She’d barely made it to the fence when she felt a big hand come around her head and cover her mouth. One big arm wrapped her middle like a steel band, and they fell together onto the ground. Phoebe kicked and struggled. She tried to slam her knee into his groin or kick his shin, as she’d learned in a self-defense course. But Quentin’s heavy leg easily kept her own legs pressed to the ground. Tears filled her eyes as she tried to scream and then bit down on his hand. He cursed, but his hold only tightened. With her strength ebbing, Phoebe sadly realized that even had she been three times her size, Quentin still would have been stronger and she had no chance of getting away from him.
“Give it up, Phoebe . . . I’ve got you now,” he hissed into her ear.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was Quentin, after all. He killed Beth in some crazed, angry rage . . . mistaking her for Charlotte . . . and now he’s going to kill me!
The truth crystallized in Phoebe’s mind in a single, horrifying instant as she lay with her head pressed to the ground, her eyes bugging out. Quentin’s big hand remained plastered over her mouth.
A surreal feeling dropped over her, like a heavy mist. As if she were trapped in a dream—her worst nightmare. Quentin loomed above her, blocking out the meager light from the lamp on the garage.
“Stop fighting me . . . You’re like a squirming little bug. I could snap your bones with a flick of my wrist, don’t you get it? So just shut up and listen to me!” he shouted down at her.
But I haven’t been talking! You have your hand over my mouth, remember? she wanted to scream back. But maybe in his head, she had been talking?
Phoebe stared up at him. Her head was about to burst with all the words she wanted to shout into his stupid face. Finally, she stopped struggling and just nodded, her chin bobbing up and down like a little doll.
She saw his expression relax a bit, and so did his grip. He still held her down, but he wasn’t hurting her anymore.
“I need to talk to you about Charlotte . . .”
Phoebe gulped. Was he going to make some sort of confession now . . . about killing Beth? She didn’t think she could stand hearing that. She squeezed her eyes shut, but he kept talking. She had no choice but to listen.
“Do you know where Charlotte is? Did she get in touch with you?”
Phoebe shook her head, trying to say no.
“You’d better not lie to me, Phoebe. You’re the only person she’d get in touch with. She must have tried, a text or Instagram or something?”
Phoebe didn’t know how to indicate “I’m not lying!” while being unable to speak. She stared back at him, her eyes bugging out of her head.
“Okay, listen . . . the night I chased her, at the gallery, I wasn’t going to hurt her. I knew she was in trouble with some guy she’d been seeing after me. That’s who killed Beth Shelton. He was trying to get Charlotte and I wanted to help her. To protect her . . . but she wouldn’t let me. I told that to the police,” he added, “but they didn’t believe me. So now you have to tell them. Understand?”
Phoebe blinked. She really didn’t understand. She mumbled against his hand.
“All right . . . all right. I’ll take my hand off your mouth . . . but you’d better not scream. Or try to get away. I’m warning you.”
His tone was so severe, any thought of calling out for help immediately dissolved.
When he finally took his hand away, Phoebe gasped for air.
“So talk already,” he said impatiently.
“I don’t get it . . . You want me to lie to the police and tell them Charlotte told me something that she really didn’t say? That she’s in trouble with some boyfriend?”
“It’s not a lie. It’s the truth. It could save her freaking life. Don’t you want to save her life?” he practically screamed at her. “Hey, this dude is powerful. He knows people. He knows how to find someone and shut them up for good. He can hunt someone down as good as the police. Even better.”
So . . . Quentin Gibbs was paranoid, too, on top of all his other quirks? That figured.
Phoebe quickly nodded, mainly to calm him down. Making Quentin more excited and angry was not a good idea. He had loosened his grip considerably, though he still held her to the ground.
She tried hard to focus and keep her voice calm.
“I’m sorry . . . I still don’t get it. What do you want me to tell them?”
Quentin seemed frustrated, his skin flushed right up to his scalp and the edge of his Mohawk.
