The Borrowed and Blue Murders (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries)

by Merry Jones

  The phone? Oh, right. I’d been upstairs, about to call the police, when I’d heard Oliver whining. My cell phone was down here in my purse—but where had I put my purse? Never mind— the downstairs phone was around. Somewhere. It was portable, would be wherever the last person who’d used it had left it. Here in the kitchen. Or maybe in the living room. With Anna.

  Susan was already looking in the kitchen, so holding the towel to my wound, I got to my feet, heading for the living room where Anna sat slumped in the wingback. Avoiding her, I turned into the darkness of the dining room. But before I could reach the light switch, I stumbled over something massive and fleshy. Cursing, I lost my balance and fell over it onto the floor.

  Susan heard me and came running in, calling my name, turning on the lights.

  At first, I was confused, not comprehending what I saw. Then, I recoiled, scuttling away from the thing I’d tripped over. It made no sense, but there beside me on the Oriental carpet, her dress stained crimson, was Bonnie Osterman, looking quite dead. One of my kitchen knives lay bloodied beside her, and the rug was spotted with darkening red.

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  OLIVER JUMPED ONTO MY legs, whimpering. I scooped him up and held him to my chest, more for my own comfort than his.

  “It’s her,” I told Susan. “It’s Bonnie Osterman.”

  Susan stared at the body, frowning. “You’re sure?”

  Was she serious? “Of course I’m sure.” There was no question. The woman on the floor was Bonnie Osterman.

  Susan helped me to my feet, into a chair. “Sit.” It was a command.

  I sat, realizing that Susan had indeed found the downstairs phone. She made calls, and vaguely I heard her talking, probably to the police, probably telling them where we were. But I wasn’t really listening; I was talking also, out loud to myself, trying to make sense of what was happening. Because if Bonnie Osterman was here, knifed on the dining room floor, she obviously hadn’t taken Molly and Luke. But if she hadn’t, who had?

  Obviously, I answered, it was the person who’d stabbed her. But who was that? It couldn’t have been Anna; Anna was dead. But aside from Anna, who else had been here? Just my children. I tried to piece it together, to remember what I knew. I’d gone upstairs and found Oliver whimpering, and then someone had slugged me. Maybe that had been Bonnie. But then what had happened? If no one else was here but Luke and Molly, then …I closed my eyes, picturing the possibility. Could Molly actually have killed Bonnie? Molly was slightly built, but she was agile, quick thinking, tough. But she was only six years old. Could she actually plunge a knife into someone? I doubted it. But she’d surprised me in the past with her daring and resilience. I tried to imagine it, couldn’t, told myself to stop trying. Whether Molly had stabbed Bonnie Osterman didn’t matter right now. Right now, all that mattered was finding Molly and her brother. But another thought occurred to me—maybe it had been the muggers. Maybe the people looking for the jump drives had taken the children. Maybe they were going to hold the children hostage until they got what they wanted.

  No. No, I told myself. That couldn’t be true. They’d told Tony they were going to be back. They wouldn’t kidnap children in the meantime. Would they?

  Oh God. I doubled over, reeling with the pain of their absence. My fingers, my arms, my entire body physically ached for them, longed to touch their solid warmth, felt only raw, empty air. Where were they? I ought to know; I was their mother, bound to them at the heart. Maybe if I just sat still and listened, I’d feel their pulses somewhere; I could follow the beat and go to them. I sat, listening, waiting, but heard nothing, felt only the screaming panic of loss and fear.

  Suddenly I couldn’t stay still anymore. I was agitated, angry. I didn’t think about a bleeding wound or a pounding dizziness. I got out of the chair and started pacing around Bonnie’s lumpy body, thinking out loud, ranting. Where are they? I demanded to know. Maybe Molly grabbed Luke and ran off somewhere safe. But where would she take him? Where would a six-year-old go in the night, on foot, weighed down with a baby? To the park? No, it was cold out and dark, and there would be no one there to protect them. Okay, not the park. Neighbors? Our street wasn’t a community; people moved in and out all the time. We didn’t even know most of the people on the block. Still, she might simply have rung a bell, asking for help. But she knew better than to talk to strangers, and besides, if she had, the neighbors would have called the police, who would have been here by now; it had been a while since I’d been knocked out—long enough for cops to answer a 911 call. So no. Molly hadn’t taken Luke. It had been someone else. But who?

