Murder Follows Money

by Lora Roberts

  She sniffed when I put the plate on the table, but I noticed she ate the fingers anyway. “I suppose that stove came with the house?” She pointed to my vintage Wedgewood, which I loved for its glistening white enamel finish and black accents, not to mention the chrome stovetop with built-in griddle.

  “Actually, the stove came from the front house. The stove in this house had a bad gas leak, and my neighbor wanted to get one of those big fancy ranges, so he offered me this stove. It’s been very nice. My neighbor,” I added deliberately, “is a policeman. He’ll be home for lunch, and when he sees my van, he’ll be right over.”

  “Is he married?” Hannah appeared unconcerned. She helped herself to another finger sandwich.

  “No.”

  She snorted. “You’re just trying to frighten me, Liz. As if any single policeman would paint his house with peach trim.” She glanced out the kitchen window, which showed the back of Drake’s house. “Is he gay?”

  I hoped she didn’t notice my blushing. “No.” During the past couple of months, I had had ample proof that Drake was vigorously heterosexual.

  “You must think I’m an idiot.”

  I didn’t answer that. I had warned her. If she chose to ignore my warning, it would be the worse for her. I just hoped no guns would come into play when Drake found us there.

  Hannah used a paper napkin to clean off peanut butter crumbs. “Where did you say the phone was?”

  “I said I didn’t have one. I don’t.”

  She looked incredulously at the kitchen walls and counters, as if a phone would materialize. “You really don’t have a telephone? But—but how do you call people?”

  “I use my policeman friend’s phone. Or I go to a pay phone.”

  She considered. “I don’t believe he’s a policeman. I want to use his phone too.

  I shrugged, took Drake’s keys off the hook by the front door, and led the way down the walk and across the gravel parking area. The sun struggled feebly to break through the shrouding clouds. My roses looked menacing with their leaves stripped off, pruned into a two-foot-tall, thorn-studded hedge. I visualized shoving Hannah so she was impaled on them. She’d likely just get mad and shoot me, and it’s not in my nature to cause anyone so much pain. Instead, I thought about spring arriving. Assuming I lived to see another spring.

  Drake’s kitchen was in good shape. He’d always kept it pretty clean, but the rest of the house had been a different story. Lately I’d been tidying the living room and bedroom, so all the mess had moved back into the spare bedroom. He didn’t like for me to clean his house, but I couldn’t help myself. Order is ingrained in me; it comes from living in confined spaces where if things aren’t put away, there’s no room to move.

  The message light was blinking on his answering machine. I didn’t bother to get the messages. One would be for me, from him, ordering me to stay put if I got there, and call him immediately. It was his response anytime trouble found me. I knew the drill. I just couldn’t perform it.

  Hannah nodded approval at the big commercial range, the gleaming appliances, the cork flooring and copper utensils. “He likes to cook, obviously.”

  “He’s a foodie.” When we cooked together, I was in charge of vegetables. I was good with veggies. Drake handled the complicated main courses he loved to put together. “The phone’s there.”

  Hannah dialed, and gestured to me to sit at the table a few feet away. Her hand was on the gun in her pocket again. I did as she asked, though I figured she would hardly shoot me when she was on the phone. I could dash out the front door and run to Bridget’s house. Hannah was in good shape for a woman pushing sixty, but I doubted she could run faster than I could.

  “David, this is Hannah. I am at—” She looked at the phone and then at me. I told her the number. The sooner David, whoever he was, called her back, the sooner I could put my plan into action. She gave David’s voice mail the phone number, then hung up to wait.

  “I want to hear the news,” she announced. “Does your friend have CNN?”

  “No idea. I don’t watch much TV.”

  “What’s the matter with you?” She seemed genuinely puzzled. “No phone, no TV. Are you a member of some kind of sect?”

  “The Luddite sect? Not really. I just don’t have time for it. I like to read.”

  She snorted. “Well, I bet your ‘policeman’ has a TV.”

