by Sara Rosett
“I’d vouch for you and help you explain how you’ve changed.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think the police would put much weight behind your words. I know that sounds awful and I know you didn’t hurt Jean, but they think you’re a suspect. If they find out we were both there moments apart, they’re likely to think we worked together.”
Her words stung, but I had to admit she was right. I wasn’t exactly the person you’d want for a character witness, but Marie’s information was important, so I tried another tack. “I’m sure Dr. Harper would speak to them and could explain everything.”
“Ellie.” Impatience made her voice sharp and brought me to an abrupt halt. “My fingerprints are all over the box of white elephant gifts. I had to dig through there. I’ve heard the rumors about the paperweight—that it was the murder weapon. My fingerprints are on it. I know I picked it up to get to the things at the bottom of the box.” She combed her fingers through her bangs, moving them out of her eyes, then she ticked her points off on her fingers. “I snuck into the garage shortly before Jean was killed. I touched the murder weapon. I left, almost at a run. I didn’t come forward after her death. Don’t you see? They’d suspect me.” She finished and leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest.
I carefully set my phone down on the bright butterflies. “I heard the murder weapon was wiped clean.” Her expression didn’t change. “You’re not going to say anything? Just let it go? What if some small thing you saw or heard could make a difference? You might know something that would lead to catching Jean’s murderer.”
Marie jumped up and paced over to a stack of items we’d put aside to be donated. A large lamp with an ornately painted base balanced on top of several plastic bins. She ran her hand lightly down the lampshade. “Don’t you think I haven’t thought about that? I didn’t see anything. Anything,” she emphasized, and I recognized frustration in her tone. She paced back to the chair, then turned again for another short circuit of the room. “Now I can’t sleep, but it’s because I haven’t said anything. I’ve gone over every second from the time I drove into her neighborhood to the time I left and I can’t remember one thing that would make a difference. I can’t help them. Going to the police will only cause trouble for me—and for you, too. I’m surprised you can’t see that.”
“I can see that you’re scared and that you don’t want to get involved, but, some day, some how, they’ll find out you were there. And then they’ll be even more suspicious. It will be much better if you talk to them now.”
“I’m not going to. You’re not going to convince me.” Her chin stuck out a fraction of an inch and, despite her tall, gangly body, she reminded me of Nathan when he got his mulish face on and didn’t want to leave the playground when I called him.
I put my phone away and stood up. “I can see that. I’ll go now. What do you want me to do with the puzzle?”
“I don’t care. I can truly say that I don’t want it anymore. Keep it. Throw it away. Donate it,” Marie said, and there was a hint of sarcasm in her words as she repeated the mantra I’d often said to her as we went through her things.
“Right. I’ll let myself out,” I said. It looked like I’d lost another organizing client and Gabrielle had nothing to do with it.
On the front porch, I blew out a breath of air, calming down from the tension-charged scene. The same music throbbed through the air, a slow parade of cars moved down the street, and the lights flickered, but I hardly noticed. I took a few steps, watching a woman in a heavy coat and red muffler walking her basset hound along the sidewalk as she paused to watch the light show. Something had caught my attention while Marie and I were talking. Something that might make a difference. . . a half-formed thought had flitted away in the heat of the discussion. What had it been?
Tips for a Sane and Happy Holiday Season
Common Sense Celebrating
The holidays can be a crazy time of year. Besides coordinating gifts, decorating, sending holiday cards, and baking special foods, there are also more parties and events to attend during the holiday season. To reduce holiday stress, keep your schedule as simple as possible. Don’t overload your calendar with parties and events. Some events, like the office Christmas party, are mandatory, but for those that aren’t required, pick and choose the celebrations you really want to attend.
Chapter Twenty-one
I moved slowly down the short flight of steps, carefully gripping the balustrade, mentally reviewing our conversation. At the bottom of the steps, it hit me. Time. That was it. I hurried forward, then remembered I didn’t have to go anywhere to check out my hunch. I tucked the puzzle under my arm and opened my purse. I’d kept the flyer, hadn’t I? I shoved my wallet, sunglasses, and package of tissues around until I found the green paper folded in the side pocket with my lipstick.
