Death by Surprise

by Carolyn Hart

  My scarf was sodden, my hair plastered against my head. I finally walked stiffly back to the house. The key was in the back door. Amanda, of course, had entered the house to get the shotgun from the gun rack in the study.

  I called the sheriff’s office from the phone in the kitchen. Then I called Rudolph. I told him as gently as I could but some news is not gentle, can not be gentled.

  The afternoon seemed to stretch on forever; yet I could never later remember it clearly. The rise and fall of sirens. Cars, an ambulance. Men gathering at the pier, moving restlessly as flashbulbs exploded in the wet grey afternoon. Voices. Rudolph’s face.

  The sheriff turned to me at one point. “You found her, Miss Carlisle?”

  “Yes.”

  “What made you think she might be here?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know,” I said dully. “I just came.”

  “She didn’t say anything to you, the last time you saw her, that would help explain this?”

  I remembered Amanda lying on her high bed, her face greyish with pain and fatigue, and her voice telling me sharply, “Now you go on downstairs, Miss K.C., they need you.”

  I had gone because she expected it of me. She took her responsibilities very seriously. I hadn’t wanted to disappoint her.

  Amanda’s life had never been easy. She was widowed when just past thirty. Rudolph’s sister, Essie, died of sickle cell anemia at fifteen. Amanda had no skills, no education, no opportunities, just determination and courage. She had made a good life for herself and her son.

  What could have driven her to end that life?

  Not ill health. Not Amanda. She knew illness. She would accept it as a burden but she would never give in.

  What else was there in her life? She had devoted her life to her son and to the Carlisles.

  “Miss Carlisle?”

  The sheriffs voice brought me back.

  “I’m sorry. Sheriff, I just don’t know. She was sick but I can’t believe . . .”

  It did no good to say I did not believe. It had happened. Amanda had driven to a deserted lakeshore on a misty October morning and reached uncomfortably far to squeeze the trigger of a shotgun.

  Time passed as it always does, no matter how joyful or dreadful the hours. It was all done, finally, and I was in my car driving back through the rain to La Luz.

  It was dusk by the time I reached my apartment. When I unlocked the door, my shoe kicked an envelope that had been tucked under the door. When I picked it up and turned on the light, my hands began to tremble.

  I recognized the handwriting. I had seen so many grocery lists in that firm looping script. Amanda wrote a fine hand for a girl who had had to quit school in the eighth grade and go to work to help her family.

  I shut the door behind me and ripped open the envelope.

  “Dear Miss K.C., I couldn’t face the trouble I’ve made, but I want you to know I didn’t mean to do it. That Miss Boutelle lied to me. She tricked me.”

  “Oh, Amanda,” I said softly.

  “I didn’t know she was a bad woman,” the letter continued. “She acted so nice and she told me your momma said I could talk to her. She said she was going to write a book about the Carlisle family and she was gathering material. I should have known it was funny she always came on Tuesdays when your momma was gone to bridge but I never thought. I talked to her five or six times and I told her everything but I didn’t know she was going to turn and twist things to hurt you. She seemed to know a lot and I didn’t pretend things were different than they were though I should have known your momma would never have told anybody about how Mr. Stephenson acted . . .”

  Stephenson. I stared down at the letter. Stephenson? The name meant nothing to me. I didn’t . . . Oh, Stephenson. Wasn’t that the name of the interior decorator Mother had hired to re-do the city house five or six years ago? Larry Stephenson. It was while I was away at school. Amanda had mentioned him in a letter or two.

  “. . . but Miss Boutelle seemed to know all about him. Oh, Miss K.C., I told her so many things I shouldn’t have, but the worst of all was about you and Sheila. I wasn’t going to have it in a book that your momma thought it was your fault though you and I know she’s always acted that way. But I knew better. I saw it happen that day. I never even told you that I knew because it hurt you so and you put it all away and never thought about it and I thought maybe that was the best. Sometimes, when things can’t be changed and they are so awful, it’s better not to think or talk about them. And now, that woman is going to put it all in a book and it won’t sound right and it will bring it all back to you. I can’t bear to be the one who hurt you, Miss K.C.”

