by CeCe Osgood
Another non-expression from Guthrie.
"Oh, c'mon. It'll make the news in a day or two, won't it?"
He kept his lips pressed together.
She tried again. "Just blink your eyes once if Bell confessed to killing Alan."
He did not blink.
Abby caved. "Okay, you win, but can you at least tell me if she made bail?"
Guthrie gazed up at the ceiling and asked a strange question. "Did you put lemon in the lemon squares?"
Confused, Abby nodded. "Yes, of course, I did."
When Guthrie said nothing else, Abby's eyebrows spiked up and her curious mind deciphered the detective's cryptic question.
Yes. There's lemon in the lemon squares. And yes, Bell made bail.
Guthrie pushed out of the chair, saying, "I need to leave."
Abby rose. "Let me make a 'to-go' bag for you." Humming, she placed most of the lemon squares into a plastic bag then followed him to the door. "So, you're sure you don't want to tell me if Bell confessed to the murder?"
The question went unanswered.
Out on the front steps, Guthrie took the proffered bag. "Ms. Little, your curiosity leads me to believe you were a cat in another life."
A grin appeared on her face. "My ex says curiosity is in my DNA, so you might be right."
Guthrie headed down the walkway. "I hate cats."
"No, you don't." She paused. "Do you?"
Guthrie kept walking. She heard him say, "No."
In a flash of insight, Abby understood he wasn't talking about cats. He was answering her other question. No. Bell Crichton had not confessed to killing Alan Durant.
Chapter Twenty-two
Abby tried to ignore her preachy, cautious side warning her of danger. Her more impulsive side promised satisfaction, curiosity's delicious reward.
To appease the preachy one, she left a voicemail for Detective Guthrie. "Hi, it's Abby, Abby Little. Thanks for coming by earlier. This is an FYI. I'm driving to Bell's house to talk to her. This call is just in case something happens to me, which I'm sure won't, but, well, just in case."
She was taking a chance if Bell was the killer. Abby wondered if the Bell she'd met earlier could, in fact, be a cold-blooded killer. After all, to use poison as a murder weapon meant the culprit was good at methodical planning. Did Bell have that kind of a disciplined mind?
A lot of people have a polite, agreeable public face and a decidedly different one in private.
Bell didn't seem like that. She'd been polite enough to let Abby inside with the kitten, but when she was ready for the conversation to end, she was brusque. It didn't seem like she was masking a dark side under sweetness and light, and I can't place her in my suspect pool until I can get a fix on her.
Her thoughts dove into the current suspect pool. Fran was the only person Abby knew of who would benefit financially from Alan's death.
Fran had a temper. Did Alan do something to trigger her anger?
They'd worked together since the clinic opened six years ago. During that time maybe they did have an affair which could've ended when she realized he was a womanizer.
Fran couldn't afford to walk away from the job, so she buried her feelings and continued to work for him.
Alan probably didn't even know she still harbored a passion for him. "When Alan meets me, Fran accepts it, thinking Alan has finally settled down, but then she discovers he's bopping around with that annoying spud, Gina. That could've set her off."
Then there was Gina. It didn't take much to imagine her seething with jealousy and working herself into a frenzy when she learned about Bell and Alan. She was already jealous because of Bell's beauty.
On the other hand, the murder wasn't a spontaneous act.
Poisoning took planning, pre-meditation, and Abby couldn't imagine Gina as a cool, methodical killer. Fran, maybe. Bell, maybe. But Gina, no.
Pulling to the curb in front of Bell's house, she shoved her phone into her pocket for easy access and, despite the conflicting thoughts still battling inside of her, she jabbed the doorbell.
Almost immediately it swung open; Bell Crichton stared at her. "Don't tell me you found another kitten?"
"Um, no." A flush crept up her neck. She would have to confess her true identity. "I have something really important—"
Bell inhaled sharply. "You're not Abilene, the cat rescuer. You're Abby Little I saw you on a news report. You knew Alan. You were dating him. You found his body."
"I apologize for not being truthful to you before, but I do need to talk to you."