I smoothed the creases in the pages and studied the flyer Paige had handed me. There it was: Hula-Hoop class from eleven-fifteen to noon. I pulled my phone out.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” I looked up and saw a man with a black newsboy cap pulled low over his eyes moving down the sidewalk. A wool scarf encircled his neck and lower face. He pointed with his gloved hands over his shoulder as he drew closer. “My car broke down. Can I borrow your phone?”
His words were innocuous but there was something . . . off. Something wrong. I didn’t have time to analyze what it was. I just had the impression that he was moving too quickly toward me. It flashed through my mind that most strangers would approach tentatively, slowly. I backed away, but he trotted the last few steps and closed the distance between us. He plucked the phone from my hand. “Thank you very much, Ellie,” he said as he dropped it into his pocket. Then, in one fluid motion, he grasped my wrist and twisted it behind my back, swinging me around so that I faced Marie’s house.
In that split second before he swiveled me around, I was close enough to see his face. “Simon, what are you doing?” I gasped as he wrenched my wrist higher and an arrow of pain shot to my shoulder. Not good. This is not good.
“No talking. Up those steps,” he said, and I stumbled. Instinctively, I swung the puzzle box, which I now held in my left hand. I aimed the corner at his face, but he threw up his free hand. The sleeve of his coat absorbed the blow. I lost my grip on the box and he swatted it away into the yard where it burst open. As puzzle pieces showered through the dry grass, I shifted half a step forward and tried to twist and wrench my arm away, but his grip on my wrist tightened and he yanked me back to his chest.
“Oh, no you don’t,” he admonished as if I were a toddler who’d thrown a toy across the room in defiance. He propelled me to the top of the steps and pressed his mouth behind my ear, his voice almost singsong. “You don’t want a broken arm, do you?” He rotated my wrist farther up my back than I thought possible, then yanked on it. My eyes stung with tears at the surge of pain.
I whimpered and shook my head.
“Good. Now. You’re going to press that doorbell with your left hand. I’m going to stay over here, out of sight,” he moved slightly to my side so that he couldn’t be seen from the door. “When Marie opens the door, you tell her you forgot something and step inside. Got it?” He cinched up his grip on my wrist.
“Got it,” I said before he went to work on my arm again. I pressed the doorbell. Don’t open the door. Don’t open the door. I prayed that Marie was so upset with me that she’d refuse to open the door. The seconds stretched and I snuck a glance out the corner of my eye at Simon. He nervously surveyed the over-the-top holiday scene in the next yard. The line of cars was bumper-to-bumper now, a slow parade winding through the neighborhood to take in the light show. Red and green lights flashed, alternately tinting his cold, set features a flushed red, then a sickly green. His eyes narrowed as he watched the cars. He wanted to get inside the house, away from the attention. It was the last place I wanted to go. At least out here there were witnesses, plenty of people to see what happened.
The heavy wooden door whipped ope
n, startling me. The glass storm door pressed into its frame, pulled by the suction of the opening door. It must not have been completely latched because it bounced back a little, creating a small opening as the latch missed and didn’t click into place. Before I could do anything to warn Marie, Simon slipped his hand into the opening and pushed his way inside, dragging me with him.
“What is—?” Marie faltered backwards. “Simon? Ellie?”
Simon released my wrist and roughly shoved me into Marie. We both crashed to the floor in a tangle. Blood rushed back into my arm, sending pins-and-needles sensations tingling from my elbow to my fingertips. I rolled away from Marie, gingerly cradling my arm.
“That’s far enough. Stay on the floor,” Simon said as I collapsed back against the wall. During our fall, Simon had closed and locked the front door. My arm ached and I realized that my legs were shaking, so I was glad to stay where I was. I glanced at Marie. Simon’s shove and our fall had carried us into the living room. Marie was huddled up against the “donate” bins, her face slack with amazement and her eyes wide as she stared at Simon. “That’s a Glock,” she whispered.