  The writing was slipshod now, running off the ruled lines.

  “Please, Miss K.C., forgive me. I didn’t know what I was doing. I love you, Amanda.”

  Anger and grief swept me. I was going to destroy Francine Boutelle. One way or another. She was going to pay for what she had done. Oh Amanda, dammit, the Carlisles didn’t matter that much. Not nearly that much. Who cared what Francine Boutelle wrote? It wasn’t worth Amanda’s little finger, much less her life.

  I huddled in a chair in the living room, Amanda’s letter clutched in my hands. Finally, tears came. I cried because I couldn’t stop picturing Amanda’s last morning. She was old and sick and upset, stricken by what she felt she had done to “her family.” And she hadn’t done anything wrong. She had been taken advantage of by a wily and experienced woman.

  Amanda, why didn’t you tell me? Why did you always try to protect me? Amanda, I could have told you it was all right.

  All right? The old familiar feeling of fear swept me. I hadn’t experienced the sweep of terror in many years. Amanda was right. I had buried that day when Sheila died so deeply in my mind that it was almost as if it had never happened—until this night of horror and grief. Now, once again, I was drowning, water slapping my face, water was in my eyes and nose and mouth, blinding and choking me as I struggled to swim on, to try and catch the little sailboat.

  I could see Sheila’s face.

  Sheila was the prettiest sister. Everyone said that. She had hair the color of spun gold and eyes darkly blue as deep water.

  Sheila’s face wasn’t beautiful then. It twisted with effort as she leaned far over the side of the little boat, holding the sail into the shifting wind, catching just enough power to stay out of my reach.

  I tried to shout, to call her back, but I only made a strangled choking moan and I knew, at that moment, as I slipped again beneath the water, that my sister was going to drown me.

  I had always been a little afraid of Sheila. Now, terror exploded in my mind, giving strength to failing arms. I flailed back to the surface, bobbing up on top of the cold deep water. Oh God, the boat was farther away. I couldn’t swim to it. I couldn’t reach it. Sheila, why are you trying to kill me?

  The sail sagged into itself. The darting summer breeze had shifted enough that the sailboat hung in the water, not moving now. There it was. Dead in the water. Six feet away. Only six feet.

  My legs were heavy, heavy, my lungs ached, water burned in my throat. My rubbery arms clawed at the water. I made a foot, another. My heart thudded and my eyes misted with effort. Water slapped up into my face and over my head and I began to sink. I gave a desperate frantic kick and slowly, more slowly than a heavy door closes, I rose through the water and broke the surface and gasped for air.

  Sheila was struggling to swing the boom, trying to capture another puff of wind. She leaned awkwardly to the right, pinioned to the slick slanting deck by her right leg, encased in a heavy cast since her fall from the ballroom window.

  I could barely see her, my eyes bleary with pain and fatigue. I wanted to cry out, “Sheila, I didn’t make you fall. I would have fallen. You used the rope to go ahead of us. It wasn’t there to hurt you. Sheila, why do you hate me so?”

  I could only make a desperate sound deep in my throat. She heard it and turned to look over her shoulder and her blue eyes wer
e as cold as alpine ice and as merciless.

  I reached out, one weak stroke, another. Oh God, the boat was there, just ahead. If I could . . .

  Sheila swung the boom in a quick vicious jerk. The wind caught it, the sail puffed like a cobra’s hood, the boat lurched unevenly and Sheila began to topple over the edge. She grabbed at the boom but it was out of reach. She began to slide and then she was over the edge. She splashed heavily into the water, the cast pulling her down.

  She sank like a stone.

  The untended sail lost power and began to flap. The boat sat in the water. Slowly, heavily, one agonizing stroke after another, I struggled through the water until I could reach out and grab the boat.

  I hung there until a boat came from shore. I hung there and stared at the water where Sheila went down.

