Kill the Competition

by Stephanie Bond

  Next to Belinda, Libby sighed. “A serial killer at Archer. I’m going to have a hell of a time putting a good spin on this in the annual report.”

  Rosemary gave her a pointed look in the rearview mirror. “You’d better hope the company survives to have an annual report.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Rosemary backed out of the parking place. “What I mean is that I’m not sure Juneau is prepared to come back and run the business.” She made a rueful noise in her throat. “And we all know that Tal isn’t CEO material. The company lost Jeanie, then Jim Newberry, and now Margo. It might fall to you, Belinda, to hold things together—especially in terms of the Payton acquisition—until senior management is restored.”

  Yilk. Belinda saw Carole’s head turn slightly in her direction, but she willed the young woman to keep quiet about the missing contracts.

  She did.

  Rosemary eased into the light traffic on Peachtree Street. “I heard that Jeanie’s accident is being reopened as a possible murder.”

  Libby frowned. “Her family is probably just getting settled—I’d hate to see this all dredged up again if the police aren’t sure of a connection.”

  Belinda kept her thoughts to herself—that the connection was Julian.

  “But if Jeanie was killed,” Carole said, “her family would want to see the person punished. And so would I.”

  Libby huffed. “You think I don’t?”

  “Girls,” Rosemary chided.

  “No, wait a minute,” Libby said, chopping the air with her hand. “What Carole doesn’t seem to realize after our little interview yesterday is that the police are trying to pin Margo’s murder on us, and if they reopen Jeanie’s case, they might try to pin her death on us, too. I have children to think of, Carole. I can’t be pulled any deeper into this mess that you—” Libby stopped.

  Carole turned around. “That I what?”

  Belinda looked from woman to woman, her stomach tight. A confrontation had been hovering beneath the surface for two days, and it appeared to be coming to a boil. She moved closer to the window—this could get messy.

  Libby’s mouth tightened. “Why didn’t you tell us that Margo had called the INS?”

  The young woman’s eyes popped. “You don’t think I offed her because she was threatening to tell about me and Gustav?” She covered her mouth. “You do—you think I killed Margo.”

  Libby held up her hand. “All I’m saying is that it looks bad. And since you changed my evaluation and Rosemary’s, it looks bad on us, too.”

  “I was trying to do you a favor.”

  “Yeah? Well next time, don’t!”

  Carole’s mouth opened and closed. “Well, maybe you can tell me how Margo found out about me and Gustav in the first place?”

  “Not from me. Good gravy, you’ve told everyone and their kin—you told Belinda as soon as she joined the car pool.”

  Carole sent a curious glance in Belinda’s direction before she looked back to Libby. “If the police think you’re involved in Margo’s murder, it’s because of that pillow you bought and supposedly threw in the Dumpster.”

  “Supposedly?”

  “Everyone knows how much you hated Margo.”

  Libby wagged her finger. “I didn’t lie about anything, unlike everyone else in this car.”

  Belinda’s neck warmed.

  Rosemary braked. “I didn’t lie about Stanley.”

  “You didn’t tell the truth,” Carole countered.

  “You can’t believe I killed him.”

  “I don’t,” Libby said. “But even if you let him die, I wouldn’t hold it against you. You could have told us.”

  Rosemary shook her head. “The detectives were right—my job was on the line. I knew that Margo would use my probation as an excuse to fire me. I couldn’t risk it.”

  “You thought we would tell?” Carole asked.

  “Please. Neither one of you are the model of discretion.”

  “I take offense to that,” Libby said.

  “Well, I take offense to your hairspray,” Rosemary declared. “Why don’t you fix your hair at home instead of subjecting us to your satanic ritual every morning?”

  “Why don’t you take another painkiller?”

  Rosemary clenched her jaw. “I take those pills for my back.”

  “And for your front, and for your sides,” Libby said sarcastically.

  “What’s the matter, Libby—Glen didn’t give you lunch money today?”

