by Susan Fleet
She gulped some wine, avoiding his eyes. “He’s got a temper, that’s for sure.”
The bad vibes got worse. “Did he ever hit you?”
“Franco, I don’t want to talk about problems all night. Listen to this.” She grinned and her dark eyes got that sparkly look, the way they did when she was excited about something. “I talked to that lottery winner.”
Bada-bing. Another bombshell. “The Megabucks winner? When?”
“Wednesday night after she collected the check. On Tuesday I talked to my editor, pitched my idea for a series of articles on gambling. You know, all the problems it causes. Anyway, he okayed it. The minute the Lottery Office put out word that the winner was going to pick up the check, I was on it.”
“Huh. I watched it on the news with Rafe, the center on the District 4 hoop team. We had a game that night, stopped at a bar afterwards for a beer. The Boston Pops clarinet player, right? How’d you get her to talk to you? She seemed overwhelmed.”
“Overwhelmed doesn’t begin to describe it. More like panic, flashbulbs going off, reporters shouting questions, sticking microphones in her face.” Gina flashed a smile. “So your ace reporter rescued her. Much to the chagrin of my fellow newshounds, I put her in my car and spirited her away. I took her to Mama Leone’s for a drink.”
“Did you warn her about the Jackpot Killer?”
Gina looked at him. “You know, I didn’t even think about that.”
“Well, if you talk to her again, make sure you tell her.”
“I will. But she’ll probably be okay. I think she’s got a boyfriend.”
“Yeah? Where was he when she collected the check?”
“I don’t know.” Gina sipped her wine. “I think he might be a musician.”
“Does he live with her?”
“Good question. Next time we talk, I’ll ask her. Once she got over the fact that I was a reporter, we got along okay. It seemed like she needed to talk to someone. Her parents live in Cleveland. I got the feeling she hadn’t told them about winning the lottery. She was anxious to get home, but she agreed to talk to me next week. First thing Monday morning, I’ll give her a call.”
CHAPTER 15
Monday, May 15
Vicky hung up the phone and went back to the breakfast bar to finish her coffee. Thank God for the answering machine. Tomorrow she’d have a new number, an unpublished one, but for now all she could do was screen her calls. The initial deluge had dwindled, but even today, five days after she’d claimed the prize, her phone had rung four times and it was only 8:30.
First Nigel had called from Logan Airport to tell her he’d set up an appointment with a financial planner for this afternoon. When she hung up, the phone rang again. A reporter left a message requesting an interview. Why couldn’t they leave her alone? Two minutes later Gina Bevilaqua, the Herald reporter who’d rescued her at the lottery office, called. She almost picked up. She’d promised to talk to her. But she had too much to do today. She’d call Gina tomorrow.
The last call was from the cable company about a problem with the cable connection. She never watched TV in the morning, but he told her to check. Sure enough, when she turned on her television set the screen was full of wavy horizontal lines. He said he’d have to fix her cable box.
Fine, but she wasn’t going to hang around waiting for him. As soon as Nigel got here, she was taking him to a rehearsal for her chamber music concert. Unable to sit still, she checked to see if the music was in her clarinet case. It was. She made sure her best reeds were in the case. They were.
Everything was going to be fine. Nigel would be here soon.
She couldn’t wait to see him. After her rehearsal they would meet with the financial planner and sign the agreement to split the money. Then she’d call and tell her parents about Nigel and their wedding plans. That brought a smile to her face. Dad would be ecstatic. No telling about Mom. Yesterday, she’d called to wish her a happy Mother’s Day. Her mother said Ophelia had baked her a cake, going on about the luscious white frosting and the pink and yellow rosebud decorations. Big deal. Then she’d talked to Dad.
It had taken all her willpower not to tell him about the lottery prize.
She held her left hand under the light above the breakfast bar. The diamond ring glittered, sending sparkles of light dancing over the counter.
The door buzzer sounded and her heart surged. At this hour the Sumner Tunnel was usually jammed, but maybe Nigel had beaten the morning rush.
