Sarah Booth Delaney

by Sarah Booth Delaney 01-06 (lit)

  It couldn't be Millie; she was out in the car with the shotgun. The moan came again, and I crawled over the floor until I bumped into another female form and this one was crying.

  "It's okay," I said as I worked.

  She shook her head, making it hard for me to undo the knot. As soon as the gag was loose, she took a deep breath. "We're not safe. He's around here somewhere."

  "My safety wasn't your top concern earlier," Sylvia said, and she sounded perfectly sane and very pissed-off. "You tricked me into coming back here with you. You said Hamilton was here."

  "I had to do what I did," Millie said. "I didn't have a choice." Her voice broke. "They said they'd tell me about Janice. I knew all along that they'd done something to her, but I hoped I could find her." Her voice disintegrated in grief. "He showed up at my house, and I thought I'd have a heart attack right on the spot. He said if I'd get Sylvia from Glen Oaks, he'd tell me where Janice was. I'm sorry, Sylvia. Since you got me to bring you out here the time before, I didn't realize it was a trap." Millie's sobs were harsh and raspy. "He said Janice was happy, that she'd found a good man and settled down. He said she had three children, two girls and a boy."

  Sylvia's voice was low and tight with anger. "You thought he'd tell the truth? What a luxury to be naive at fifty. I was seventeen when I learned the ugly reality about the people I'd been taught to trust."

  Sylvia Garrett might not be insane, but she was consumed with bitterness. I crawled past Millie and headed toward where I thought the phone might be. I had followed the exchange pretty well, except for one thing. I slowed my crawling and asked Millie, "Who told you to get Sylvia?"

  "That would be me." The unexpected male voice was accompanied by the beam of a flashlight, which caught me directly in the eyes. I was blinded, and I threw up my hands to block the light.

  "Who the hell are you?" I asked, fighting that terrifying fear that came with the knowledge that he'd been sitting in Delo's chair listening to us the entire time.

  "Well, if it isn't Sarah Booth Delaney. The last time I saw you, you were a little girl in pigtails running around the courthouse with your daddy. So glad you dropped by."

  I thought I had lost my mind, but I recognized Pasco Walters's voice. He'd deliberately triggered the perfect memory for me to identify him. He was alive, and not ten feet from where I sat on the floor. I heard a chair creak and the sound of footsteps as the flashlight rose up and came closer.

  "You couldn't mind your own business, could you?" he said, but there was no anger in his voice, only mild bemusement. "Your folks were always hard to deal with. Strange people, I'd say, always interfering in things that didn't concern them."

  I wanted to say that I thought he was dead, but even though shock had impaired my ability for witty repartee, I managed to bite that back. I was actually too busy to talk. My brain had finally manipulated the pieces of the puzzle into a picture. Pasco had killed Guy Garrett and most likely Veronica. He'd also stolen Veronica's Lalique collection, and after all this time, he'd begun to sell off the pieces.

  Another thought came to me: When I'd been hiding in the hedge, eavesdropping on Hamilton, the other man had said he'd lost his father, too. Gordon Walters was the other man. He and Hamilton had some kind of hellish alliance.

  "You're mighty quiet for such a nosy woman," Pasco said.

  "It isn't every day I get to talk with a zombie," I answered. In all of my psychology classes, there had been no mention of tactics for talking to someone risen from the dead.

  "Let me tell you," Pasco said on a soft laugh, "the afterlife has been wonderful. The last nineteen years have been the best anyone could ever wish for."

  I wanted to see his face in the light. I shifted, and I heard the hammer of a gun click. The flashlight beam swung back over me. "I wouldn't make any sudden moves," he cautioned.

  "What are you going to do with us?" Sylvia asked in her cool, controlled voice. She sounded so much like Hamilton, so unwilling to show fear or any other emotion considered weak. My heart dropped to my knees.

  Pasco seemed to be making up his mind. "You, I'm keeping, so your brother stays in line. I don't think I could get rid of the last two Garretts without drawing suspicion." There was a pause. "The others . . ." He let the sentence fade, and since I couldn't see his face I had no idea what that might mean. My womb was strangely silent, but my gut was telling me this was not good. "I think they probably know too much," he finally added with a nice touch of fake regret in his voice.

