Disguise for Death

by Sylvia Nickels

  Only a few days after taking in the dog, the sound of breaking glass startled Royce from a sound sleep. Devon stood on stiff little legs facing the closed bedroom door, growling. Without thinking, she opened the door to listen, and he dashed into the hallway, barking.

  “Wait, Devon. Come back.” But he was already down the stairs.

  Royce grabbed the phone and hit the speed dial button for 9-1-1. She could still hear Devon barking downstairs as she gasped to the operator that someone was breaking into her house.

  “Stay where you are and on the line. A unit will be there in three minutes, Mrs. Thorne.” But Royce, phone in hand, was already on the stairs. Devon stood stiff-legged in the kitchen, still growling and barking toward the open back door. A glass pane in the door was smashed, shards scattered on the floor. And something else lay on the tiles. A knife with a wicked point and a gleaming sharp edge. It took a moment for her to recognize the type of knife she was seeing. One seen often in the projects of Atlanta.

  “Apparently, the intruder was scared off when he heard your dog.” Sergeant King, an old friend of Eddy’s, had responded to the 9-1-1 call. “You were smart to get one. We’ve had a few home invasions, burglaries, around town lately.” He glanced at the plastic evidence bag in his hand. “But none of them left a switchblade behind.”

  “See, Royce. I told you,” Palm reminded her. He and Hal had dashed over from next door when they heard the sirens.

  “Random thief. Wanted something to sell for drugs. No one’s been hurt in the break-ins.” Hal shrugged and went back home.

  Sergeant King and Royce exchanged glances. They avoided looking at Palm as he balled his fists, furious gaze boring into his father’s back.

  Palm hugged Royce as she held Devon, petting him. “He’s a fool. Devon did save your life.”

  “I know he did. I’m very glad to have him.” She patted the young man’s shoulder.

  Thankful that her new companion had spared her from a nasty encounter, she had the back door repaired and went on with the work on her book.

  The intruder had been careless enough to leave a fingerprint on one of the door panes. He turned out to be a former client of Amanda Sage, to her chagrin. He was also implicated in other break-in crimes around town, but the police could find no trace of him. They assumed he had left town.

  Though there was no reason to believe Royce had been a specific target, she was still thankful to have Devon around. His presence helped re-establish her sense of security that had been damaged more than she realized.

  ****

  Friends in the police department invited her to various seasonal festivities, which she refused. Even in better years, she had never been able to get into the mad gaiety, as it seemed to her, of the season. She supposed it was the lack of such celebrations in her childhood and later the lack of children of her own.

  She and Eddy had put up a Christmas tree in the early years of their marriage. But had dropped the custom when they gave up the idea of having a child. During December in the years afterward, Royce had resolutely avoided department stores and later the mall when it went up on the edge of town.

  This year she managed one brief shopping excursion to buy Devon a gift. But placing even the few seasonal snowman, holly, and poinsettia decorations she owned was beyond her.

  So she laid the loosely wrapped package next to his bed in the kitchen. She knew Palm would probably come over at some point, and they could enjoy watching Devon tear into it.

  With a relieved sigh early in January, she pushed the box holding the final revised manuscript across the post office counter. When she made a quick stop at the supermarket, she ran into Hal Woodstone in the produce section. He greeted her, asked how she was doing, and chatted in a friendly manner. He made no reference at all to the break-in at her house.

  “Royce. Are you still pounding away on your little story? Take a break, and have dinner with me Saturday night. I’ll make ham surprise.”

  The surprise was hers, and his airy dismissal of her book annoyed her more than usual, now she had actually finished the revision. She could think of no way to refuse without sounding rude, so she agreed. He’d been her neighbor for many years and had taught a city-bred young woman an appreciation for all things growing, green, or blooming.