I whipped my head around. Simon did indeed have a gun. It must have been in his pocket and he hadn’t wanted to pull it out when we were outside with all the holiday-light sightseers within view.
“Very attentive,” Simon said, rummaging in the pocket of his coat with his free hand.
“What is going on?” Marie asked, her voice very quiet, barely above a whisper.
“You are going to help me solve a very tricky problem,” he said in a conversational tone.
The stinging sensation in my arm had died down a bit and the sheer unbelievability of the situation hit me. Up until that moment, things had been moving so fast that I hadn’t had time to do anything but react—and react badly. I hadn’t been able to get away from Simon or keep us out of Marie’s house. I shook my hair out of my face and scooted up a little higher on the wall. “Simon, I’m sure that this isn’t what you want to do—”
“Yes, it is. It’s exactly what I want to do.” He extracted a large zip-top plastic bag from an inner pocket of his coat. He raised the bag. “Jean’s scarf,” he said, and I remembered she’d worn it on the night of the white elephant Christmas party. The brown-and-tan plaid scarf had been loosely draped around her neck when she and Gabrielle arrived. Through the plastic, I could see several irregular dark splotches on the fabric. About half the fringe was matted together and covered with the same dark stain.
“Is that . . . ,” Marie swallowed, steadied herself, and said, “blood?”
I poked Marie with my sore elbow, a warning. I didn’t want to talk about blood or about Jean. Right now, we only needed to focus on getting out of here, but Marie was fixated on the plastic bag and seemed not to feel the jab in the ribs.
“Yes. Jean’s. Fortunately for me, she was wearing it that day. When the police find it in that puzzle box that you took from the garage and hear about your rather odd obsession with—” he glanced beyond us to the piles mounded along the living room “—keeping things, it will tie you directly to the murder—opportunity and motive.”
“But . . . no one was there. No one saw me,” Marie said.
“Oh, I saw you,” Simon assured her.
“Were you in the house? Your car wasn’t there. And there wasn’t anyone on the street. I checked,” Marie said, showing more animation.
“That would be stupid, to come directly into the neighborhood, in plain view—like you did,” he said sarcastically. “No, I took the back way, shall we say, but I am glad you made your little visit. You arrived, saw the puzzle, and when you thought Jean was going to prevent you from taking it, you struck her, and left.”
“But that’s not what happened,” Marie sputtered.
Simon didn’t seem to hear her. He turned his attention to me. “Of course, Ellie figured it out and came here to confront you. You lost your head—again—and killed her. Then, full of remorse, you killed yourself. A sad little story, but it wraps everything up neatly.”
A ringing sound came from his pocket. He stuffed the plastic bag with the scarf under his arm, transferred the gun to his left hand, and pulled my phone out of his pocket. He glanced at the display. “Your ever-attentive husband,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll send him a reassuring text. Let him know you’re fine and you will be late. Extremely late,” he said.
He pulled off his thick winter gloves, revealing blue latex gloves underneath. The sight of the bright blue gloves already stretched tight over his hands made me queasy. He had carefully prepared for this encounter. The winter gloves were to hide the latex gloves while he was outside the house. But, now that he was inside, he needed full movement of his hands and he didn’t want to leave any fingerprints. He stuffed the winter gloves in an interior pocket, then switched the gun to his right hand and began tapping at the screen of my phone with the thumb of his left hand.
“But that’s not what happened,” Marie said, turning to me. “I didn’t kill Jean.”
“Of course not,” I said soothingly, because Marie was all but bouncing up and down in earnest self-defense. “I know you had nothing to do with Jean’s death.” The scenario he’d laid out wasn’t what had happened. It was a convenient explanation with facts twisted to make sure his name was clear. Marie still looked slightly dazed. I wanted to be sure she understood exactly what we were dealing with, so I said, “It was Simon. He killed Jean.”