  He was going to kill us, and I had to give him credit, it was a perfect setup. By keeping Sylvia alive, he could control Hamilton. His sister's safety was his Achilles' heel. And even if Sylvia swore on a stack of Bibles that she'd been abducted by Pasco Walters, everyone would think she was just a little crazier than they originally thought. She'd be back in Glen Oaks in five seconds, this time by court decree.

  "You got the money, didn't you?" I asked. "You took it off Mr. Garrett after you killed him."

  "God, it was a beautiful sight," he answered, his tone boastful. I didn't need a light to feel his ego swell and fill the room. "I opened that briefcase and saw all of those fresh hundred-dollar bills, and I knew my life had changed forever."

  My Daddy's Girl training kicked in and I recognized an opportunity. "What a brilliant plan," I said. "You got the money and a brand-new life without anyone even thinking to look for you. It's pure genius."

  Pasco chuckled. "It was a perfect plan. Absolutely perfect. I walked out of one life and into another. For nineteen years I've lived like a king. But a million dollars will only stretch so far. We had to sell some of the baubles, and just when things were looking grim, we heard that Delo had buried another sack of money. The old bastard had pulled a fast one on us. That's when we decided to pay him a visit and get the rest."

  So Pasco had run out of cash and begun to sell off the jewelry. It was the first misstep that he'd made. The second was in coming back for more money. Beside me, Millie gave a ragged sob, and it seemed my brain jolted forward. If Millie was on the floor . . . "Who was driving Millie's car?"

  As if to answer my question, a feminine voice came from my right. "Since we're all gathered here, I think it's time for some light. I flipped the breaker back on."

  There was a scrabbling sound on the floor beside me, and the lights came on in a blinding flood just as Sylvia gained her feet and prepared to launch herself at the woman who stood in the doorway of Delo's kitchen holding a shotgun.

  "You goddamn bitch," Sylvia said, and she dropped to a crouch. "For nineteen years I've dreamed of this day. I'll kill you with my bare hands."

  Veronica Garrett's laughter was as cool as rippling water. "You always were overly dramatic, Sylvia. I detested that about you, always playing for the center of attention." She aimed the shotgun at her daughter. "You're not in a position to do much of anything."

  "I knew you weren't dead." Sylvia was panting. "I knew it. I told them you weren't dead and they thought I was crazy. When I demanded to see your body, they thought I was morbid and insane. But I knew it wasn't you. What poor son-of-a-bitch died to give you a new life?"

  Millie let out a wail. I put a hand on her shoulder and tried to comfort her, but there was nothing that could blunt the force of her pain. She had finally learned the truth of what had happened to her sister.

  I had to do something, but I didn't know what. Sylvia was liable to charge into the muzzle of the gun, but I felt as if a wizard had cast a spell on me—I was mesmerized by Veronica.

  The woman who stood before me was well over fifty, but she looked no older than thirty-five. Her face was unlined, and her moon-glow blond hair, so like her daughter's, cascaded down to her shoulders in a thick, luxurious fall. She wore a black pantsuit cut sleek and stylish, and on the shoulder was an exquisite hummingbird pin. Lalique. My gaze returned to her face. It seemed impossible that she was old enough to be Hamilton's mother.

  She stood in the kitchen door, and Pasco, who showed his age, sat by the din
ing room table. They had us caught between them.

  "Janice . . ." Millie sobbed. "She was just a kid, just a happy kid."

  "The girl's death was a lucky accident," Veronica said, her gaze shifting to Millie. "I didn't mean to hit her. But she was going to die, and I realized it would give me a new life if everyone thought I died in the wreck."

  I hadn't felt actual bone-aching horror until that moment. When I realized that Veronica and Pasco had put an injured woman in Veronica's Jaguar and then aimed it at a tree with enough speed to send the young woman's body through the windshield, I knew with certainty that cold-blooded murder was something of a habit for them. There was also the small matter of the dead body in Pasco's casket.

  Even as I accepted the danger of our situation, I couldn't help but be impressed by Pasco and Veronica's criminal cleverness. Fel Harper wouldn't dare question Pasco's finding that Veronica had died in the wreck. So there had been no autopsy. No attempt to make certain that the disfigured body was actually Veronica Garrett. It was a masterful plan.