  I never told anyone what happened.

  Was it because I didn’t think anyone would believe me?

  I don’t think so.

  It went deeper than that. I didn’t want to admit that my sister had tried to kill me. I would wake in the night, screaming, but I never told anyone.

  I never quite trusted anyone again.

  Because I had never, until that moment, recognized Sheila’s enmity. If my sister could will me to drown, what might the world do to me?

  I never told anyone and I never quite trusted anyone.

  It was an accident, everyone said, an unfortunate accident that claimed the life of the younger Carlisle daughter. Such a sad thing.

  I huddled in the chair.

  The doorbell rang.

  I heard it but I didn’t try to move. I shivered. The cold from the rain mingled in my mind with the cold darkness of the lake water.

  The door opened. Greg called, “K.C., where are you? Your car’s here. K.C. . . .” Then he stood over me.

  “K.C., I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I heard over the car radio, about your finding Amanda, and I came directly.” He knelt beside me, put his arm around me. “Hey, you’re wet and cold. You need a drink and a hot bath.”

  He drew the bath, laid out my gown and robe, brought me a scotch and soda.

  I lay in the hot water and even managed to smile a little as I heard his muffled shout through the door, “Where the devil do you keep the coffee?” And, “Don’t you ever stock your refrigerator?”

  By the time I was dressed and warm and getting a little color back in my face, he had dinner ready, steaks and potatoes done in the microwave and a makeshift salad of cottage cheese and canned peaches.

  “I can tell,” he said severely, when I took my place, “that cooking is not one of your talents.”

  “I like to eat out,” I said mildly.

  “I don’t,” he replied immediately. “So that will be among the first changes.”

  I smiled at him, not ready to argue, and really appreciating his help this night. He had come and I had needed him.

  After dinner, he insisted on putting the dishes in the dishwasher, settling me on the couch with an afghan and brandy.

  Then he let me tell him.

  For the first time in my life, I told the truth about Sheila.

  “You poor little kid,” he said gently.

  I told him about Amanda and my voice shook with anger before I finished.

  “God, that is rotten, K.C.”

  “Francine Boutelle is going to pay for Amanda.”

  Greg frowned. “What can you do?”

  “I don’t exactly know,” I said evenly, “but somehow, someway, I am going to make Francine Boutelle just as miserable as I can.”

  “How?”

  “For a starter, I’m going to fix it where she will never be able to sell a line to a reputable newspaper or magazine.”

  “The only way you can do that,” he said slowly, “is to be willing to throw your family to the wolves.”

  “Damn the Carlisles,” I said bitterly.

  “Even if you do, I don’t see how you can prove . . .”

  “I can do it.”

  “This Boutelle woman will get very cagey if she gets any inkling what you’re after.”

  “I’ll talk to her as smooth as honey until I have it all down on tape, every damning word of it.”

  “Tape?” he asked sharply.

  “That’s right. Little Miss Francine doesn’t know it but I’ve bugged her damn living room.” I laughed. “She’s in for a surprise, Greg. I’ve put the neatest little recorder you’ve ever seen right in the shadow of her rubber tree plant and tomorrow night at seven p.m. that little jewel is going to start running and I’m going to be there, leading clever Miss Boutelle into a trap she’ll never get out of.”

  “Once you have the tape . . .”

  “I won’t be so charming,” I said grimly. “The first thing I intend to do is send a copy of that tape to Inside Out. If that doesn’t get her fired, I’ll buy the damn magazine. I will also send that tape to every newspaper and magazine up and down the Coast. Francine Boutelle is going to rue the day she ever heard of the Carlisles.”

  It was quiet for a long moment. Greg was frowning.

  “I’m sorry,” I said finally, “if you don’t find me too charming, Greg, but Amanda was old and helpless and . . . and nice . . . and that woman killed her.”

  He reached down, pulled me to my feet and wrapped his arms around me. “Hush now, K.C. It’s all right. Don’t get upset all over again.”