  Libby’s face turned red.

  Carole turned around, her eyes narrowed. “Speaking of money, Libby, it seems pretty coincidental that you’re so hard up for cash and suddenly all that money is missing from Clancy’s desk.”

  “I’m not a thief,” Libby sputtered.

  “So, are you a murderer?” Rosemary asked lightly.

  Libby crossed her arms. “I won’t even answer that. Besides, the police think it’s a conspiracy, remember?” She looked at Belinda. “Because you gave him our manuscript.”

  Belinda shook her head. “Detective Truett took it—he thought the stain on the back was Margo’s lipstick or blood or something.”

  “So you say.” Libby angled her head. “You know, you look more guilty than the rest of us. You arrive in town, snuggle up to Margo, have it out with her in public, and a week later, the woman is snoozing in your trunk. Now we find out you’ve been lying to us all along about being married.”

  “I…told you why I lied.”

  “Because you were embarrassed?” Libby harrumphed. “You must have led a charmed life, girl, if you think you’re exempt from being embarrassed. Life doesn’t work that way.”

  Belinda pulled air into her lungs to counter the sting of the woman’s words. “I’m a private person.”

  “But we hardly know anything about you,” Carole said, then gave her a knowing look. “Except that you like secrets.”

  Belinda felt the women’s distrust descend over her like a blanket. She bit the end of her tongue and turned her head to look out the window. She couldn’t blame them—she hardly knew anything about herself these days. Lying to coworkers, making shady deals, entertaining the attention of two men, and now suspicious of everyone she came in contact with. “I think it’s time I left the car pool.”

  “I think it’s time we all found our own way,” Rosemary said.

  “Fine,” Carole said. “I’ll go this weekend to buy my Thunderbird.”

  “Fine,” Libby said. “I’ll have my SUV back by Monday.”

  “Fine,” Rosemary said.

  “Fine,” Carole said.

  “Fine,” Libby said.

  Fine, Belinda thought. She could go back to relying on herself, the only person she could truly depend on. Arrogant? Maybe. Safe? Absolutely.

  Here lies Belinda Hennessey. She was insulated.

  Chapter 28

  In the midst of the disagreement with Libby, Rosemary, and Carole, Belinda forgot about the promise she’d made to Wade to spend the night elsewhere—until she was tucked in bed staring at the fluted globe on her ceiling. At least it explained why he hadn’t called—he didn’t think she was home. Not that she’d expected him to call. The man was out fighting crime, after all, which included investigating Margo’s murder. He had more important things on his mind than her need to be comforted at a particularly low point in her life.

  But reporters were still calling; Joann Cameron in particular had left more than one message. Had Belinda seen Julian Hardeman, or did she know of his whereabouts? Belinda didn’t return the call and had, in fact, decided that if she tried to process one more question through her overtaxed brain, she’d probably combust right there on her animal print bed-in-a-bag.

  And then who would take care of Downey?

  Belinda finally sighed and turned on the lamp next to her bed to resume reading one of the novels she’d bought for the long honeymoon flight to Paris that hadn’t happened. When her mind threatened to wander back to the drama unfolding in h
er own life, she forced herself to concentrate on the words on the page until she was drawn into the story. At length her eyelids grew heavy and she was close enough to sleep to fall there quickly after she extinguished the light. Still, she dreamed of shadowy figures climbing through the windows and of being all alone when danger encroached. She started awake predawn and hovered in that blissfully unaware state for a full five seconds before her memory klunked in and the week’s events flooded back with crushing clarity.

  She was overwhelmed with the urge to burrow deeper into the covers, but she made herself get up and face the day, reminding herself that Jeanie Lawford and Margo would never have the chance to face another day, bleak or otherwise.

  Her place was a wreck from the police search, so she spent the day straightening every room of the town house, boxing more items for Goodwill to add to the ones she’d planned to take earlier in the week. If she lost her job and had to live in her Civic, she was determined that all of her belongings would fit.

