Murder by Design Trilogy

by Mary Jane Forbes

  At the end of the day, the move complete, Hawk dropped in to take a peek at the new digs and insisted that the Band of 5 relax over dinner and drinks at Ivar’s, their favorite restaurant, on the waterfront—his treat. The group was well known and even had a waiter assigned to their table when any, or all, of the Band of 5 came into the establishment.

  It was six o’clock, closing time, so Gilly went down the stairs, said goodbye and thanks to the young saleswoman, and locked the front door. A carton about one foot by one foot was on the floor in back of the glass sales counter. Gillianne Wilder, Open by Addressee Only. Gilly’s heart skipped a beat. The return address: Maxime Beaumont. She stared at the box for a moment and decided to open it when she returned. Dinner with the Band of 5 was not going to be ruined by whatever was in the box.

  She hurried back upstairs, dressed Robyn in a playsuit with a sweater knotted around the baby’s shoulders. “You look very chic, my chérie,” Gilly laughed. Now five months old Robyn was sitting in her crib, holding a cracker, laughing and babbling—an adorable moppet with red curls spilling around her face. Her dark eyes followed anything moving in her line of sight.

  ───

  DINNER WAS LIVELY. Thanks to Maria and Hawk, it was just what the Band of 5 needed. Hawk had graciously whispered to Arthur to ask Cindy to join them. After one glass of wine with dinner, the Band of 5 began to wilt. The long day of moving, accompanied with the excitement to finally combine the loft with the shop, had taken its toll. Skipping dessert and passing on an after dinner coffee, they straggled out of the restaurant. Their only words: “Bye, see you tomorrow.”

  Gilly drove Nicole, Gabby, and Robyn back to the apartment—the first night in their new home. It was like old times—the three friends laughing and giggling as they mounted the stairs, stepping into the apartment. They stood gazing around the great room, without saying a word they gave each other a high five and headed to their separate bedrooms—what luxury.

  Gilly changed Robyn into her pajamas, covered her with a light baby blanket and kissed her forehead. Her eyes closed instantly. She had been the life of the party and was exhausted with all the tummy tickles from her five mothers. Gilly tiptoed to her dresser, the only illumination in the room from a small lamp on the nightstand. Looking into the mirror she removed her earrings. An image of Maxime flashed into her mind. Why in the world am I thinking of him, she wondered frowning. Then she remembered the box downstairs.

  She crept down to the shop and lifted the box—it was light. She crept back up the stairs to her bedroom and closed the door. Slitting the tape with a nail file, she opened the box revealing white tissue paper with an envelope on top. Removing the note, she let out a small sigh shaking her head. Your Maxime, written by his hand at the bottom.

  Setting the note on her dresser she pulled the tissue paper away, her lips drawing into a smile, her green eyes crinkling at the corners as she unwrapped a frilly little pink dress, a yellow T-shirt with a painted bunny in the center, little white patent shoes, frilly socks, a white sweater with pearl buttons, a pink barrette, and a little white bunny with a pink satin ribbon around his neck tied in a bow.

  Still smiling, she kissed the bunny and tiptoed to her sleeping baby, tucking the bunny under Robyn’s arm. A fuzzy ear brushed the infant’s cheek. Her little hand swiped in the air at the tickle and then her arm circled the bunny pulling it to her heart. Witnessing the move Gilly gulped for air, her eyes misting as she stared at the picture in front of her. On tiptoe, she ran from the alcove and the sleeping child, stuffed the tissue back into the box and put it by the door. Returning to her bed, she quickly folded each piece of clothing, stacking them in the bottom drawer of her dresser.

  Changing into a green shorty gown, she crawled under the new, cool sheets, reached for the lamp and turned off the light. Her eyes wide, she played over opening the box, the note, the adorable outfits, and then Robyn’s grasp of the bunny. Why, she wondered, didn’t I return the box unopened to the sender?

  Exhausted from the emotions of the day, her eyes fluttered and she fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

  Chapter 22

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  THE NEWSROOM WAS ABUZZ over a plane performing an emergency landing with eighty-three passengers aboard at Sea-Tac airport. It was Friday, quitting time, and Skip was about to make a quick exit before he was called to a crime scene. An emergency landing of a plane didn’t qualify as a crime, not at the moment anyway. He powered down his computer, grabbed his jacket from the wall peg and bumped into Diane as she turned into his cubicle.