“You just say like . . . you suddenly remembered something. Charlotte told you she had some guy, an older dude. And you think he’s out to get her for some reason. I’m thinking now it’s a guy from that law firm in Boston. Where she had the proofreading job. That’s who wants to get her . . . I just don’t know why.”
“The law firm?” Phoebe had never thought of that. When he’d said “older dude,” she’d immediately thought of Professor Healey. But all that money in her locker . . . Some big corporate lawyer would be rolling in dough. A lawyer made more sense than a college professor once you figured in the stash of cash. Still, Phoebe wanted to know why Quentin thought so.
“What makes you say the law firm?”
“I’m a freaking fortune-teller, okay? . . . And I’ve been keeping an eye on her. Ever since we broke up,” he admitted. “I followed her to the train station a few times—her car is like always in that lot. Even overnight. And I know her. Inside out. All right?”
Phoebe decided it was not smart to ask any more questions. “Just wondering,” she mumbled.
Charlotte went into the city from time to time, just like everyone else. Maybe even more so, to visit galleries and go to the law office. Seeing her car at the station didn’t mean much, Phoebe thought.
So on top of being paranoid, he’d also read too many John Grisham novels? No . . . check that. Seen the movies. He probably had not read a book without pictures for a few years now.
Her lips felt bruised and swollen from being smashed by his hand for so long. Maggie was going to think she’d stopped off for some quickie Botox injections.
Quentin’s voice broke into her wandering thoughts. “So . . . are you going to do it or what?”
“Or what” was not the answer he was looking for. Phoebe knew that.
“Okay . . . I’ll do it. I mean, what the heck. The police are fairly clueless, if you ask me. They should look into any leads they get. I don’t know why they ignored you.” It was hard to deliver that last line with a straight face, but somehow she managed.
“That’s what I thought. But they laughed me off. Like I was just pushing the blame on someone else to save my own skin. Hey, I didn’t kill Beth Shelton . . . and I’d never hurt a hair on Charlotte’s head . . .”
Right . . . that’s why she had to get a court order to keep you away, Phoebe wanted to remind him. Skip that reply.
“I love Charlotte. And she loves me . . . deep in her heart. We’re soul mates. When she comes back, she’s going to face that, and we’ll be together again.”
His tone was matter-of-fact. And totally deluded. Phoebe didn’t dare challenge him. If Charlotte did return, she’d need more than a restraining order to keep this guy away.
Phoebe sucked in the sharp cold air, but it was hard to get a full breath with Quentin’s arm still wrapped across her body, holding her down.
Are we done here? she wanted to ask. But she wouldn’t dare. She stared into his cold blue eyes. He looked like a deranged husky dog . . . except for the stiff strip of hair sticking up on his head. A crystal stud earring in one ear glinted in the darkness and a multicolored tattoo curled up his neck. She couldn’t tell what it said. She realized she didn’t want to know.
“So . . . did you follow me here or something?” she ventured to ask.
Thick brows knit together. “I came here for the same reason you did. To feed the cats. Catching up to you was just a lucky break.”
Yeah, my lucky day, too, Phoebe thought.
“Nice,”
she managed. “Charlotte’s probably wondering if anybody’s watching them.”
“I thought so, too.” He stared at her, as if wondering if she was making fun of him or not. She hoped he decided the latter.
She took a breath and decided to make her move. His mood could flip any second.
“So . . . can you let me up now? . . . I’m like morphing into an ice pop.”
He didn’t seem to hear her at first. Just stared down into her face, his expression angry, scared, lonely, crazy, and desperate all at once. She wondered if he only felt control of his own feelings when he had someone else under control.
Finally, he took his arm away and she was able to sit up.
She gasped and rubbed her face with her hands. She wanted to cry but didn’t want to waste a single second getting away from Quentin. Save it for the car, Phoebe, she told herself.
Quentin had already stood up and extended his hand down to her.
She looked at it but didn’t make a move to touch him again.
“Go on. I’ll pull you up. You just said your legs are numb.” Before she could answer, he grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet.
Phoebe wobbled from side to side and grabbed the edge of the table.
“Need help getting back to your car?”