  I pulled free and walked to the mantel and reached out to grip it with taut hands. Greg didn’t understand. Not really.

  He came up beside me. “Look, K.C., you’re too emotionally involved to handle this thing. Let me go and talk to this woman. Represent you. I’ll scare the hell out of her and . . .”

  I shook my head and answered quietly enough. “No, Greg. This is something I have to do. But I promise you, I can handle it. I will handle it.”

  Greg called early the next morning, still concerned about my appointment with Francine Boutelle. “It worries me. Obviously, she’s a tough bitch and . . .”

  “I can handle it. Remember, Greg, I’m a lawyer, too.”

  “Sure. But you aren’t used to dealing with really sleazy people. It’s like fighting a skunk, K.C., you can’t come out smelling sweet.”

  It was nice, I suppose, that he wanted to protect me. I wasn’t interested in protection.

  “Don’t worry, Greg. I can handle it,” I repeated.

  He sighed. “All right. If that’s the way you feel. I’m going to a fundraiser but I’ll try to get home early. Call me when you get home.”

  “Right.”

  I didn’t spend the day stewing about it. I felt, in fact, cold and confident. La Boutelle didn’t know what was in store for her. I felt even better after I talked to Pamela Reeves around five.

  I didn’t recognize Pamela at first when she walked into my office. Instead of her customary reddish brown hair, her head was topped by tight platinum curls. I looked at her speechlessly.

  She grimaced. “You have a lot of control, K.C. John Solomon laughed like a hyena. My mother broke into tears. My little boy hid his face.”

  “Hmm. What . . . uh . . . prompted . . . ?”

  “I have a precarious hold on my self-control. The smallest nudge may push me over the edge.” She glared at me balefully. “It’s all your fault.”

  “My fault?”

  “Trying to get the goods on that damn Boutelle woman.”

  It turned out that Pamela had tracked down Francine’s hairdresser. As any woman knows, the way to a hair stylist’s heart is through her pocketbook. Pamela signed up for the A Number One First Class bleach job which took two hours. In two hours, it is possible to learn a great deal about a beautician’s customers, their sexual preferences, social pretensions, and career aspirations.

  “What did you find out?” I asked eagerly.

  “Francine is madly in love.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Clairabel was vague on that but he is, according to Francine, a really big deal. Handsome, exciting
, a man on the move.”

  “Francine didn’t mention his name to Clairabel?”

  “No.”

  “He must be married.”

  “Why do you think so?” Pamela asked.

  “It isn’t natural for a woman to be so damn circumspect with her beauty-shop operator. You know how women talk. It’s unconscious. George said this. George and I are going to the lake. George is so exciting.”

  Pamela shrugged. “If you make your living exploiting other people’s private lives, you might be a little secretive about your own.”

  I was sure there was more to it than that. The identity of Francine’s lover might be just what I needed.

  “I don’t care what you have to do to find out, but find out quickly. Put more operatives on it.”

  “K.C., your bill is already . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  When Pamela left, I considered calling Francine, putting off our meeting until later in the week. But I had the tape recorder in place, ready to roll at seven o’clock. It would be taking too big a risk to try and get it back, then plant it for another evening. After all, the important thing was to get our conversation down on tape, a clear-cut attempt at blackmail. That was the way to fry Francine’s goose.

  At seven p.m. I was sitting at my breakfast-room table, toying with a salad and watching the second hand sweeping around the kitchen clock. Had the tiny recorder hummed into action? Was it even now recording the slam of a door, the squeak of a chair?

  My appointment with Francine was at eight. I left my apartment at twenty minutes before the hour. I wasn’t able to park as close as I had Tuesday afternoon. The night was damp and raw. I pulled my all-weather coat closer, ducking my head into the whippy little wind. When I reached the courtyard, it was much warmer, the wind blocked by the building.

  Light spilled cheerfully from Francine’s front bay window. I pushed the doorbell.

  No one came.

  I jabbed the bell again, held it longer. Come on, Francine, I’m ready for you.