  Assuming someday her beloved Civic would be returned and she wouldn’t have to rent an egg-yolk-yellow Ford Focus for the rest of her natural life.

  In the late afternoon, she nudged aside the bed sheet covering the bay window to make sure no reporters were loitering before she attempted to raise the garage door. No reporter, but she was disturbed to see large handprints on her window, made from the outside. Perry’s, no doubt, from the other day when they had practically scared each other to death.

  She gathered glass cleaner and a roll of paper towels, then raised the garage door and carried the first box to the back of the rental car. She paused a moment before opening the tiny trunk. It was ridiculous to think she’d find another body, if only due to sheer size constraints, but she still breathed a sigh of relief when she lifted the lid and found the space empty. From this point on, she would probably always hesitate a split second before opening the trunk of a car.

  “Hey, Belinda!”

  Perry. She winced, then turned. He was shirtless, and barefoot. It was hot, but still. “Hi, Perry.”

  “Need some help?”

  “No, thanks. I got it.”

  “Where you headed?”

  “To Goodwill.”

  He looked interested. “Can I go through the stuff first?”

  “It’s women’s clothes and things, nothing you’d want.”

  He still looked interested, then recovered. “New car?”

  “It’s a rental until I get my Honda back.”

  “Oh. Right. Have the police figured out who murdered your boss?”

  “Not yet.”

  He scratched his nipple. “Want to go get a burger?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “You got anything else you want hauled off?” He jerked a thumb toward his truck. “My truck will hold a shitload, and I’ll drive you wherever you need to go.”

  She gave his truck a dutifully admiring glance. “Thank you, Perry, but I’ll manage.”

  “You don’t like me, do you?”

  At the sudden change in his tone, she looked up, her heart skipping a beat. He cracked his knuckles one at a time, and she had a feeling he could be mean when he wanted. Wade’s observation that Perry had been at the Stratford Building on the day of the murder came back to her, stealing her breath.

  Suddenly he looked contrite. “I shouldn’t have said that. I came over to apologize.”

  She swallowed. “For what?”

  “For looking in your window the other day—that was wrong, and I’m sorry I scared you.”

  He seemed sincere, and honestly, too simpleminded to pull off what she’d been thinking. “Okay,” she said.

  “And I want you to know that I won’t bother you anymore. But if you need anything, just holler.”

  His words were so heartfelt that she couldn’t help but feel a rush of sympathy for the man. “Thank you, Perry. And you can do something for me.”

  If he had been a puppy, his tail would have wagged. “What?”

  She handed him the glass cleaner and the paper towels. “Clean your handprints off my window.”

  His face fell, but he took the supplies and trudged to the window. She loaded the box, then went inside to retrieve another one. When she returned, Perry was scratching his head. An itchy man. “I don’t mind cleaning your window,” he said, “but these ain’t my handprints.”

  She frowned and walked over. He held his hand next to the prominent print on the glass. Indeed, his hand was three-quarters the size.

  Had Wade left it when he’d worked on the alarm? The police, when they’d searched her town house? A reporter? She swallowed hard. Julian? Had he come over to spy on her? She had a slightly different view of his large hands now than when he had applied them to her in the sauna.

  “You can wipe them off,” she murmured. “There have been so many reporters around.” Of course, now that she thought about it, if a serial murderer was on the loose, having reporters around at all hours was darn good security.

  “Gotcha a security system, I see,” he said, pointing to the imposing sticker Wade had affixed to the window and the front door. Similar stickers were on the windows in the back, too.

  It was, she’d learned, a secret of the security business—big honking stickers to warn would-be intruders that if they breached the house, a siren would sound on the roof and a dragnet would fall over the perimeter.

  “Just a precaution,” she said.

  “You need a big-ass dog, like a Rottweiler. ’Course it’d eat your kitty.”

  She frowned, then pursed her mouth that the thought actually bothered her. Was it possible she was becoming attached to the hellcat?