“Seriously? . . . You want to help me to my car? After you nearly squeezed the living juice out of me?”
He shrugged, looking a tiny bit sheepish. “Hey . . . you’re all right, aren’t you? If you’d just talked to me the other day, I wouldn’t have had to grab you like that. It’s your own fault,” he added.
“Right . . . you nearly maim me for life, and it’s my fault?” The guy has more twists than a hot pretzel. Phoebe knew it was totally stupid to stand here arguing with him. But she was so enraged, she couldn’t help it.
“Hey . . . if I wanted to put a hurt on you, Phoebe, I could have done better than that.”
“Yeah . . . well . . . you need help, Quentin. Seriously.” She mumbled the parting advice, half hoping he didn’t hear.
“Hey, I heard that! You just remember, I’ll know if you don’t keep your promise and tell the cops what I told you to say. As far as anybody needs to know, we just had a nice little talk back here. If you complain to anybody about me, I won’t go so easy the next time . . . You hear me?”
Phoebe ached all over but managed to run the last few steps to her car. A wave of nausea rose up, nearly overtaking her.
She slipped behind the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and flipped the lock switch. She looked back at the yard, to make sure Quentin had not chased her. He was still standing there, by the picnic table.
Then she saw all the unopened cans of cat food that had spilled out of the bags, the shiny tops of the cans catching the light.
Phoebe sighed, feeling frustrated. All that food. It would do no good now. Cats did not have opposable thumbs . . . possibly the only reason their kind did not rule the universe. But no way was she going back out there. That was for sure.
But Quentin had noticed, too, and started picking up the cans, opening them, and carefully setting them out around the yard. A cat appeared and started eating. He crouched down and gently petted its head.
Wow, was he bizarre. Her mind could not contain the extent of his weirdness.
She started up her car, wincing at the aches and pains as she backed out of the driveway. Maggie was probably worried about her now.
Worse yet, she’ll freak out when hears this story, Phoebe realized. But I have to tell her . . . and tell Detective Reyes what Quentin said, too.
* * *
Phoebe was almost afraid to ring Maggie’s doorbell. She had even considered going back to her apartment and making some excuse about deciding to sleep in her own apartment tonight.
The truth was, Quentin had caught up to her, and she was positive he wouldn’t bother again. Not tonight anyway. He’d had his fun, she thought, as she rubbed her aching wrist.
But Maggie saw her from the living room window and came to the door before she could sneak away. “What happened to you? I tried your cell . . . and your jacket’s covered with dirt. So are your jeans.” Maggie looked her over, her mouth hanging slack.
Phoebe shook her head. She unzipped her black parka and winced a bit, turning her arm to get it off.
“Phoebe . . . you’re hurt. Did you have an accident?” Maggie quickly glanced outside at Phoebe’s car as she closed the door. “Did you fall down somewhere?”
“Yeah, I fell . . . well, I was pushed down actually. I stopped at Charlotte’s house. To feed her cats. And I ran into Quentin.”
“Quentin?” Maggie practically gasped repeating his name. She stood closer to Phoebe, facing her squarely. “I knew he was going to bother you . . . Did he follow you there?”
“He says he didn’t. He said he came to feed the cats, too . . . Maggie, he has this wild theory that Charlotte is being hunted down by some sleazy attorney from that law firm where she did proofreading . . . and he wants me to tell the police that she said that to me. Because he tried to tell them, and he says they just blew him off.”
Maggie gently touched her arm. “Slow down, I don’t understand . . . Did he hurt you?”
Phoebe realized she sounded a little hysterical. A lot hysterical, actually.
She took a breath and shook her head. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Scared me . . . a lot,” she managed. “I ran when I saw him. But he caught me and pushed me down . . . and sort of made me listen to him.”
Maggie’s expression melted. Phoebe saw her friend’s chin tremble. “You poor thing . . . He must have terrified you.”
“He’s insane. You have no idea. I was stuck on the frozen ground for like forever while he spun these bizarre theories about Charlotte . . . and told me they were soul mates. Can you believe that insanity? I’m so cold, I’ve got like goose bumps on my goose bumps.”