  Oh God. I was mumbling, rambling, walking in circles. I wandered into the hall and back into the dining room, where I stopped, reversed my direction arid backed into the hall again. Something was different there, out of order in the hall. But what? I looked around, but it took only a second glance to figure it out: Luke’s stroller was gone. Where it should have been was a bare corner beside the coat rack. Whoever had taken the baby had also taken his wheels, walked off as if going for a stroll. And then from somewhere deep in my head, I heard a voice. Who would want to take not just Molly and the baby but the stroller as well? And, in an flash, I knew. Or thought I did.

  SEVENTY-SIX

  I rushed toward the front door, pulling on my coat, finding my handbag underneath it.

  Her jaw dropped. “Zoe, what are you doing?” She started after me.

  “Wait for the police, Susan. I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”

  She dashed between me and the door, blocking me, talking, but I only half-heard what she said.”…police …hospital…gash—”

  Actually, it was good that she stopped me; standing there, I realized I’d better take a weapon. I opened the front closet and, standing on tiptoe, reached up to the back of the top shelf for a metal case. I unlocked it, took out one of Nick’s spare guns, loaded it and stuffed it into my handbag while Susan fluttered around me in frantic protest.

  “Zoe? What is that? What are you doing? You’re taking a gun? What the hell’s wrong with you?” She squawked, waved her arms like a ruffled hen. “Answer me, dammit. Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I don’t have time to explain, Susan—I’ll call in a few minutes. I just have to go check something out.” I couldn’t dawdle around explaining my theory or justifying my intentions. My gut told me to fly.

  “Check out what? The police can check it—”

  Susan tried to hold on to me, but I couldn’t sit still and wait passively for the police. My children needed me, and even with Susan grabbing at me, even with blood trickling down the back of my neck, I managed to thrust myself out the door and down the steps.

  “Zoe. Stop, damn it.” She came after me, pulling my coat.

  “Let go,” I panted. “Susan, go back. The front door’s open.”

  “So?”

  She was right. What else could happen in there? I forced myself to stop struggling and relax. “Please, Susan. Go back and wait for the police.” I met her eyes, pleading. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  “Not until you tell me where you’re going.”

  I shook my head no; if I told her, she’d never let me go. “If I find the kids, I’ll call.” I tried to pull away.

  She had hold of my arm and wouldn’t let go. We stood at an impasse, her hands locked on me, and with each second I feared more for Molly and Luke.

  “Susan.” I was furious; she winced at my gaze. “They’re my children. Let me go.”

  Shivering and frowning, she left me at the corner of Fourth Street. “Fine. Go,” she scolded. “But you’d better call me in ten minutes like you said. And when you shoot your foot off, remember, I tried to stop you.” And she stomped away.

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  IVY’S HOUSE WAS FIVE blocks south, two west. Molly had been there dozens of times. My head hurt, but I raced ahead, alternately running and jogging. Along the way, I thought about Ivy wearing my wedding dress, raging that I did
n’t deserve either my children or my fiancé, demanding that I rehire her, refusing to relinquish her job. She’d seemed almost delusional. As if she thought I was out to hurt her. Or no—as if she thought I was living the life that should have been hers.

  That thought chilled me. Was Ivy really that disturbed? And more important, had she been at the house that night? Had she, not Bonnie, knocked me out and taken the children? Had she killed Anna and Bonnie?

  My cell phone was ringing, but I didn’t stop to dig it out of my shoulder bag. It was probably Susan, anyway, checking to see if I’d shot anyone yet. I kept on going, one step, another, running in slo-mo while the phone rang and my mind pounded questions. What had Ivy done with the children? Was Molly frightened? Was Luke hungry? Would she hurt them?

  My legs weren’t fast enough, and my lungs were getting raw; a few times, I had to slow down to steady myself and catch my breath. But I pressed on as if possessed, not stopping as I passed Fitzwater Street. The next street, Catherine, was Ivy’s. I stopped at the corner, looking up the block, locating Ivy’s door in the row of houses. The third one on the right.

