“I wasn’t crying,” Bernie protested. “He doesn’t always remember everything the way it happened and he has lapses in memory as well. All side effects of the experimentation.”
Moyle continued with the story. “I tell ya what, I remember it all now. There we were, and Ed showed up alive and not dead. Boy, you coulda sliced the tension in the air with a machete. And he went right up to Pickle, got right in his face and said, ‘I know what you’ve been up to. I’ve been following you.’ And he pokes Pickle in the chest hard. And Bernie shouts, ‘What are you talking about?’ and Ed says to her, ‘Your boyfriend has been negotiating a deal. He was going to give us up for a big wad of cash and take off to the Bahamas.’ And Pickle, well, he explodes and says, ‘That’s right. Because you stabbed me in the back first, sleeping with Bernie when you knew I loved her.’ Then Pickle tackled Ed to the ground and started choking him, but Ed was strong and rolled him over, but Pickle was fast and pulls a hunting knife from under his pant leg, but Ed was faster and got the knife and then it was over. Ed wasn’t dead and Pickle was.”
Wow, Moyle had put on quite a show with that play-by-play. I felt like I had really been there. “Is that how it really happened?” I scanned the other women for confirmation.
Sharon placed her hands on her hips, and nodded. “Moyle snapped and ran off into the woods. Helen went after him. Ed told us to scatter and he’d handle the body.”
“What had Pickle been doing that upset Ed?” Swiveling my attention to Bernie, I frowned. “I’m confused.”
“The three of us, Ed, Pickle, and myself,” explained Bernie, “worked with Sharon, giving her information on people we felt she could help. We weren’t proud of the work we’d done at Fort Pond.” Bernie studied her folded hands for a moment. “We wanted to make up for it somehow. For many years, Pickle wanted us to go public with our stories. The subjects, like Moyle, were young naval recruits right out of high school. Technically, they had volunteered, but none of them ever understood how the research would affect their minds and bodies.”
“Moyle wasn’t abducted as a child then?”
“No,” said Bernie. “But trust me, what we put those young men through…” her voice cracked while she choked back tears. “Ed and I each had children and grandchildren—families we loved dearly. If we came out and told the truth, they’d know all of the horrible things we’d done. We couldn’t bear the thought of that happening.” Bernie’s postured sagged. “Pickle double-crossed us and began talking to someone who promised him a lot of money to give up the secrets. He was going to name names from the lowest ranks at POGO Labs to the very highest. Our identities would be plastered across the internet on every conspiracy site out there.”
I was right that it had all been too easy. “Ed faked his own death so he could easily follow Pickle and find out what he was up to, not because he wanted to hurt the two of you.”
Bernie let out a long, low sigh and responded with a nod.
“There really was a love triangle thing going on there, right? Pickle double-crossed you to get revenge?” Hey, I had to ask.
Bernie blushed and nodded again.
“But if you all scattered, why was Helen in the woods near the pond when I found the body?”
Helen brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Lyle had disappeared again. I was beside myself. I searched for hours.”
“You should have searched the back seat of my van because that’s where he disappeared to apparently.” My phone buzzed with a reminder of my lunch with Peggy. I really wanted to know more, especially about the contents of the pressure cooker, but decided it was best to curb my nosy nature in this case. Too much knowledge might just lead to more than I’d bargained for particularly when governmental research was involved. Best to get going and have a nice lunch with friends. “I have to go. Thank you, I guess—for the information.”
“If you speak a word of this to anyone, I will have to report you to the homeowners’ association.”
I laughed at Sharon’s warning.
Sharon arched a brow at me. “I’m not kidding.”
I studied Bernie, Del, Helen and Moyle in turn. “So, I won’t see any of you again?”
“Well,” said Moyle with a lopsided grin, “never say never.”
“They’ll be relocating soon,” Sharon said. “But I’ll be back. So, keep your duck in line.”
I gave Moyle a big hug. “Bye. I’ll miss you.”
“Bye, Barb,” he said. “You’ve been a good friend.” Before I pulled away, he whispered in my ear. “I’ll be on the ninth floor.”