Bell expression turned slightly sympathetic. "That must've been terrible. I sort of suspected he was seeing someone else, but, frankly, I didn't care. He was kind of a douche."
Her hand flew up to her mouth. "Oh, that's bad of me. I shouldn't speak ill of the dead."
That small gesture confirmed the intuitive feeling Abby had from the moment Bell opened the door this time. She did not kill Alan.
Abby said, "Can we talk?"
Bell hiked a thumb, motioning for her to come inside. Abby's eyes strayed to the collection of potted plants on the console table near the plate glass front window. If she grows plants, would she know a harmless mushroom from a deadly one? Could she be the killer?
"Well?" Bell said, settling on the sofa. She indicated with a nod for Abby to take a chair. "Sit. What is it you want to know?"
"When did you meet Alan?"
"A couple months ago. I injured my back during a hot yoga class, and my attorney said he knew a good chiropractor, one of his clients."
"Alan's attorney is your attorney?"
"Silas Wabash. My father's old fraternity brother, and my godfather. Anyway, I went to the clinic, and the treatments did help. Alan was extremely attentive and asked me out."
Bell raised her shoulders in an apologetic shrug. "He didn't mention you or anyone else, although I suspected he was bonking the brunette at the desk. I could tell she was obsessed with him, so I badgered him until he confessed that they used to hook up, but he said he'd ended it well before he met me. Could've been a lie."
Abby kept a neutral expression. "I remember seeing you coming down the stairs at the clinic. We almost collided into each other. You were angry."
"I was upset. I found several charges on my credit card during the weekend we'd gone to Kansas City. I figured he must've used the card without telling me, and I wanted him to pay up. That shrew, Gina, wouldn't tell him I was there."
Abby's face clouded. "When was this Kansas City weekend?"
"Let me find my phone and I can give you the exact date." Bell's bare feet pattered on the floor as she hurried across the room.
Abby's cell pinged with a text from Jill with the image of a white horse with a black muzzle attached to the text: I rode this filly today.
It pinged again with a different horse. Dad rode this one.
A third text from Jill pinged a moment before Abby heard the sound of bare feet on the hardwood floor, signaling Bell's return.
In one hand, she dangled a pair of glittery thong sandals and in the other, her phone. "I checked my calendar. It was August the ninth."
Abby swallowed. It was the answer she'd been looking for. Alan was with Bell that second weekend in August. Not with his dying cousin or Gina. Or me.
"I got him to go with me for my high school reunion."
Aha. He did go to a reunion, just not mine.
Bell sat on the couch and tucked her feet into the sandals. "Two years ago, I met up with the girls from my cheerleading squad, and they were all married. I was the only single in the group, and the drunker we got, the more they ragged on me. I didn't want to put myself through that again at the reunion. That's why I asked Alan to pretend we were engaged."
"You did?"
She laughed. "I bought myself this glitzy cubic zirconia ring and flashed it around telling everybody from my squad and tennis team, we were planning a wedding in Paris and a honeymoon in Monte Carlo."
She cackled h
eartily. "Oh, you should've seen their faces."
Bell stood up. "I need a drink. Want one? I have beer, wine and water."
"Water's fine for me."
Bell disappeared into her kitchen. Abby's gaze landed on the collage above the fireplace mantle.
There she was. A dazzling young beauty in her blue and white cheerleading uniform astride the broad shoulders of two young football players. No wonder she was nostalgic for those days.
Abby rose and walked to the mantel, letting her finger trace the outline of the brown-haired football player. Not Alan, if Bell was telling the truth. She'd met Alan at the clinic recently, not back in high school.
Her eyes wandered to the other photos. In one, Bell stood with a hand on her hip, dead center in the front row. She was flanked by other girls on the tennis team. One light-haired girl standing right next to Bell piqued Abby's curiosity. The face seemed ... familiar.
She peered closer. No. She was wrong. It wasn't who she thought it was. The nose and chin were different. The eyes though...
Chapter Twenty-three
At the next intersection, Abby flipped on her turn signal to head east toward the address in Jill's text.
She'd gotten three texts from Jill. The first two were about the horses she and her father had ridden at the bridle club earlier in the day.