  The lights were on in her living room. The blinds weren’t completely shut; if I stood at the window, I could see in. Quietly, heart racing, I hurried through the shadows and stood on tiptoe, peeking through a crack in the blinds. And yes, I’d been right. Luke’s stroller was folded beside the sofa. Thank God.

  I let my breath out, watching the stroller as if it might dissolve into dust. But it remained there, concrete and three-dimensional, going nowhere. Suddenly, tears were gushing all over my face, and I smeared them away, realizing in the dim light that my hands were crusted with blood. Whose blood was it? Mine? Bonnie Osterman’s? I didn’t know. Didn’t care. Luke and Molly were here, inside. I’d found them. And now I was going to get them out.

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  THE PHONE WAS RINGING again; again I ignored it. I needed to think, plan carefully. But I lacked the patience for either. I wanted to rush up and bang on the front door, barge in and take my children, but something held me back. That voice deep in my head was whispering, warning me to be cautious; Ivy was irrational, might harm the kids if she felt threatened. So I held back and did more reconnaissance, walking back to the corner, making my way around to the back of the house.

  Wrought-iron bars covered the back windows. But from the alleyway, I could easily see inside Ivy’s kitchen. And there, on the other side of the bars and glass, seated at the kitchen table, was Molly. I stood for a moment, watching her, letting my heart rate slow. Feeling the tensions ease in my shoulders. Watching my Molly. Her golden curls were tangled, but she appeared unharmed. Wiping away the last of my tears, I wanted to shout her name, but I kept silent as I crept through Ivy’s back gate and snuck to the window, watching my little girl stare blankly at a slab of angel food cake and cup of what was probably hot cocoa.

  As I watched, Ivy walked in, holding Luke, who was crying. Actually, he was howling. Of course he was; it was past time for him to nurse. At the sight of him, my nipples predictably began to spout. I hid at the window, bodily fluids spilling from my head, eyes and breasts. Ivy danced around with Luke, talking to him, offering him a bottle. A bottle? Luke had no idea what that was, wouldn’t even consider sucking on it. Molly said something, maybe that Luke would never drink from a bottle. Ivy snapped something back, a severe expression on her face. She sat at the table with Luke, trying to shove the bottle into his mouth as he pushed it away in red-faced rage. Finally, Molly scowled and jumped to her feet, hands on her hips, evidently telling Ivy what she should do with the bottle. Ivy shook her head, laughing, until Molly came over and tried to take Luke, whose face had turned purple from screaming, from Ivy’s arms. Ivy stopped laughing and, in a heartbeat, stood, holding Luke with one arm, smacking Molly in the face with the other.

  That was it. I yanked frantically at the bars, trying to rip them off the windows, but they didn’t budge. Meantime, Ivy ranted at Molly, and I saw Molly’s fists tighten. No one, to my knowledge, had ever struck my child before, and I doubted Molly would take it lightly. I half-expected her to pounce on Ivy, pounding and scratching. But she didn’t. Instead, jaw clenching, eyes burning, Molly walked back to her chair and sat.

  The interchange had happened fast, too fast for me to react or prevent it. But I’d had enough. I fumbled inside my purse, pushed past the gun and pulled out my cell phone. I called Susan.

  “Zoe. Thank God. I’ve been calling you—”

  “Susan, listen—”

  “But it’s important. You need—”

  “Susan. I said listen, damn it.” I told her to send the police and Nick to Ivy’s house, gave her the address, and without engaging in conversation I hung up. Instantly, the phone rang: Susan, calling back. But I didn’t take the call, couldn’t. I was focused, preparing to move. I watched Ivy trying to settle Luke in her arms, jabbing the bottle unsuccessfully at his mouth while he roared and Molly covered her ears. And as soon as my phone stopped ringing, I made a second call.

  This time, I called Ivy.

  SEVENTY-NINE

  I WATCHED IVY AS the phone rang. She glanced at the baby, then at the door to the living room, considering whether or not to answer. Damn. She was letting it ring, not answering. I stood there, watching my infant wail and my daughter fight tears, waited a couple of never-ending minutes and called again. By now, Ivy had given up on the bottle and, when the phone rang, she seemed relieved to have a reason to get out of the room. As soon as she left, I rapped on the window to get Molly’s attention.