She went to the intercom beside her door and pressed a button.
“Who is it?”
“Cable company, ma’am,” said a soft voice.
Disappointed, she buzzed him in. Just what she needed. Some repairman messing with her cable connection. She didn’t have time to watch television. Her life had turned upside down.
But Nigel would be here soon. Everything would be fine.
____
The taxi crept forward a few feet and stopped. Nigel glanced out the window. Four lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic inching along like a giant tapeworm toward the Sumner Tunnel. The tollbooths weren’t even in sight. At this rate it would take forever to get to Vicky’s.
He smiled, recalling how happy she sounded when he’d called from the airport. He couldn’t wait to put his arms around her and smother her with kisses, which he intended to do straight away when he got there.
If he ever got there.
The cab inched forward. He studied the driver’s photograph on the thick plastic partition that separated them. The name was unpronounceable, a string of consonants with no vowels between them. He tried to guess where the bloke was from. Pakistan? Turkey? Timbuktu? He gave up.
The man didn’t speak English, probably didn’t know his way ’round the North End, either. The streets were narrow and many of them were one-way. He’d have to rap on the partition at each intersection and point to show the bloke how to get to Vicky’s flat.
The taxi rounded a curve and the tollbooths came into sight. Progress, of sorts, but some lanes were for EZ-Pass and some were cash, so four lanes of vehicles began jockeying for position. A tall man with a ponytail was weaving in and out between the cars. At first Nigel thought he was a panhandler, but then he noticed the container and cups. The bloke was selling coffee. What a splendid idea!
He rolled down the window, stuck out his hand and waved. The rotgut they’d served on the flight from Vegas tasted like dishwater. A hot cup of coffee was just what he needed.
The coffee man ambled up to the taxi and tossed his head, flipping the ponytail over his shoulder. “Morning, sir. Coffee?”
“Right-o! Love a cup.”
“Cream? Milk? Sugar?”
“I’ll take it black, thank you.”
The man held a white Styrofoam cup under the spigot on the canister slung over his shoulder, filled the cup and held it out with a flourish. “That’ll be one dollar, please.”
“Here’s two. Give you a hundred if you can tell me how to get us through the tunnel quicker.”
The man laughed. “If I could do that, I wouldn’t be selling coffee, I’d be a millionaire!” With an amiable grin, the man ambled to the car behind them.
The coffee was hot and strong, almost as good as Vicky’s. He reached in his pocket, took out a flattened package of Winstons and extracted a cigarette. Blast! His last one. He’d better buy some at that shop ’round the corner from Vicky’s. Marie’s Variety, the lucky shop where he’d bought the Megabucks ticket. Wouldn’t that old woman be surprised if she knew he was the winner!
He lit the cigarette and relaxed as the cab edged down the slope toward the toll booths. The driver rapped on the plastic partition and said something, frowning at him in the rearview mirror, waving his finger.
“What?” Nigel said. “I can’t understand you.”
More unintelligible words. The cabbie pointed to a sign pasted on the partition. No smoking. Bloody hell! The whole bleeding planet was anti-smoking these days. Didn’t they have mor
e important problems to solve? He rolled down the window, took a final drag and tossed out the butt.
At last, the taxi pulled up to the tollbooth. The driver paid the toll and asked for a receipt. Another delay. The toll taker punched some buttons and held out a slip of paper. The driver took it, put the cab in gear and they lurched forward into the maelstrom, six lanes of cars, taxis and trucks fighting for position to enter the two-lane tunnel.
Bloody terrifying, too terrifying to watch.
He leaned back against the seat, sipped his coffee and thought about Vicky. She was so talented, a natural-born musician. Not many people had the brains and determination to make a go of a music career, but Vicky did.
She was fearless, the most wonderful girl in the world.
Vicky wanted a Bermuda wedding, and whatever Vicky wanted was what they would do. Fly her family in from Cleveland, invite a few close friends. They’d have a splendid time, sun and fun on sandy white beaches.