Moyle. Forever a weirdo.
Chapter Twenty-Four
An hour later, I was climbing into the back seat of Peggy’s van.
“Time for lunch with the Queen,” said Peggy as she backed out of my driveway and motored toward Rustic Woods Town Center.
“Did you hear about the explosions?” Roz asked from the front seat.
Peggy glanced at Roz with bulging eyes. “No.”
I leaned forward. “I haven’t heard anything. What explosions?”
“Car bombs,” Roz said. “One in Springfield and another in Centreville.”
“Today?” I asked.
“Just a few minutes ago,” she said over her shoulder.
“That’s scary.” Peggy said. “Terrorism in our own backyard.”
I decided to change the subject to something more fun and light.
“What is your friend’s name again, Peggy?” I asked.
“Queenie Pisano. We joke around that she’s the Queen.” She smiled while changing lanes.
“Where is she from?” Roz asked.
“Philadelphia. But enough about her.” Peggy waved a hand. “You’ll meet her soon enough. We want to hear the inside scoop about yesterday.” Peggy shifted to peek at me in the mirror. “That news cast was so exciting. I was on the edge of my seat, weren’t you, Roz?”
Roz chuckled. “It was like reading one of my romantic suspense novels, but with senior citizen characters. And the most amazing thing was you came out unscathed. Your luck might just be turning around, Barbara Marr.” Roz turned around to smile at me.
“But you told me that Ed Sigmund was dead,” Peggy said, turning into the town center’s parking lot.
“I thought he was. So did everyone else. He faked his own death.” I threw my hands up in the air.
“Oh,” Peggy said, nodding as if she understood. “So he could get away with murdering Mr. Pickle.”
I decided not to elaborate on the details. The less they knew, the better. “Something like that.”
Peggy pulled into a parking space.
Roz’s cell phone chirped. She read a text. “Peter says another car just exploded not far from Dulles Airport.”
A shiver ran up my spine.
“Should we be worried?” Peggy asked, clutching her purse in her lap.
Again, I tried to be upbeat. “Why don’t we go ahead with our plans and meet your friend. We can keep one eye on the news.”
Roz’s fingers flew over her cell phone screen. “I’m texting Peter to keep me posted.”
Peggy pulled her keys out of the ignition. “That works. If we have to, we can cut lunch short and head back to my place. I’m sure Queenie would be okay with that.”
With a plan under our belts, Roz and I followed Peggy to the fountain situated in the middle of the Town Center. We decided to sit on the fountain’s edge while we waited. People relaxed around the large fountain—some in pairs, chatting with coffee cups in their hands, others sat in chairs around small metal tables, many with their faces lifted toward the sky, soaking in the warmth from the sun. A mother and father to our left corralled what appeared to be triplet toddlers wanting to swim. Straight ahead, shoppers with bags crossed the expansive pavilion that, in just a few weeks, would be transformed into an outdoor ice skating rink. I loved Rustic Woods Town Center on days like this.
“We’re meeting her here?” Roz asked. “I thought you said we were mee
ting her at a restaurant.”
“She changed her mind.” Peggy gestured toward the courtyard. “She thought this would be better.”
“Do we have reservations?” I asked. “It looks like the restaurants are filling up fast with the Sunday brunch crowd.”
“Yes. Noon at George’s Bistro.” Peggy pointed toward the small restaurant nestled between a stationery store and a café.
The sun felt good on my face. “I don’t remember you ever talking about this woman before. How long have you known her?”
“Not that long,” Peggy said. “I’ve never even met her in person. We know each other from my I Love Italy chat group. She’s very excited to be meeting you, Barb.”
“You met her on the internet? And invited her to stay at your house?” My mouth fell open. “How does she know about me?”
“I told her all about you and Roz and our adventures. She thinks my stories are funny. You’re going to love her, I promise.” She squinted, looking far off past the open ice rink. “Is that your time traveling friend?” She pointed. “Mosley?”
Still reeling from the unsettling news that Peggy didn’t know the woman we were meeting, I tried to regroup and direct my attention to the possible Moyle sighting.