He didn’t look up. Marie gave a warning shake of her head and made a shushing sound in an undertone. Her eyes widened as she glanced from me to Simon, who was painstakingly tapping away with his thumb.
“Don’t upset him,” she breathed.
In my normal voice—or what I hoped was close to my normal voice, except for a few fear-induced breathy pauses—I said, “I don’t think he’s upset. He looks quite rational and calm, in fact.”
Marie’s eyes widened in disbelief. I shrugged. “It’s not going to do us any good to pretend he’s made some awful mistake or that he can be talked out of this.” As I spoke, I scanned the living room. I knew her home phone was in the kitchen, but her cell phone had to be here somewhere . . . or there had to be something else that would help us. Marie seemed to catch on to what I was doing and she began edging slightly sideways toward the donation pile where the heavy lamp perched.
Quickly, I said, “I’m sure he had another way of arriving.” The back way, had been his exact words. “The cul-de-sac,” I said, remembering the other neighborhood that backed up to Simon’s house. “If he parked in there, he could have walked to his neighborhood and watched you, then entered and left through the back door with no one in his own neighborhood spotting him. I wonder if the police asked any questions in the other neighborhood?” He didn’t pause or look away from the phone. Marie scooted another inch closer to the lamp. Texting with the thumb on your left hand was quite laborious, it seemed. Simon didn’t even look up.
“But that wasn’t the only clever thing you did, was it?” I said, wanting him to look first toward me, not Marie, but his attention remained focused on the phone. Marie dug her heel into the carpet and rotated slightly toward the lamp. “It wasn’t just about how you got in and out. It was about time, too.”
Marie tilted her head to the lamp, then pressed her palms down on her jeans. Her lips moved and it took me a moment to comprehend that she’d mouthed, “On three.”
I gave a nod. I had to keep talking. What had I been saying? Oh, time. “It was all about having an alibi, wasn’t it? Your faithful attendance at the Hula-Hoop classes established a normal pattern of behavior.” Marie shot me an incredulous look. Simon didn’t seem to be paying the slightest bit of attention to me. He murmured something about the OFF button, but I wasn’t about to tell him where it was. He swiveled the phone side to side, frowning.
I kept blabbering on, my heartbeat picking up pace. “On the day you killed Jean, you set the clock in the workout room ahead by five minutes. I spoke to
Paige at noon. She thought she was running late, but she was actually on time for our noon appointment and she mentioned that they didn’t get through the whole workout . . . that it had seemed a shorter workout than normal. That was because you’d changed the clock. Class runs from eleven-fifteen to twelve, but you were actually able to leave at eleven fifty-five.”
One, she mouthed.
“Because the gym, your house, and Helping Hands are all so close together, that would give you just enough time to drive to the adjoining neighborhood, watch Marie retrieve the puzzle and leave, walk in the garage,” I swallowed hard before I said, “kill Jean, and then get back to your office by twelve-fifteen or so, all well within your typical routine. What I can’t figure out is why? Why did you kill her? An affair?” I asked. It was a shot in the dark, but I had to say something.
Two.
He tapped at the phone, quickly thumbing through screens. “Hardly. This had nothing to do with emotion.” A chime sounded from my phone. It was powering down. I didn’t dare look at Marie because Simon was studying me now. “It was about cold hard cash.” He put the phone back in his pocket, but before he could remove his hand, Marie twisted and the lamp sailed through the air. I scrambled to my knees. He threw his left arm to block the lamp. In a split second, I realized it was falling toward me. I ducked, but before I could raise my arms, pain exploded in my head.
Chapter Twenty-two
Why did my pillow feel so scratchy? Searching for my plush memory-foam pillow, I shifted my chin up and down in a burrowing motion—mistake. A wave of nausea coursed through me. I held myself still and swallowed the bile in my throat. After a second, I felt better and opened my eyes, but didn’t move my head.
Nothing but blackness. I blinked rapidly, but the darkness still engulfed me.