracing the newspaper photo of Ellie Byron? The one they found in that supposed hideout?”

  “Northern California,” Mike said, crouching over the area of the struggle. “Some burg out of San Francisco.”

  “Jim Wade mentioned living up there,” Spike said, and explained about the broker’s disappearance.

  “No luck bringing him in?” Mike asked.

  “Not that I’ve heard.” Spike braced his hands on his knees and peered around the area. “Lucien was supposed to die.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The siding on the guest house is wood,” Spike said. “He could have thrown his hands out to break his fall and messed up his hands in the process.”

  “He could have,” Mike agreed. “But I don’t think so. The slivers are raw, not painted or stained like the siding.”

  Spike tilted his head. “See that?” he said. He touched Castille and pointed to the base of one side of the building. “All along there. The shadow’s too wide, as if there’s a gap under the siding.”

  Castille began shooting pictures. He moved around getting angle after angle.

  Mike approached from one direction and Spike the other, crouched and moving one foot at a time, awkwardly.

  “You got gloves?” Spike asked, and felt stupid. “Of course you do. Can you spare a pair?”

  Mike took extra ones from his pocket and tossed them.

  Once Spike had them on he dropped his knees to the dirt and bent almost to the ground. “There’s a mark here. Several marks. Scratches on the foundation as if someone scraped it. With glass, maybe. Is it okay if I see if my fingers go under?”

  “You g
ot a bag?”

  Spike shook his head and Mike handed him a plastic bag. He tipped his fingers under the siding and ran them back and forth, expecting to find nothing but a nail or two. What he got was a sharp jab and he eased out a small, jagged piece of brown glass. He dropped it into the bag and met Mike’s eyes. Four more glass fragments followed. The other man had stopped to watch him.

  “That’s it,” Spike said, feeling around. “No, hold it.” He knew what he had, a bottle top. He got a nail under the rim and hooked it out and into a fresh evidence bag held open by Mike Wills.

  “Bingo,” Mike said, a smile narrowing his dark eyes behind thick glasses.

  Voices, low but intense, sounded outside the gate. “See what that’s about, please, Castille.”

  In minutes the other man came back. “The guy who’s on guard duty is trying to persuade some woman to go home but she isn’t budgin’. Says you need her help. Name of Wazoo or somethin’.”

  “Know her?” Mike asked.

  Spike considered denying it. “Yes, I do. She turns up in the darnedest places.”

  He heard the gate open again and a small, dark figure flew in his direction with Deputy Turner hot on her tail.

  Spike caught Wazoo as she launched herself at him. “Tom,” he said to Turner over her head. “It’s okay. Leave her.”

  The guy nodded and retreated.

  “Now, what are you doin’ here?” Spike asked, glaring down into Wazoo’s ethereal face. Her hair was caught inside one of those old-fashioned black lace snoods. Her pale skin glowed. “You think you’re untouchable, but you’re just a little woman and you should be at Rosebank, not runnin’ around in the dark on your own.” Wazoo took dancing steps to combat the wind.

  He heard her gulp. Then she said in a voice not like her own, “I’m sorry, Spike. All I got is the folks I love and I gotta help look after ‘em. I heard about that chloroform what he slapped on poor Daisy. Wonder he didn’t kill that angel. But you can bet your best skivvies he had other things in mind for that poisonous, wicked stuff.”

  Spike caught Castille’s puzzled look. Mike chewed a thumbnail and amusement twinkled in his eyes.

  “Do you know where this sex maniac got the bottle of persuasion?” Wazoo asked.

  “Huh?” Castille said.

  Spike knew what Wazoo was talking about but not why, or how she was so well informed. Pretty soon after they met he had summed her up as an insecure woman making a lot of noise to pretend otherwise.

  Mike surprised him by saying, “Ever seen a cap like this before?” and holding the evidence bag out to Wazoo. “New Orleans address, I think.”

  She stepped away from Spike and took a cursory glance. “Tal’s Toys,” she said. Her eyesight had to be good to see the small script so easily. “Ain’t there no more, but if you’re lookin’ to make sure your woman’s easy you can still go to Fester’s. Same shop, same owner, different name.”

  “You still lookin’ puzzled, boy,” Wazoo said to Castille. “You never did hear about folks usin’ that chloroform for special effects?”

  He shrugged his shoulders back. “Sure I did. But something tells me you know too much about too many things. Could be we need to ask you more questions.” He gave her the evil eye.

  Apparently Wazoo didn’t see his mouth twitch. She sidled up to him and wound her hands under his arm. “I don’t know nothin’ more than any other worldly woman. How often do you use chloroform to juice up your sex?”

  Spike and Mike laughed, then tried to smother the noise.

  “All the time,” Castille said.

  Looking smug, Wazoo said, “Some men just can’t go it alone, but I’m glad you make your own fun.”

  She turned to Spike. “I know that shop, and I’ll go see if I can buy a bottle of this, if you like.”

  “No, you won’t,” Spike told her quickly. “All we need is you spreadin’ our official business all over Louisiana.”

  “I surely will go,” Wazoo told him, wagging a finger. “You can’t stop me and I can get what you can’t get. Trust me for once. I’ll go first thing in the morning.”