Roz huffed, and pinched her nose. “I know we’re outside, but I still hate it when people smoke in public places like this.”
My nose caught a whiff of the cigarette smoke. It was the same scent I’d smelled over the last few days.
My mind whirled. Synapses fired faster than any of Rambo’s assault rifles in First Blood. My brain felt like it might go into overload processing the incoming data. Queenie Pisano from the internet. From Philadelphia. Philadelphia, Philadelphia. Why did that information make me quake with fear?
Peggy relaxed her squint. “Maybe that isn’t him. Never mind. Oh! I almost forgot.” She pulled her cell phone from her sweater pocket. “She texted me a picture so we can recognize her. She said she would be wearing a red hat.” Roz and I crowded Peggy trying to see the image on her phone screen. The sun’s glare made it nearly impossible. I cupped it with my hands.
“She’s old,” Roz whispered.
“She doesn’t just look old,” I argued, peering closer. “She’s practically a fossil. Peggy, you said she was our age.”
“I think it’s just a bad picture,” Peggy defended. “They say the camera adds ten years.”
“That’s pounds, not years,” Roz said.
The picture worried me and not just because this Queenie had lied about her age. “She looks familiar.”
“That’s what I thought,” agreed Peggy. “I can’t seem to figure out who she looks like though.”
Then I heard it. “Purple Rain,” playing from the speakers around Rustic Woods Town Center. This definitely wasn’t a coincidence. Previously, the soft background music was barely noticeable. Now, the song blared. People around us raised their heads, looking around for the source.
My heart raced. As I raised my eyes from Peggy’s phone, everything clicked. The newspaper delivered to my driveway with a warning from Viviana Buttaro, the woman who claimed revenge against me. Viviana was from Philiadelphia. She was a chain smoker. Now, the woman in this picture, also from Philadelphia, looked just like Viviana, only thirty years older. Viviana wasn’t after me. Her mother was.
Chapter Twenty-Five
There she stood, right in front of us, cigarette in one hand, shiny red purse dangling from the other. The matching, red hat perched at an angle over her forehead. Both appeared to be original vintage pieces from 1955. She had more wrinkles than a bloodhound and her hair was dyed platinum blond, just like her daughter. If that wasn’t bad enough, her feet were squeezed into red three-inch pumps and she actually dared to wear a mini-skirt. I am telling you, having seen it with my own eyes, no woman that age should wear a mini-skirt. Her legs were a horror film. Hunched over like Quasimodo, she took a long, deep drag.
“Queenie!” Peggy said, completely oblivious. “You found us!”
Peggy started to stand, but I pressed my hand on her shoulder. She was confused by my action, but stayed seated.
The woman blew the smoke from her lungs. “I sure did, cupcake.”
Yikes. She sounded like Vivana too. Deep, gravelly voice.
“Peggy,” I whispered out the side of my mouth. “We have a problem here.”
Of course, that was an understatement. We didn’t have a problem, we had a Code Red. Only my cell phone wasn’t in my pocket where I thought I’d put it. Digging in my purse would have alerted Queenie.
I whispered out of the other side of my mouth to Roz. “Code Red Howard. Do it now, but don’t be obvious.”
“Oh my, God,” Roz whispered back while fumbling for her phone. “She looks like Viviana Buttaro.”
“Who does she look like?” Peggy asked loudly.
“Viviana Buttaro, sweet cheeks,” answered the crafty old bag of bones. “You have been such a help to me. I can’t thank you enough. I mean, I had some help from my great-grandnephew, but honestly, your oblivious brain was just what I needed. Any second, part two of my plan will be underway. And don’t call me Queenie anymore. The name is Regina Pisano.” She lasered me with glittering eyes and an evil grin. “Mother of Viviana Pisano Buttaro.”
Guy Mertz’s voice surprised and startled me out of my terror-induced state. He was calling from somewhere off to our right. “Barb?” We all turned to see him huffing and puffing toward us, his cameraman and woman in tow.
I had to ask the obvious question. “Guy, what are you doing here?”