The traffic flow funneled them into the Sumner Tunnel, a two-lane tube below Boston Harbor, lit by garish yellow lights.
Traffic began to move and they picked up speed.
Soon they’d be out the other end and into the North End.
Almost to Vicky’s. Marvelous Vicky with her gorgeous brown eyes and her hip sense of humor.
Everything would work out as long as he and Vicky were together.
Mr. and Mrs. Nigel Heath. Sharing the Megabucks prize.
____
He knelt behind the television set. One of those big monstrosities from the ’90s, it stood on a sturdy wooden chest. He pretended to adjust the connections. Inside the latex gloves his hands dampened with sweat. Behind him, four feet away, Victoria stood beside the loveseat, watching every move he made. Over a pair of jeans, she wore a navy-blue T-shirt with white letters on the front: BOSTON SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA.
He squirmed out from behind the television set. The power cord snaked to a six-plug power strip tangled with cords. These old apartment buildings never had enough outlets. The power strip was plugged into an outlet above the baseboard between the television set and a three-drawer chest that held an amplifier, a CD player, a radio-tuner, and a DVD player. Victoria had too many electronics.
The back of his hand itched like crazy. He could feel her watching him. Just like his mother. Always watching, never happy, no matter what he did.
His metal toolbox was on the floor near the television set, but his lucky winner couldn’t see what was inside. After he took out the screwdriver, he’d closed the cover. Kneeling beside the television set, he looked up at her. Behind her round-rimmed glasses her eyes were large and dark.
Watching him.
When she let him inside, he’d smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back, just bombarded him with questions. “What’s wrong with the cable connection? How long will it take to fix it? I have to go to work.”
Why was she worried about work? With all her millions she didn’t have to work. She was stupid, and she was making him nervous, standing there watching him. Victoria wasn’t a little old lady like the others. On the news they said she was thirty-three, three years older than he was. They were about the same height, but she looked strong. What if she fought back?
He shivered. His bladder felt ready to burst. Maybe he wouldn’t do it. Maybe he’d just fix the cable connection and leave.
“How much longer will you be?” she said, glowering at him.
Anger swelled inside him. Nag, nag, nag. Just like his mother.
“I’m about done, but I need your help.” He rose to his feet and pointed. “I need you to unplug the power strip from that outlet over there.”
She frowned. “Why?”
It sent him into a rage. Why couldn’t she just do as he said?
“I’m trying to hurry, Victoria.”
She flinched when he said her name. That was a mistake. He conjured his bashful smile. “I’ve got a lot more calls to make. My boss is really on my case today. You know how bosses are.”
Her expression softened. “Okay. What do I have to do?”
“Just unplug the power strip.”
She didn’t look happy, but she went to the outlet and knelt down on the rug. He opened his toolbox, took out the yellow plastic bag and crept up behind her. Before she could pull out the plug, he jumped on her.
She lost her balance and fell forward. Her head hit the baseboard with a thump and her glasses fell off. Before she could react, he jammed his knee into her back, plunged the plastic bag over her head and yanked the cord tight around her neck.
The telephone rang.
It startled him so much he let go of the cord.
She struggled violently, legs thrashing, fingers clawing at the bag. He grabbed her arms but she was strong, much stronger than the others.
The telephone shrilled like a siren.
His head throbbed, a mouth-mother-pain in his head.
She ripped off the bag, fighting him, bucking like a horse.
He couldn’t hold her down! Grasping her head with both hands, he slammed it against the wooden baseboard.
Her body went limp. Weak with relief, he sat astride her, panting.
Again the phone rang. Then it stopped.
Her legs moved and she groaned.
What if she screamed? What if someone heard her?
He dragged the toolbox closer and picked it up. The toolbox was heavy, had to weigh twenty-five pounds at least. He slammed it down on her head, flinched at the sickening crunch.