  “Ma’am,” Mike said, “be sure you don’t end up in a cell—or worse.”

  She sighed and looked up into Castille’s face. “All this talk’s set my appetite to wigglin’. It’s been too long since I sniffed that stuff in the company of a sexy man.”

  31

  Ellie rolled over on Zipper, who hissed and shot from the room.

  The clock showed two-thirty in the morning. She wasn’t sure if she’d slept. The night dragged. All she longed for was morning, the sound of voices, life.

  How was she supposed to keep her mind off the title of Sonja Elliot’s unexpected new book? Death of a Witness: The Chosen Victim. In the previous two books the victims had been random. If her fears were well founded, the witness in question could be her and she would be chosen because someone feared what she might know.

  Dim light from outside rolled a faint leaf pattern across the shades. She couldn’t see the corners of the room and the open door showed an oblong more intensely black than the rest.

  Usually she liked darkness. Most especially she liked it when Joe could be with her.

  He could be with her now—would be if she had not sent him away. But her decision had been the right one. Good relationships weren’t built on the dependence of one person, even if that person ached at the mere thought of the other.

  How strange to know you were in love and loved in return but to be so afraid of losing it all that you had to make the kind of choice she’d made tonight.

  Yet again the air had been sucked out of the night. She heard wind in the big sycamore and the rattle of window-panes, but the sounds only made her more aware of the closeness inside.

  She pushed a hand beneath her pillow until her fingertips touched a metal handle. Goose bumps shot over her skin. She pulled the old can opener, with a short open blade shaped like a hook, firmly into her palm. The tool had traveled with her since she first ran away from home. Back then she’d planned to open canned food with it. Since that time it had become her occasional weapon—even if only in her mind by giving her some small comfort. Tonight, without Joe’s reassuring presence, she’d taken the implement to bed again.

  First thing in the morning she intended to call the vet and see if she could go over to Loreauville to get Daisy. Ellie missed the secure feeling the dog gave her, and the companionship.

  She had already got rid of her light blanket; now Ellie threw back the sheet. Her short pink silk nightie barely covered matching panties. Bare legs felt good.

  Joe would like the nightie. It was the sexiest thing she’d ever bought and she’d had it a week. What she needed was the courage to put it on for him.

  When she lay like this, stretched out on her bed thinking of Joe, of the feel of his smooth, hardened body, his weight, the way he touched her, arousal overwhelmed her.

  Her panties felt damp. Excitement darted into places where she wanted him to be. Her nipples hardened and she touched them. The halter top on her nightie tied with a ribbon beneath her breasts. Slowly, she swept the silk away from her warm skin. She couldn’t substitute for that man but she could intensify his memory.

  A scraping noise, fabric on fabric, doused the sensual warmth, wiped away the arousal.

  Ellie held her body still and stiff. She couldn’t do anything about her runaway heart.

  Ellie strained to listen. Maybe she had only imagined the sound.

  There it came again, like new jeans, the legs brushing together as someone walked.

  Her breath came in shallow gasps.

  Propped on her elbows, she peered into the darkness. They told you not to turn on lights because it only made it easier for an intruder.

  The form that rose from the floor beside the bed was no ghost. Ellie screamed. Solid, lunging at her, a man attacked.

  One big hand covered her face and slammed the back of her head down on the pillows. The other hand kneaded and squeez
ed her breasts. She would have cried out in pain but he’d taken care of that possibility.

  Ellie kicked at him with her bare feet, and she struggled, rocked her body from side to side. The inside of her head felt swollen and black, as if it would burst wide open. Terror closed her throat. Sweat burned in her eyes. He leaned so hard her face seemed crushed. His other hand ranged all over her.

  She couldn’t reach under the pillow.

  Blood ran into her mouth, from her front teeth puncturing her bottom lip.

  Forcing her mouth open, she bit down on him, kept on biting until he yanked the hand away.

  His blow to her face snapped her head sideways and she screamed. Again he hit her.

  For an instant she only heard the rasping of his breath. He concentrated on holding her down and her flesh burned beneath the pressure. I will survive. God help me. I will survive. She choked on her own breath, but he’d shifted just enough to allow her to force her right hand upward beneath his forearm.

  She touched the pillow.

  “Let me go,” she managed to cry out. “I won’t report this if you let me go.”

  He didn’t speak and he pressed so close to her, his hot breath fanning her face and neck, that she couldn’t make out anything except that he was big, heavy.

  “Get away from me!” Arching her belly, she tried to throw him off. Again she screamed, the jagged sound ripping from her throat.

  A pillow descended on her face.

  Fighting for breath, Ellie worked her head sideways and found a little air.

  She had the opener tightly clasped in her hand. While he had grabbed the pillow from one side, Ellie had gone for her prize from the other.

  She felt every move he made over her, and she waited for her chance to strike. One shot would be all she got. If she missed, he’d turn the blade on her. She went from hot to cold.

  He rubbed hard between her legs, as if he thought he could stimulate her into wanting his disgusting assault on her body. She couldn’t get a knee into his crotch. When she tried, he punched her thigh and the leg turned numb.