  She prowled into the living room and shot me a triumphant look when she sighted Drake’s set. Although we watched movies on it in the evenings, I didn’t know how to turn it on—he was in charge of complicated equipment. For all I knew he watched the news every morning. Despite our close relationship, I didn’t linger in the mornings. With Barker and my garden to tend, and, when I’m working at a temp job, my wardrobe to worry over, I had developed the habit of jumping up at daybreak to be on my way.

  While Hannah searched for the remote control, I looked at the clock. It wasn’t even eleven yet. So much had happened, it should have been midnight.

  I took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on my dilemma. I had discarded the idea of trying to get the gun away from Hannah. Guns had a way of going off and causing damage.

  Instead, I played through the idea of running away. It was the coward’s way, but cowards are safe. I would run over to Bridget’s, use her phone to call Drake, and tell him where to find Hannah. She would never be able to drive Babe in a million years, so she wouldn’t be able to get far. Then it would all be over, and I could explain to Judi Kershay why everything had turned out so badly. I didn’t relish that task, but I wasn’t coward enough to duck it.

  The TV squawked to life. Hannah punched buttons on the remote, looking for news. I inched toward the front door. It would be easier to get out the back door, but she might notice I was gone before I could get down the drive with its crunching gravel. The front door would give me a better start. I didn’t think she would shoot me; that would cause a stir in the neighborhood.

  “… will bring pressure to bear through the International Monetary Fund for the present,” the announcer boomed from the TV.

  “Good. Here’s the news.” Hannah settled onto the couch. She pointed the remote at me, as if I too could be commanded by it. “You sit down. Stop hovering near the door. You make me nervous.” She patted her pocket suggestively.

  Obedient to the remote, I sank into a chair. At least it was close to the door. I went through it in my mind—the dash over there, the unlocking of Drake’s two locks, getting down the steps and out to the sidewalk and far enough down the sidewalk to be out of her range of fire. The more I thought about it, the less I liked the odds.

  “In other news, beloved lifestyle maven Hannah Couch has vanished after the suspicious death of her business partner, Naomi Matthews,” the announcer intoned. A picture of Hannah posing with a bowl of cookie dough, looking much as she had in BigMart, filled the screen. Her motherly smile and apron made her seem like everyone’s favorite grandmother. Looking at the picture, you might not realize what an out-and-out bitch she could be. “Police fear Ms. Couch was abducted by her driver, Elizabeth Sullivan.” Another picture flashed on the screen. I blinked, hardly recognizing the mug shot taken of me nearly ten years previously. “Ms. Sullivan, who has a criminal record for attempted murder, was employed as a temporary driver during Ms. Couch’s publicity tour, which was to continue today in California. Police are investigating both Ms. Matthews’s death and the alleged abduction.”

  Hannah pointed with the remote control, and a deep silence filled the room. We looked at each other.

  “Attempted murder?” Hannah’s voice was casual, but I saw strain in her eyes. “Did you—are you the person who killed Naomi?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” I jumped to my feet. “I barely knew the woman. I went to jail ten years ago for trying to kill my ex-husband before he killed me. That’s why I don’t like guns. I don’t like people who take other people’s lives. And you’ve really messed me up. I depend on temporary work, and w
ho’ll ever hire me now? You have a lot to answer for, Hannah Couch. How dare you ride roughshod over my life?”

  She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, the phone rang. I made no move to answer it. After all, it wasn’t my house. Hannah backed away from me, her hand in her pocket, and stood beside the answering machine until it clicked on. After a minute, I heard a man’s impatient voice. “Hannah? Are you there? What’s going on, anyway?”

  Hannah snatched up the phone. “David. I—I just heard that I’ve been abducted.”

  “You mean you haven’t?” Somehow she’d tripped the speaker phone button, and David’s voiced invaded the room. “Woman, the police are looking everywhere for you. What on earth are you up to?”

  “Well, I just had to—you know—get away.” She sounded much less sure when speaking to her attorney. Perhaps he could influence her to stop this ridiculous scene we were involved in, before my last existing shreds of reputation were destroyed.

  “Did that woman abduct you? Are you free? Because if you are, you must go immediately to the closest police station and tell them who you are.”