Suddenly a voice said, “Hi luv, are you there?” A man’s voice.
He almost wet his pants. Panic-stricken, he looked behind him.
Then he realized the voice came from Victoria’s answering machine. “I’m at the grocery shop ’round the corner, thought I’d call and see if you needed anything. Be there in half a mo, luv.”
The answering machine clicked and whirred.
His heart jolted, sent stabbing pains into his head. Someone was coming!
Victoria’s arm jerked and her legs twitched spasmodically.
He raised the toolbox again and dropped it on her head.
Another sickening crunch.
She lay still. But blood seeped from her head, oozing onto the rug.
Seeing the blood almost made him vomit. He was going to wet his pants.
No, no, no! He had to get out! The man was coming.
His breath came in ragged gasps. He collected the plastic bag and the screwdriver and threw them in the toolbox. The bottle of J&B was in the top tray, but he had no time to leave it, no time to fix the screwed-up cable connection, either.
Then he noticed the sparkly diamond ring on Victoria’s hand, calling out to him. Unable to resist, he worked it off her finger, put it in his pocket and hurried to the door.
The answering machine!
He ran back, took out the incoming message tape, shoved it in his pocket and returned to the door. His heart pounded, beating his chest like a hammer. Cautiously, he opened the door and saw no one in the hall. Grasping the toolbox in one hand, he raced downstairs, flung open the door and dashed down the steps.
The narrow street was deserted. His van was parked right around the corner. In two minutes he’d be gone. But then a tall man in a dark suit came around the corner at the far end of the block.
He ran across the street and crouched behind a black Toyota parked at the curb. His bladder was ready to burst. Fearing he’d wet himself, he opened his fly and relieved himself in the gutter.
The man in the suit jogged up the steps to Victoria’s building and went inside. The man on the answering machine.
The man who had spoiled his victory.
____
Later he would remember that the door to the building was open. Unusual, but at the time he didn’t think about it, just ran upstairs, thinking he’d surprise Vicky. When he reached the second-floor landing, the door to her flat was ajar. He tapped on the door. “Vicky? It’s me, luv.”
When she didn’t a
nswer, he pushed open the door and called out again. “Vicky?” Then he saw her coffee mug on the breakfast bar. She was probably in the loo.
But when he stepped inside, his heart lurched in a sickening freefall.
“Vicky!”
He dropped his duffel bag and ran to her. She lay facedown on the floor between the telly and the stereo, her head near the baseboard. Rivulets of blood covered the nape of her neck. He sank to his knees, unable to catch his breath. There was blood everywhere, on the baseboard and the rug beneath her head. Beneath his breastbone, pain shot up into his chest.
“Vicky,” he whispered. “Dear God, what’s happened to you?”
He rolled her over onto her back and recoiled in horror. Red foam bubbled from her lips and her eyes were vacant and staring.
“No,” he moaned.
Bile spewed into his throat, a stream of burning acid. Fearing he would vomit, he swallowed hard. He couldn’t lose control now. He had to get help for Vicky. He struggled to his feet, went to the telephone and dialed 911.
When a woman answered, he said, “Help! There’s been a . . .”
He couldn’t speak, unable to tear his eyes away from Vicky, lying on the floor, her head covered with blood. “Send help quickly. Something terrible has happened . . . a terrible accident.”
“Where are you calling from, sir?”
He recited the address and said, “Send an ambulance. Hurry!”
He put down the phone and returned to Vicky.
Hoping. Praying.
Please let this be a terrible dream.
But her face was a grotesque mask. Tears welled up in his eyes.
He knelt down, gently took her head in his hands and kissed her forehead. “Vicky, what happened, luv?”
In the distance, he heard an approaching siren.
Ever so gently, he lowered her head to the floor.
His hands were smeared with blood, his fingers sticky with it. He went in the kitchen and washed his hands with soap and water. He dried his hands on a towel and buried his face in his hands. This couldn’t be happening.
“Vicky,” he whispered.