  Saturday evening, she just managed not to turn around and leave after ringing Hal’s doorbell before he opened the door. Warm air laden with the aroma of baked ham swirled through the opening. That was not the fragrance she associated with the Woodstone house. Lily had loved the scent of sandalwood candles and incense. The cold, early January air seemed to change, and that odor to swirl around her, clogging Royce’s nostrils. She almost reeled backward as a memory surged.

  The sharp echo of her hand striking Lily’s pale cheek resounded in her head. She could still see the ugly imprint of her fingers and felt the mortification of the diminutive Lily grabbing her arm and shoving her down among the tasseled pillows on the wicker settee. The well-worn Birkenstock sandals lay on the intricate braids of the copper and red wool rug where Royce had flung them.

  Lily glanced at the shoes. “You’re right, Royce. They’re mine.”

  “I was in the hospital. How could you? In my house, in my bed?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “That you’re a cheating home-wrecker?”

  Lily crossed her arms and glared down at Royce. “You and your perfect little life, wanting a perfect little baby. And when it didn’t happen, you turn away from him. What did you expect?”

  “Whore!” Royce screamed. “You think that makes it all right?” She tried to rise from the settee but fell back. Calling on all her strength, she lunged upward and made it to her feet.

  She reached for Lily, fingers curled to rake nails over that lovely, mocking face, to stop the words coming from the sensuous lips.

  Lily circled around the settee, easily evading her. “Go home, Royce.”

  “I tried to be your friend,” Royce said, dropping her hands. “And you slept with my husband.”

  “Go home. You can’t deal with this now,” Lily repeated. “Eddy will never leave you. I know that.”

  Royce felt a gush of body fluids. She knew even the hospital pad she wore wouldn’t be able to absorb it. The doctor had warned her about physical exertion. She turned and left Lily’s house. She could bear no further humiliation.

  Somehow, she managed to shake off the hateful memory, bury it again in the past, and choke down Hal’s dinner. She determined to leave as soon as she decently could after the meal.

  Without even offering to help clear the table, she finished her coffee and stood up. “This headache was threatening all day, and it’s getting worse by the minute. Thanks for dinner, Hal.”

  Despite her rude exit, Hal continued to extend his invitations for the next few months. Several times she tried to turn him down, but he brushed her excuses aside. She berated herself for lacking the courage to stand her ground and kept up the small social activity for want of an easy way to end it.

  Stupid, stupid. Why had she said yes, the first time? Why her? He had so many women friends. Wonder what his current lady friend thought.

  In March, the first day of spring, Eddy’s name came up in their dinner conversation. Tim Conroy’s trial, delayed from the fall term of court, was scheduled for two different dates in the new year but was postponed again for one reason or another.

  “Surprised the Sage broad hasn’t tried to cut the bastard a deal.” Hal shrugged. “But things happen to snitches in prison sometimes.”

  “Amanda’s a good lawyer.” Hal’s contempt goaded her into supporting Amanda. Then his use of the word “snitch” registered and her heart sank. “What? Who could he snitch on? He was the only one involved in running Eddy down.”

  The plate Hal had just picked up rattled a little as he piled it on another. He steadied the stack before answering. “His kind are always involved in other crimes. He could trade information on other cases for l
eniency. If old Goddard’s in the right mood, she might pull it off.”

  Eddy had mentioned having to testify before Judge Goddard a few times. He said courthouse rumors circulated about the elderly judge’s eye for attractive women in his court. Royce prayed the judge’s human frailty would not influence him to be lenient with Eddy’s killer.

  Casting about for a new subject, Royce asked about a new hybrid rose she wanted to add to her garden. To get Hal off a particular subject, one only need ask about plants.

  In April, she came down with a lingering spring cold. Hal telephoned on a Thursday to confirm their Saturday dinner.

  “You don’t want this cold. I’d better cancel.” For emphasis, she sneezed a couple of times.

  “Take a pill,” he ordered. “You’ll be fine by Saturday.”

  “No. We’ll make it another time. I’d be miserable company.”

  “Fine. Suit yourself.” He slammed the phone down.

  She hung up her own receiver. Though disturbing, his anger didn’t shock her. She had seen it before.