  "The entire thing about the severed brake lines, that was just something you made up," I said, looking at Pasco. "As sheriff, you could make up anything. You used it to frame Hamilton and Sylvia, to throw suspicion on them." His smile told me I'd pieced it together properly. "And the gun that killed Delo? That was Sylvia's. It was a setup, too."

  Veronica answered. "Hamilton should learn to lock up better. He always took it for granted that things would go his way. No effort on his part. He was born the heir. I would have had to beg crumbs from him for the rest of my life."

  "You won't get away with this," Sylvia said, her eyes sparkling with high-voltage hatred. "All of these years, I've waited to find you. I've watched the magazines. I didn't care that people thought I was insane. I knew you'd taken your precious Lalique. Even when you were supposed to be dead, you were too greedy to leave it behind. It must have broken your heart to have to leave 'The Pink Lady' in Knob Hill. Father gave her to me, but you always wanted her."

  "I'm certain your brother will see fit to ship her to me," Veronica said, unperturbed by Sylvia's anger. "You're going back to Glen Oaks, this time as a convicted murderess. Once Hamilton realizes that at any moment someone can walk into that institution and visit you in your sleep, he'll give me anything I want. And he'll keep his mouth shut."

  That didn't sound like the Hamilton I knew, but I wasn't going to risk giving any advice.

  Pasco shifted in his chair, and I knew he was growing tired of show-and-tell. "So where is the rest of the money?" he demanded.

  "You got the million—" I started.

  Sylvia interrupted me. "Delo buried it. You thought you were so smart, but you weren't. You walked off and left half a million in cash in a dove field." She laughed at him.

  Pasco rose slowly. My gaze shifted to Veronica. Of the two, she was the more deadly. She hated her daughter.

  "Where is it?" Pasco asked too softly.

  "I'll die before I tell you," Sylvia taunted.

  And she would, because there was no money. Isaac Carter had said a million, and though he might not recognize a moral if it bit him, he was a man who was accurate with monetary amounts. This "forgotten" half million was the bait Sylvia had used to set her trap—and she had snared all of us.

  Once the pieces of Lalique began to appear in magazines, Sylvia had cast her web. She'd started the rumors about the "forgotten" money. She'd brought Hamilton back from Europe. She'd plotted her first escape from Glen Oaks and the eerie visit to the cornfield—all to draw Pasco and Veronica out of hiding. And she had succeeded masterfully. Except the bad guys now had the guns, and they were pointed right at us.

  "Sylvia doesn't know where it is," I said quickly. "I do. If you promise to let me go, I'll tell you where it is."

  "You'll tell us without any promises," Pasco said, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. He lit one and handed it to Veronica and lit another for himself. He held the pack out. "Want a smoke, ladies? It's traditional."

  "I'll take one," I said quickly. I'd read that hostages who developed a bond with their captors stood a better chance of surviving. Pasco lit another cigarette and brought it to me.

  "Where's the money?" His eyes had gone cold.

  "I'll have to show you," I said.

  "If you're playing games, Sarah Booth, I'll shoot you in your knees and make you crawl back here. If you doubt it, think about Delo. He wouldn't tell me where the money was."

  Maybe my plan wasn't such a good one. Then again, I didn't have an alternative. "I wouldn't mess around with you, Pasco. I'll show you. Delo told me where it was." This was a better lie even than the book business. And it was the only way I could see to get Pasco and the gun out of the house.

  "That stupid old man," Veronica said. "He said he didn't know. He didn't believe we'd kill him. Now we've wasted all this time."

  Pasco stood up. "Let's go," he ordered, motioning the gun at me.

  I rose slowly. "You have to promise me that you won't kill me," I said. "You don't have to give me any money, just promise you'll let me go."

  I saw Millie's disbelief turn to revulsion at my betrayal. I also caught a glimpse of Chablis, her nose sticking out from under the ruffle of the sofa.

  "Where's the money?" Pasco asked. He didn't have a high tolerance for negotiating.

  "Promise?"

  "Oh, for God's sake, promise her," Veronica said.

  "Sure, we'll get the money and then we'll let you go."