  “I wasn’t abducted,” Hannah admitted.

  “Shoe’s on the other foot,” I yelled.

  “‘Who’s that? Is she there? Hannah, be careful.”

  “Ask her who’s holding who,” I shouted again. It was no time to worry about grammar.

  “Be quiet.” Hannah snapped at me, then spoke into the phone. “Look, David. I need you to get some kind of assurance for me, some kind of immunity.”

  “What are you telling me? That you killed Naomi?” David didn’t sound too surprised. It must have occurred to him already.

  “Not in the least,” Hannah said, snapping at him now. “She must have killed herself. It’s the only explanation. I want you to convince the police of that. Then I’ll turn myself in.”

  “Where are you?” His voice was insistent.

  “Why do you want to know?” Hannah’s brows drew together. “Are you having this call traced? David, I trusted you. You’re fired!” She slammed the phone down.

  Again we regarded each other. “He’s right. End this now. We’ll go down to the police station. I’ll ask Drake to take charge.”

  “No way.” Hannah pulled the gun out of her pocket and looked at it. “So you’ve shot someone. Was it hard?”

  “It was my life or his at the moment. And I didn’t kill him. And it was awful. If you handed me that gun right now, I’d throw it in the creek or something.” I didn’t like the way her fingers tightened around the gun’s butt. “Go ahead, shoot me. Then you’ll be in real trouble, plus you’ll have no transportation.”

  “You’re right. If they were tracing that call, we’ve got to get out of here.” She motioned me with the gun. “Let’s go.”

  “Where? You’re really jerking me around here. You’ve ruined my good name, and on national TV, no less. And now you’re giving me orders. This really sucks, Hannah.”

  “Let’s get out of here.” She pushed me toward the back door. “We’ll take your car.”

  “The keys are in my house.”

  She exhaled impatiently. “We’ll get them. And any food you have. Let’s go.”

  She stood at my kitchen door, directing me to bring the carrots, the cheese, the crackers. That was pretty much it in the food department. I wanted to rebel, but at this point, what good would it do me to get away? I’d just be arrested, and probably charged with Naomi’s murder as well as abduction. It seemed to me my best course of action was to stay with Hannah until she ran herself into the ground, as would likely happen soon. Then maybe I’d be believed.

  We got into the bus, and I started the engine. “Where to this time? The police station?”

  She snorted. “Not likely. No, I know where I want to go. Your thrift shop.”

  “What?” I stared at her, amazed. “Did you say the Thrift Savers?”

  “Why not? It’s as good a place as any to hide out, and I collect antique linens.”

  Shrugging, I backed out, only to put on the brake as a car shrieked to a stop, blocking the end of the driveway. I hoped, prayed, that it would be Drake, and he would save me from the swampy morass in which I found myself.

  It wasn’t his car. It was Bridget Montrose’s rusty old Suburban. Bridget hopped out, saw the bus, ran toward me. “Liz! Are you okay? What’s happening?” She got to the driver’s-side door, and looked across into the passenger seat. “It is Hannah Couch. My God! Did you really kidnap her?”

  Hannah pulled the gun out of her pocket. “Not at all. I did the kidnapping. Now I’ll have to take you along too. We’ll go in your car, in case they’re looking for this one.” She waved with the gun. “Get out, Liz. Your friend can drive. You sit in front beside her. I’ll be in the back, with my gun.”

  Chapter 12

  I left the bus in the driveway instead of reparking in front of the garage. Hannah insisted that we get moving right away. The CNN report had freaked her out.

  “I can’t do this,” Bridget said, while Hannah urged her toward her Suburban. “I have kids to pick up at preschool in a couple of hours.”

  “Let’s go.” Hannah showed the gun again. “I’ve just been asking your friend Liz here how it feels to shoot someone. Don’t make me find out firsthand.”

  Bridget looked at me. I shrugged. Now that I’d been branded an abducting ex-con on national TV I found myself less interested in attracting the attention of law-enforcement types. Drake would believe me, I knew, but any other cop who pulled us over would see me as the perpetrator because of my record, and that would be rather unpleasant until Bridget could verify my story. At this point, I would have been a total fatalist if it hadn’t been for worrying about Bridget. If anything happened to her, I’d never forgive myself.