  Why was she such a fool? Why did she allow these dinners to get started? And why did Hal even want them to start?

  She heard no more from Hal Woodstone until the Monday of the first week of May. He called and invited her to yet another dinner for the following Saturday evening. She determined that it was time to have a straight talk with him. Time to free herself from the unwanted quasi-relationship. Why hadn’t she done it sooner?

  ****

  Across town, the painfully thin woman in room twenty-two at the Fall Creek Inn slumped in a tattered chair. The telephone receiver slipped from her fingers to the stained carpet. The motel was new and just opened, she vaguely remembered, when she left Fall Creek all those years ago. Hal had said at the time that it was a pretentious name. She guessed it still was, for a tourist haven long past its prime. Even the kindly light of a May afternoon was not able to improve its unkempt appearance as she walked to the entrance. No matter, she wouldn’t be here long.

  She managed to pick up the receiver. The ringing signal was still on the line. It had gone on so long she began to think no one was home. Then a voice with a heavy Hispanic accent answered, “Morrell residence.”

  “Thelma Morrell, please.” The name almost stuck in her throat. Terri would always end up in comfort. Her family’s wealth saw to that. Now it was time to share some of that money.

  When she’d told the housekeeper who was calling, Thelma came on the line immediately. “What the hell? I hoped you were dead.”

  “Like that security guard? I never asked—was it an unlucky pitch, Terri, or did you mean to hit him that hard?”

  “My name is Thelma.” She lowered her voice and seemed to have her lips against the receiver. “Where are you? What do you want?”

  “I’m at the Fall Creek Inn. And I want money.”

  “Fifty thousand dollars?” Terri/Thelma spit out, when she heard how much money. “Not very damn likely.”

  “I saw a familiar face getting off the plane this afternoon. Remember that young FBI agent so determined to make his name by finding us?” A faint intake of breath came over the line. Thelma Morrell had probably convinced herself she would never be caught and imprisoned.

  The thin woman didn’t mention the shiver of fear she’d felt at seeing FBI agent Les Howard again. Even though with dark hair and the cancer’s decimation of her former beauty, she knew the chance of her being recognized was small.

  “Wasn’t it enough you led them to me twenty years ago?” Thelma demanded. “Are you so crazy you’d let them catch you again for revenge?”

  “It really doesn’t matter now. Fifty thousand.” She paused. “Terri. Or my next call will be to the FBI.”

  Silence on the other end as her former friend probably tried to gauge her determination. Terri had always been a good judge of people. And still was, it seemed. “It’s Friday; the banks will close in half an hour. I’ll send someone with the money tomorrow before noon. Then you’re out of my life—forever. Understand?”

  The woman’s trembling fingers managed to rattle the receiver onto the base. She dragged her peasant blouse over her head. It had fit when she sewed it only weeks ago, but now hung like a shroud. An all-too-apt description as even that little effort exhausted her.

  Why did she make an outfit like the ones she wore back in California? She could have been caught before she even started what she came to do in Fall Creek. She fingered the blouse as her thoughts returned to another time and place.

  “The pigs must’ve caught Terri!” Klu had gasped over his shoulder.

  She’d clutched a hand to her side and fell back a little. Fat chance. If Terri was with them, she would be ahead, long legs eating up the blocks, black hair flying behind her like raven wings. Heather’s shoulder-length blonde locks streamed back from her face. “Meet…at the loft,” she panted.

  The cops cornered Klu in an alley. So she hid in a craft shop, curled into a ball in a wicker papasan chair, then sneaked into the shop’s storeroom and left after darkness fell. She took a roundabout way to the short dead-end street where Terri had rented the loft for the group.

  ****

  On the Saturday Royce had determined to end the dinners with Hal, Chrys Wynter knocked on Royce’s back door at about eleven. The bright May sunlight made her pale, blonde hair a halo around her pretty face. “Hi, neighbor, could I beg a cup of tea? Amanda is completely out, as usual.”