  Pasco didn't even bother to make it sound sincere. But it was all I was going to get. I'd delayed as long as I dared. My only real hope was that Tinkie, Tammy, and James would somehow figure out where I'd gone and send help. "It's in the dog pen," I said. "Delo told me. Mr. Garrett had given him one of the hounds, so he buried the money in the pen. He said it was blood money and that it would only bring bad luck." It made just enough sense that Pasco bought it.

  "I'll get a shovel," he said. He stepped across the room and grabbed my shoulder, his fingers digging into the tendon. "You're coming with me."

  "I'll watch them," Veronica said, and I was chilled by the way she looked at her daughter. Sylvia wasn't long for this world, if Veronica had her way.

  Pasco pushed me out into the night, and Chablis darted out in front of me and disappeared. The rain had stopped, but the fog was so thick I couldn't see anything. I wasn't familiar with the property and neither was Pasco. We stumbled around looking for the toolshed, and then finally made our way to the dog pen.

  Pasco thrust the shovel in my hand as he swung the flashlight beam over the ground. "You dig."

  "It'll take me forever," I said. "It's buried pretty deep."

  "Dig. We've got all night."

  I didn't like the sound of that, but Pasco had the loaded weapon. As I started to dig, I realized I'd chosen a pretty good location for a rescue—if the cavalry had been called.

  I began to turn the earth in small, shallow shovelfuls. Soon enough Pasco would tire of my pace and be forced to dig himself.

  "Dig faster," he directed with a sharpness that let me know I was getting on his last nerve.

  I pretended to comply. The sound of barking, muffled and distorted, drifted through the fog. I thought of Chablis. It was a bitter irony that I had gotten into this mess by stealing her. Now I would see the end of it—at least the end of my role in it—still worrying about that damn piece of fluff.

  The barking seemed louder, and even Pasco shifted so that he could crane his neck around the door of the pen and take a look. He saw nothing more than I— dense fog. I heard the click of the hammer on his pistol, and I knew his patience was almost gone. It would be only a matter of moments before he killed me.

  A deep, morbid howl seemed to come out of the night not ten feet away. Pasco grunted, edging out a little farther to check around the pen. A low, throaty howl came from behind the toolshed. It was a long, hungry sound.

  "Keep digging," Pasco said as he stepped away from me. His back was to me
as he looked into the darkness. I eased the shovel into clobbering position, and got ready to make my move.

  Out of the fog a giant, hairy rat scuttled toward Pasco's feet. The vermin grabbed hold of his leg and locked on to his calf. Pasco let out a yelp and began to dance. He pointed the gun down, but couldn't shoot for fear of hitting his own foot.

  "Chablis!" I cried at the same instant that I rushed out of the pen and brought the shovel down on Pasco Walters's head. The clang of metal on skull was totally satisfying.

  Pasco stumbled, then slowly turned toward me. He brought the gun up and aimed at my chest. I'd hit him hard enough to fell an ox, but he was still standing. He drew back his leg and kicked, and Chablis went flying into the fog.

  "You stupid bitch," he said, and his words were mushy, as if he were drunk.

  I tried to think of a prayer, but terror blotted everything out of my mind.

  Chablis gave one ferocious bark, and then a large body seemed to emerge from the night itself. It was lean and rangy, and it came at Pasco with such force that it struck his shoulder and sent him sprawling backward into the dirt. The gun flew out of his hand.

  Before he could regain his feet, I rushed forward and brought the shovel down on his head again. His body went limp, but I hit him again for good measure. Trembling, I stood over him until I felt the cold nose and wet tongue of one of Delo's hounds nuzzle my hand.

  "Revenge is sweet," I said to the dog. I got Pasco's flashlight and went in the direction Chablis had been flung. I found her little body near the side of the dog pen.

  "Chablis," I said, overcome with grief. She had been such a delicate thing. Jumping off the sofa could have broken her front legs. Pasco had punted her like a soccer ball. She simply wasn't tough enough to survive a man like him.

  I bent to pick her up. I wouldn't leave her in the mud and the cold night. As I lifted her into my arms, I felt her tremble. Then she gave a low growl and before I could stop her, she snapped her under-bitten little jaws shut on my chin and began to tear into me.

  "Chablis," I said, as well as I could with a six-ounce biting fury hanging from my chin. "Chablis, it's me, Sarah Booth."