Maggie turned Phoebe gently toward the staircase. “You go up and take a long, hot shower and put on some dry clothes. Pajamas would be a good idea at this point. Did you bring everything you need?”
Phoebe nodded and picked up her knapsack. “Right here.”
“Good. I’ll fix some tea and you can tell me the whole story. When you’re ready.”
Phoebe nodded thankfully. She slung the knapsack over her shoulder and headed up to the guest room. Maggie watched her from the foot of the stairs. Halfway up, Phoebe paused.
“Are we still having waffles?”
“Absolutely. The batter is all ready.”
Phoebe sighed. For some reason, that made her feel a whole lot better.
* * *
A short time later, Phoebe sat at the table in Maggie’s cozy kitchen, wearing flannel pajamas printed with penguins and thick fuzzy slipper socks she’d knit for herself. She’d forgotten her robe, but Maggie had given her a soft white afghan.
Comfortably wrapped, she sipped a cup of chamomile tea, described her encounter with Quentin in full detail, and explained his wild theory while Maggie made their waffles.
“It sounds like he’s seen too many evil-lawyer conspiracy movies. You know, the ones where all the witnesses die in mysterious accidents? He’s so screwed up. No wonder the police didn’t take him seriously,” Phoebe concluded.
“Well, we don’t know that for sure. Maybe the police did follow up on the lead, but nothing came of it.” Maggie set a pot of hot tea on the table and took her seat.
Phoebe smashed a few banana slices on her waffle with her fork and sprinkled on some cinnamon. “Maybe . . . but I was thinking in the shower, what if it is true? It sort of explains a few things, like why Charlotte had all that money. If this evil lawyer was close to Charlotte, he could have known she was a Knit Kat and figured that was a good direction to throw the blame.”
“All right, I’ll buy that. But if he was close to Charlotte, he would have known it wasn’t her, it was Beth.”
“These guys don’t get down and dirty, Mag. They call Creeps for Hire and find s
ome sleazeball who just sees a picture of the person he’s supposed to kill, in a dark bar or an underground parking garage. Someplace like that.”
“Now it sounds like you’ve seen too many of those movies.” Maggie speared a bite of waffle with her fork. “So you think Quentin is on to something and the police didn’t listen to him? I guess that could be true. Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”
“In his case, a broken cuckoo clock. I’m going to tell Detective Reyes what he said. I’m just not going to lie and say Charlotte told me all that stuff and I just remembered. I don’t want to get in any more trouble, either.”
“Good point, and good plan. But what about filing a complaint against Quentin? He twisted your arm, pushed you to the ground, held his hand over your face. I bet you have bruises . . . do you?”
Phoebe twisted her mouth to the side, a dumb habit she had when she didn’t want to answer. “Not really. Just a few red spots. They’re going away.”
“Phoebe . . . I know you’re afraid of him. But I think you have to report this. Even if you don’t press charges, the police will have a talk with him. He can’t walk around thinking he can behave like that and get away with it.”
“I know . . . but I don’t want to think about it anymore. I’ll ask Detective Reyes and see what she says I should do. I’ll call her right after we eat, okay?”
Maggie nodded. “Fair enough. Do you want another waffle?” she asked, noticing Phoebe’s empty plate.
“Yes, please . . . that was really good. Thanks.”
Maggie glanced at her as she walked back to the waffle maker. “I haven’t made these in a while. I think they came out pretty good.”
“Pretty good? These waffles are awesome . . . and thanks for making me come here tonight. I would have been a total mess alone at home. You must be psychic or something.”
Maggie laughed. “Probably just ‘or something.’ But I have my moments.”
After their wafflefest, Phoebe followed through on her plan and called Detective Reyes. She told her Quentin’s theory about the mysterious ex-boyfriend, an evil lawyer who was out to get Charlotte for some unknown reason. It sounded even wilder and more deranged when she was repeating it to a law officer than Phoebe had imagined.
A Dark and Stormy Knit (Black Sheep Knitting Mystery) Page 18