  “Come in, Chrys. I’ve just put the kettle on.” Royce was glad to see her. She felt at ease with the young woman, since there was little chance Chrys knew anything about neighborhood affairs that had happened before she was born.

  “You’ve been busy at the office, I guess.” Royce placed cups and saucers on the table and filled the tea ball with her favorite tea leaves flavored with almond.

  “Swamped since that long winter vacation they took in Aspen. You wouldn’t think a criminal attorney like Amanda would be so much in demand in tiny Fall Creek. But Lord, we’ve been busy. Guess the stress finally got to me. I nearly cost her an important client yesterday.”

  “What happened?”

  “My hand slipped as I handed the woman a cup of coffee. Thank God, it only hit the hem of her raw silk skirt.”

  “Not you, the personification of grace.”

  “I offered to pay for the cleaning, but Amanda wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “Anyone I know?” Royce asked idly.

  Chrys giggled. “Shouldn’t gossip about a client, but as a matter of fact, yes. That wealthy couple, the van Orpens, who were going to restore that monstrosity at the end of the block? You remember Mrs. van Orpen stirred up the neighborhood trying to close down Hal’s greenhouse.”

  “She’s a client? But Marc represented Hal and his greenhouse against them—and he won.”

  “The van Orpens have lots of business interests, and Marc handles those. They expect the best in everything, including legal advice.”

  “Martha.” Royce snapped her fingers. “Martha van Orpen.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I’m surprised she didn’t demand Amanda fire you on the spot for spilling the coffee.”

  Chrys grinned. “I’m indispensable. They both told me so when they paid for my move to Fall Creek.”

  “Why would Martha van Orpen need Amanda? She’s a criminal attorney.”

  Royce poured boiling water into the teapot, and the aromatic steam curled around the lid. When the tea had steeped enough, Royce poured two cups, and Chrys took a sip of the fragrant brew.

  “The old girl pinched a male server at Cafe Pines on the edge of town. Just her luck he’s gay and pressed charges for assault.”

  Royce laughed. “She didn’t!”

  “Did, too.”

  Royce remembered Hal’s sarcastic suggestion that Amanda would be able to get a lighter sentence for Tim Conroy, even though he had killed Eddy. “So was Amanda able to get van Orpen out of the assault charge?”

 
“Sort of. She paid a hefty fine and a substantial additional sum for the server’s ‘pain and humiliation.’ ” Chrys laughed and stood up. “Thanks for the tea.”

  She started to say something else just as the telephone rang.

  “Excuse me, Chrys.” Royce went to the desk and picked up the phone.

  “When do you plan to give Palmer Woodstone the money from his father?” The voice was husky but pure female.

  Chapter Four

  Royce opened her mouth to respond but couldn’t find words. She managed to drag the desk chair out and dropped into it.

  “Royce, what is it? Who is it?” Chrys asked and started around the table.

  As Royce’s trembling hand held the phone to her ear, the voice on the telephone uttered more shocking words.

  “If you don’t give it to him, you’re stealing from your husband’s son. Think about it.” The line went dead.

  “A crank call,” she managed. “A stupid crank call.” To Royce’s relief, Chrys left after a few minutes. Just as Royce closed the back door the phone rang again.

  She snatched up the phone. “Who are you?”

  “Is this Royce Thorne?” Yet another unfamiliar voice came over the line.

  “And who are you?”

  “Suze Mackie at WJFC TV. I’ve just received a publicity packet from a literary agent named Ross Morris. It’s all about you and the book you have coming out.”

  “From Ross? I’m sorry I was—”

  “Morris is your agent?”

  “Yes. He told me he’d be sending the publicity releases out.”

  “Your book, Two on the Run, is due out in late summer, according to the release info.”

  “It is.”

  “As you know, my show here at WJFC, Suze First, spotlights a local author or artist on Monday of each week.”

  “I’ve seen your show. It’s a nice thing for you to―”