The third contained an address with a message: Going with Rita to pick out a new racquet. Pick me up from her house at five.
A glance at the clock told Abby it was five-twenty-five. Only twenty-five minutes late. That wasn't too bad, was it? Talking to Bell had gone on longer than she expected. She left feeling good about Bell.
But now in the car, doubt flooded through her.
I'm delusional if I think I can read people. Look how wrong I was about Alan. I never even suspected he was fooling around with another woman. Heck. Two other women. Bell and Gina.
"Could there be more?" she mumbled.
A fragment of memory came to her. They were at the Lake Malbar resort with Jill. A migraine had her down for the afternoon, but Alan made sure Jill had a good time. They'd played putt-putt, and he'd given her a tennis lesson.
A couple weeks later he suggested paying for lessons. "I met an ex-tennis pro who coaches teenagers and adults."
Another fragment of memory, recent memory. The photograph in the collage. The girl with the light-hair and those eyes...
Abby pulled up to the address and as she scrambled out of the car, she phoned Jill to to let her know she was outside.
It doesn't fit. The light-haired girl on Bell's tennis team couldn't possibly be Rita. The nose and chin are different.
Besides, Alan said he'd met her on the courts. He said he barely knew her. But ... Alan could have lied to me.
Jill's phone went to voicemail. "Where are you?"
Trying to quell the disturbing thoughts, she noted the black steel door as she jabbed the doorbell and raised her voice. "Hello. It's Abby, Abby Little. I'm here to pick up Jill."
Silence.
She tried to peer through a front window, but the closed drapes blocked out the waning sunlight and denied her a peek inside.
She was about to press the doorbell again when the black steel door cracked opened.
Rita greeted her with a bright smile. "You missed her, Abby. I had to pick up a prescription, so I went ahead and drove her home. She didn't text you?"
Abby made a face. "Nope."
Rita laughed. "Teenagers."
The laugh put Abby at ease, and she chastised herself for being suspicious.
Rita was not the light-haired girl she had seen in the photograph of Bell's high school tennis team. Yes, there was a resemblance, but looking at her now, Abby could see how different Rita's chin and nose were from the girl's in the photograph.
And that girl had light hair. Rita's was as dark as midnight.
Of course, hair can be dyed.
Abby glanced down to see the sleek blue metal racquet Rita had tapping against her jeans. "It's my new baby." Rita said.
"Nice."
"Nice?" The almost imperceptible note of contempt was quickly cloaked with a half-hearted chuckle. "I think it's beautiful."
Abby gulped. "It is. It is beautiful." She tried to smile, but it faltered as a memory seared through her mind. Rita identifying the Valencia tomato. Her mention of a botany instructor. Botany.
An icy finger crawled up her spine. "Um, well, I guess I better get home."
"Sure. Oh, I just remembered. I have Jill's backpack. She left it in my car. Stay there, and I'll bring it to you."
"O-okay," Abby sputtered.
Suddenly there was a blur of movement by Rita's leg.
A dog.
In the split second it took for her to recognize the thick ginger coat and black ears, her eyes jerked up to meet Rita's dark gaze.
She couldn't react as fast as Rita's cobra-like reflexes. A hand shot out, snatched Abby's forearm and dragged the startled woman inside, an easy task for the well-muscled ex-tennis pro.
Rita angrily flung her into the hallway and told her to keep walking. Abby froze.
Rita smacked the back of her head with a hand. "Walk," she snarled.
Abby stumbled forward and then felt the tennis racquet pushing at her neck making her aware of the damage it could do to her spine.
"Ace," Rita yelled. "Get back there."
Abby cringed when the dog brushed against her leg as it raced down the hall.
"I had to lock him in the back so Jill wouldn't see him. Ace doesn't like strangers."
Abby's pulse spiked up. Had Rita lied? Did she really take Jill home? Or did she do something to her daughter? What if she was still here inside the house? "Jill?" she screamed.
"Shut up! I told you she's not here."
Abby didn't know what to believe. "Jill?" she blurted out.
"Shut up! I took her home. You calling me a liar?" Rita's voice brimmed with menace. "I said are you calling me a liar?"
"No."