  Molly looked up, not moving, staring at the window. Then, glancing over her shoulder, she scampered over, looking elated, spilling tears.

  “Hello, Ivy. It’s Zoe.” That’s all I said when Ivy answered the phone.

  There was a pause. “What do you want?”

  “What do you think you’re doing, Ivy?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me.” Luke’s screams almost drowned out her voice.

  “Don’t lie to me, Ivy. I can hear Luke screaming. I know he’s there.”

  Molly was making hand signals, pointing toward the door, showing me where Ivy was. Her cheek was red where she’d been hit. I gestured back to her, pointing to the back door, indicating that she should unlock it.

  “No, I mean Anna. It wasn’t me who killed her—it was an old fat broad. Anna was already dead. I rescued the children. I saved them.”

  I thought of Bonnie Osterman and realized that, in fact, maybe Ivy had. “That’s why I’m calling, Ivy. I’m coming to get the kids.”

  “What?”

  “Luke’s hungry. He needs to nurse.” He was becoming hoarse from yelling. Molly was struggling with the locks.

  “But I rescued them, not you. You left them there. That woman came in and she killed Anna, and if I hadn’t stopped her, she’d have kidnapped them. You have no idea what went on.”

  “Thank you for saving them, Ivy.” I tried to keep her talking, to give Molly time. “But now, Luke’s hungry. So I’m going to come and get him and his sister.”

  “No. I can take care of them. I know what TV shows Molly likes and what to do when Luke’s got a bellyache. We don’t need you to come.”

  If she hung up, she’d find Molly at the door. “Ivy, tell me how you saved them.”

  It was hard to hear her through Luke’s wails. “Who was she? She called them tender morsels. She said she wanted to eat them up. I thought she was joking, but when Anna tried to stop her, the old woman struck her. I grabbed them and we ran. I saved them. They need to stay with me now.”

  Molly was still wrestling with the bolts. I told myself not to argue, just keep Ivy talking.

  “What were you doing there?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Tonight. What were you doing in my house?” I heard a loud metallic click. Yes. Molly had a bolt undone, but the door still didn’t open. How many locks were there?

  “You know what? That’s not yo
ur business, not anymore. Bottom line: I deserve them. Besides, Molly’s adopted. You’re not even her real mother—”

  “Yes, I am.” Why was I defending myself? Ivy was a lunatic. “I’m her mother, and I’m Luke’s mother, too—”

  “No, you’re not—”

  Just then, I heard another click. Thank God—Molly had unlocked the second bolt. I tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge, still locked. I gestured to Molly to turn the knob.

  “—Not anymore, you’re not. You had your chance. Back off, Zoe. Remember what happened to that fat lady. She tried to take them, too, and I stopped her. I can stop you, too. Leave us alone or you’ll be sorry.”

  She slammed the phone down just as Molly turned the knob, and she came back into the kitchen exactly as Molly opened the door. Ivy’s face contorted as she realized what was happening. With Luke dangling from her arm, she bellowed, “Nooo!” and leapt forward to slam the door. And she would have, except that I’d also leapt, and my leg was jammed in the way.

  EIGHTY

  Lightning shot from my shin to my brain, and I yelled in pain. Molly shouted, Ivy hollered and Luke raged. The chorus was deafening, but I kept pushing, leaning against the door until I wriggled my way in, watching my bag slip off my shoulder in the struggle. Damn, I thought. The gun—the gun was in there. But I couldn’t stop. As soon as I made it into the house, Ivy whirled around and grabbed a cleaver off her counter. Clutching Luke in one arm, she swung at me with the other; I felt the whoosh of air passing my face and ducked almost too late. Molly, meantime, sprang to action, attacking Ivy from behind, smacking her repeatedly with a giant bottle of orange soda. Ivy spun around to shove Molly away, but Molly spun with her, staying behind her and slapping, distracting Ivy long enough for me to reach for Luke, who’d spotted me, smelling dinner. Luke practically dove for me as I grabbed him from Ivy, and I pressed him against me, but I couldn’t stop to exult in his soft touch because Ivy, still holding the cleaver, had turned on Molly, had shoved her against the wall. Molly stood still, bug-eyed and cornered, as Ivy scolded her for disobeying.