  Perry finished and loped back to his own yard, presumably before she asked him to do some other kind of women’s work.

  The Goodwill drop-off was a tad painful, and rather anticlimactic. While a man wrote a receipt for her items, she watched the box containing her wedding gown being handed down an assembly line of people who were moving donations from the delivery area to be sorted. Near the end of the line, someone dumped the box onto a table and quickly sifted through the items. The gown and veil were separated and handed to a woman who added them to a clothing rack on wheels. The heavily laden rack was then pushed from the loading area through an open doorway and disappeared. A lump rose in her throat over the realization that the dress had once symbolized so much.

  “Ma’am?”

  Belinda blinked and looked at the man who was holding her receipt for taxes. She thanked him and stepped aside to make way for the people in line behind her who were all shedding pieces of their former lives.

  On the way home she blinked back a few achy tears, then stopped to rent two movies and buy a couple of rolls of aluminum foil to cat-proof her couch—she was tired of having her one good piece of furniture covered with old quilts.

  At home she checked her phone messages, hoping for word from Hank Baxter on the missing contracts, or an invitation from Libby or Rosemary or Carole that signaled a truce, or a call from Wade Alexander about a break in the case, or a call from Vince about why she hadn’t answered his card, or a call from her mother about the cleanest rest areas in Colorado. But the only call was from the car rental place hoping she was enjoying her “zippy” Ford Focus. If she was interested in keeping it, they could arrange for financing, even if her credit was “murky.”

  So, apparently even the lady reporter had stopped calling.

  The best part of being arrogantly independent, she decided, was having the entire evening to do whatever she wanted to do.

  So she ordered a pizza with extra mushrooms (Vince hated mushrooms) and watched a double feature of independent films she’d missed. She gave Downey a reprieve and allowed the cat to join her on the quilt-covered couch. All in all, not a bad evening, and she even allowed herself to think that someday her life would return to some version of normal. She was innocent, and the police would catch the bad guy. That’s the way it was in the movies, and in life.

  Pro
bably.

  The mushrooms gave her dreadful nightmares about Vince, and Sunday morning she opened the door to find the street in front of her town house chock full of reporters. She managed to wrap the raggedy peach robe around herself and snatch the Atlanta Journal-Constitution from her doorstep before darting back inside to find the Archer Furniture Company Serial Murders story on page three. By Joann Cameron. Which explained the new round of reporters.

  Thank God the piece was short. The Cameron woman had quoted a lot of unnamed sources, but she’d managed to work in the fact that Julian Hardeman, local traffic celebrity, had been linked romantically to both of the victims and to the Hennessey woman in whose trunk the body had been found. Also, Julian had apparently ditched a scheduled polygraph exam and skipped town. His picture was printed next to the article, plus Jeanie’s, Margo’s, and—

  She yanked the paper closer. How had they gotten her Ohio driver’s license photo? The only good thing about the dreadful picture of her in the Mickey Mouse sweatshirt was that she was practically unrecognizable.

  But Julian. She covered her mouth with her hand, trying to digest the idea of him committing such an appalling crime. It seemed inconceivable.

  Her judgment in men was now officially abysmal.

  The doorbell rang incessantly, but she didn’t answer it. Instead, she carried her laptop to the kitchen table and booted up. Signing onto the Internet served two purposes—it tied up the phone line and it gave her a diversion for the afternoon. She checked e-mail, frowning at all the junk and porn spam. No personal messages, which wasn’t a surprise. She hadn’t exactly stayed in touch with anyone in Cincy, and anyone who might have been inclined to contact her was probably still too stumped over the reneged wedding to know what to say. And the way she’d left town, everyone most likely thought she wanted to put everything about that part of her life behind her.

  Her relationships there had been tenuous, but were they completely disposable?

  She pushed the troubling question from her mind and decided to surf a few sites she’d always wanted to check out but had never gotten around to. Since Downey hadn’t yet run away, she really should research how to care properly for the poor rejected puss.