“I received a call that Barbara Marr was in trouble. You’re big news these days.” He indicated his newest crew member. “They gave me a senior producer. This is Janice.”
Janice gave me a small salute. “Nice to meet you. Big fan.”
“Enough with the small talk,” Regina growled. She raised a gnarled and wrinkled hand, hailing Guy’s attention. “Mr. Mertz, thank you for coming on such short notice. My show begins now, so the sooner you get that camera rolling, the better for you.”
“Do I know you, ma’am?” Guy asked her. He cut his gaze to me. “Do you know what’s going on?”
“Meet evil villain, Regina Pisaro, Guy.” my voice shook. “I don’t think this show she has planned will be a comedy.”
The cameraman hustled with his equipment as he had the day before. The Janice babbled into a cell phone.
Peggy clenched her fists. A large vein appeared on her forehead. “You’ve been pretending to be my friend to get to Barb?”
“Not just her, you nutty dim wit.” Regina pointed at us with her cigarette. “All three of yous, for puttin’ my baby behind bars.”
“She just called me a nutty dim wit,” Peggy said to Roz. “I don’t like that.”
I slid a glance to Roz’s phone. She’d successfully texted the Code Red.
Guy fiddled with his hat, working to position it just right for the camera. “I thought my ratings last night were good. This will put me in a completely different stratosphere.”
“Now,” said Regina, throwing her cigarette to the ground and stamping it with her pump. “My grandnephew, is a fan of Prince. Personally, I find this annoyin’ as hell.” She shrugged her bony shoulder. “What are you gonna do? This is why we have the music.”
Aha. So, Jordan Spano wasn’t a small-time huckster delivering fake newspapers with messages to scare some money out of me. He was big-time connected to mafia thugs and now he was out of jail scaring half of Rustic Woods and helping his great-aunt do who-knows-what to me and my friends.
“But the boy also has a gift,” continued Regina. “A gift for blowin’ things up.” She raised both hands high above her head and shouted like a circus ringmaster. “Tell ‘em what we have in store today, Jordan!” The Town Center speakers crackled and screeched as the music cut off. A moment later Jordan’s voice greeted us to the beginning of Regina’s “show.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he declared in a festive ex
clamation, his voice booming from speakers everyone around us. “Welcome to Blowout at the Town Center! If you know what’s good for you, you will stay motionless. The entire area is rigged with finely crafted explosive devices. Some are small, some are not so small. If you are partial to your toes, your fingers, your head…your wife, then do not move. Not even an inch.”
“Give ‘em a demonstration, Jordan,” the old hag yelled.
A uniformed security guard had dispatched in our direction, his sights set on Regina.
“Now!” instructed Regina as she covered her ears. “Show ‘em now!”
I braced myself, grabbing Peggy and Roz.
The explosion, small, but loud, tore apart a stone planter just feet from the security guard. He stumbled backward.
Shoppers screamed and scattered.
“If you run, you might get this,” squealed Jordan over the loud speaker. Another explosion detonated in a trash can, spewing paper and metal, breaking the glass panes of the card shop. “Or this.” An empty bistro chair blew into the air.
Cries of terror, women, men, children, even dogs, filled the air. My nose tickled with the scent of something similar to asphalt. I raised my gaze, trying to ascertain the location of this maniac’s command center. He couldn’t be on the ground, it seemed to me. To our left rose the tallest building in the Town Center, known as the Clock Tower Building. Easily twenty stories high, the building boasted a large clock between floors five and six that helped shoppers keep track of time. I guessed Jordan was staked out in one of the offices in that building.
“Those are small,” the invisible Jordan told us over the bedlam. “And nothing compared to the big one that will take out this entire shopper’s paradise, leveling it like a pancake.”
People began dropping to the ground and huddling, trapped by the mystery of where the next explosion would occur. Moms and dads protected their children, using their own bodies as cover.
How could he possibly have built and hidden a bomb capable of leveling all of Rustic Woods Town Center and kept it a secret? The backup beeps of a delivery truck gave me my answer.
Dial Marr for Murder Page 17