  We climbed into the Suburban in the configuration Hannah dictated—Bridget and I in the wide front seat, Hannah in the middle seat. She had to push some toys out of the way and share the space with Moira’s car seat.

  Bridget turned to face Hannah. “You must see how ridiculous this is. I have children to tend. Liz needs her life back. We’ve done nothing to you. If you want to run away, why don’t you do it on your own?”

  “Drive,” Hannah said. She sat, stony-faced, while Bridget started the car. It rumbled like an attack vehicle.

  “When are you going to get a new car?” I listened to the various clanks and rattles, and wondered if we’d even make it to the Thrift Savers.

  “I don’t know. When Moira gets out of college, probably.”

  “But she’s only two.”

  “Right.” Bridget drove slowly up the street. “Do I have a destination, or am I just contributing to smog without any goal?”

  “Hannah wants to go to the Thrift Savers and look for vintage linens.

  Bridget looked at me in disbelief, then checked out Hannah in the rear-view mirror. “Is that right? You want to go to the secondhand store?”

  “Of course it’s true.” Hannah put on her most haughty air. “As long as I’m forced into this distasteful role, I might as well see what I can find there. Perhaps it would make a good subject for our TV show.”

  “Delusional,” I muttered. Hannah didn’t hear me over the noisy engine, but Bridget did. “Humor her.”

  “I don’t like this.” Bridget’s round face was pinched. Normally she is a sweet, sunny person who does whatever is put in her path and does it well.

  “Nobody likes it. Certainly poor Naomi didn’t.” Bridget was silent a moment, negotiating a turn onto El Camino. We went north, toward San Carlos.

  “You think Hannah killed her?”

  “I did at first.” I glanced over my shoulder. Hannah was looking through the front windshield, her expression fixed. But I had no doubt that she could handle any rebellion we staged in an efficient and ruthless manner. “She rides roughshod over people, and murder is just an extension of that kind of personality. But now I’m not sure. She seems genuinely shaken and surprised, and it woul
d have to be premeditated, unless Naomi just dropped dead of a heart attack or something.”

  “I hear what you’re saying.” Hannah’s voice was curt. “You don’t need to be talking.”

  “Well, if we can’t talk together, why don’t you tell Bridget about the book publicity trail? She’s going to go on tour in a few weeks.” If she didn’t get killed by a homicidal homemaker, anyway.

  “Really? What did you say your name was?”

  “Bridget Montrose. My book just came out a few weeks ago.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember reading something about it. You popped onto the bestseller list after a very good review in the Times.” Hannah looked at Bridget with more interest. “I have bought your book, of course. I hope to read it sometime. So you’re going on a book tour.”

  “Yes. My publisher has arranged it. They wanted me to go for two or three weeks, but I explained I have small children and they crammed all this stuff into ten days. There won’t be time for laundry, and I don’t have that many clothes anyway.”

  “Perhaps we should be shopping for Bridget’s travel wardrobe.” I said that as a joke, but Hannah picked up on it in all seriousness.

  “You can get a personal shopper at Nordstrom to help you with that.”

  “Can I get a personal checking account from them too, to pay for it?” Bridget gestured around the inside of the car. “We are going to remodel our house as soon as we get permits, and there’s nothing extra in the budget for a Nordstrom wardrobe. Thank goodness the publisher’s paying for the book tour. If it was a choice between that and new cabinets, I would definitely go for the cabinets.”

  Hannah waved these petty annoyances away. “Get a nice, basic skirt and pants, a couple of jackets, and comfortable shoes. Two or three shells or blouses. Make sure the fabric travels well—microfiber is good to resist wrinkles. Hotels will clean your clothes at night. Scarves and other accessories freshen the look. It’s all in last July’s issue of my magazine, when we talked of travel. Take along exercise clothing. You do exercise, don’t you?” She leaned over the seat back to eye Bridget’s rather ample figure.