"Oh, yeah, you are." Rita sneered. "Now who's the liar. Move." She jabbed the racquet into Abby's neck and shoved her forward. "How’d you figure it out?"
Eyes darting left and right, unsure of what she could do to escape, Abby moved down the dark hallway. "Figure what out?" she said, playing for time, her heart pounding.
"Shut up, liar." Rita poked her in the neck again. The hallway opened into the kitchen on the left and the den on the right.
"Go to the couch, Abby," Rita commanded.
Abby obeyed slowly, half-paralyzed with shock and fear. She started to sit down. Rita bellowed, "Stand. I'll tell you when to sit."
"Let's have a drink. Or maybe you'd like something else," Rita cackled as she walked into the kitchen. "Like something to eat."
Abby stared at her, goose bumps prickling up her forearms. She's going to poison me.
A growl pulled her gaze down. The dog sat on the carpet by her foot.
"Ace, go to your crate." The dog didn't budge. "Crate, Ace. Now!"
Ace hopped up, obeying his master. With a glance back at Abby, he went to a large metal crate near an overstuffed chair.
The crate's metal door stood open, held with a clip so the dog had easy access in and out.
"Try to make a run for it, Abby, and my pal, Ace, will jump on you like a hungry tick, 'cause, you know, they both like blood."
Pleased with herself, Rita laughed then motioned with the racquet. "Sit down."
Abby lowered herself to the worn black leather couch, her thoughts ricocheting. How do I get out of here? Can I make a run for it?
Ace snarled. No. The dog would bring me down fast.
"Now, tell me the truth," Rita said, sauntering toward Abby with the racquet in one hand and a cocktail in the other. "How’d you figure it out?"
Abby stared, calculating the distance between them. Five, six feet, maybe.
Rita lifted the racquet, holding it horizontally to make it easier to jab it into her throat. "No crap, Abby."
> Her lips twitched into an ugly curve. "Tell me. How’d you know it was me?"
It was useless to lie. "I thought I recognized you in the collage Bell Crichton has over her fireplace."
"Bell." Rita spit out the name like it was acid on her tongue. "Bimbo Bell. That's what I called her in high school. I never could stand her. The only reason coach let her on the tennis team was her looks. She couldn't move, she couldn't hit. I can't tell you how much I despised her. And still do."
She took a swig, her gaze never leaving Abby, and then she stepped backward and carefully eased her rear into the chair across from the couch. "You know, I almost skipped the day they took the team picture."
Abby said, "You looked different back then."
Rita beamed. "Yeah, I'm pretty now. And it's all thanks to tennis. I got a scholarship to McPherson, and during a match I was hit in the freaking face by my opponent. I wanted to die, but it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me.
"The school's insurance paid for my new nose and my new chin. Even my father said, 'Now she's finally worth looking at.' He was such an old turd."
Rita draped her leg over the arm of the chair and tapped the sole of her shoe with the metal racquet. "Alan thought I was pretty. He told me so."
A trill of wicked laughter. "What a handsome scumball he was. Did you figure out how we met?"
Rita didn't wait for Abby's answer. "Bell introduced us. I ran into her at the airport in Omaha. Of course, I immediately recognized her. I had to tell her who I was. I could see right away she'd be useful to me, especially with our class reunion coming up.
"She promised we'd go together, but then she met Alan, and Bimbo Bell, the poser, wanted to pull a stunt and pretend she was engaged to him. I knew the truth, but I promised to keep her secret, ya know, 'cause we were becoming such good friends."
Rita threw her head back and laughed. "Me? Friends with Bimbo Bell. Not on your life."
Abby gulped, tried to keep a neutral expression, but her heart was beating like a hummingbird's. "Is t-that where you met Alan? At the class reunion?"
"Very good, Abby Little." She tapped her temple with a finger. "It's just not straw in your noggin, huh? There's a brain in there. That's exactly where I met him. Bell introduced us before she went off to gab with her cheerleader pals. I was wearing a low-cut red dress, and I made sure I caught Alan's attention. I knew how to snare him. Act indifferent. Men always want a conquest. He promised me he'd be worth my time. And he was, for a while."