  “Hey, Skipper, how about a TGIF beer at Charlie’s?”

  “Sorry, Di, no can do. I’m on way home to pick up Agatha and then heading across the sound.”

  “Oh, that’s right, I forgot your Saturday morning training run. How’s it going?”

  “Great. Tomorrow’s August fourteenth—the beginning of week two.”

  “Two?”

  “My second week of the training program—fifteen being the marathon and then one to recoup. See you Monday,” he called over his shoulder.

  Diane exhaled a long sigh, hands on her hips. “Maybe I should run a marathon, or help you recoup,” she called after him.

  “Try it. It’s a lot of fun,” he yelled back and stopped. Turning around he looked at her, her arms crossed over her chest, standing with a sour look on her face. “But, it’s also a lot of work. Bye.”

  Two hours later Skip pulled into Gramp’s driveway, beeped the horn and let a restless hound out of the Jeep. Agatha bumped down the stairs to the patio waiting for Gramp’s to open the screen door.

  “Hello there, my furry friend,” Gramps said opening the door. Agatha scooted past him and straight to the doorway between the living room and kitchen—the spot Gramps had taken to laying a rawhide bone when he expected her to visit. Aggie whizzed by a hissing Coco.

  Gramps was laughing as Skip passed him on his way to the den, arms around his laptop and a box of papers and folders for his weekend writing session. He set everything on the desk and then stripped off his trousers and shirt revealing his running clothes—red long shorts and a yellow tank. He looked like a big stop light which was exactly his intent.

  “See you later—six miles today,” he called out as he jogged to the driveway to stretch for five minutes before starting his run.

  “Gilly called from the ferry,” Gramps shouted as he pulled the lounger for Gilly from the patio. “She asked me to set up the playpen on the lawn with a chair umbrella attached to the rail to protect Robyn from the sun. She may pass you.”

  “Need some help?” Skip shouted back.

  Gramps shook his head, no, returning inside the patio for the playpen and umbrella.

  Finished stretching, Skip downed a bottle of water and stashed another in his backpack along with a Gatorade, a key carbohydrate and sodium replacement drink on a hot day like today. He picked up his watch, looked at it a minute and then put it back in his bag. Time didn’t matter—his goal was to finish. He didn’t want the distraction of checking his watch.

  One more stretch and then he jogged up the driveway and turned south on Hansville Road. “I feel good. I’m a marathoner,” he said with a grin. He had gradually allowed his muscular and skeletal system to adapt to the trauma of running.

  “In. In.

  Out. Out.

  In. In.

  Out. Out.”

  He focused on his running form, especially his lower body. Focused on his foot striking the pavement—heel first. Some runners made contact with the heel and forefoot at the same time. Heel first came naturally to Skip, so he didn’t try to change.

  “In. In.

  Out. Out.

  In. In.

  Out. Out.”

  He focused on his vertical bounce, making sure it wasn’t excessive—a waste of energy. He focused on his upper body. A slight lean forward, neck and shoulders relaxed, arms bent. Ninety degrees or a little more was his comfort zone, breathing with his mouth open, the air en
tering his lungs from both his nose and mouth.

  “In. In.

  Out. Out.

  In. In.

  Out. Out.”

  Man, it’s getting hot, he thought. He smiled and shouted his mantra to a cow in the field as he passed. “But it doesn’t matter.”

  He pulled his bottle of Gatorade from his pack, drank half, returning the bottle to his pack. Walked a minute then started running again. The motorcycle with the man and woman, same as the last few weeks, passed but didn’t wave this time.

  He thought about his training week. He had begun to drink more water, ate more veggies, kept to low-fat foods. Monday he ran three miles, Tuesday four, Thursday three, today six. He totaled sixteen miles for the week. Right on schedule.

  “In. In.

  Out. Out.”

  Gilly drove by. Honked. Waved.

  Skip waved. Focused back on the pavement a few yards ahead.

  Chapter 23

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  GILLY DROVE WITH THE windows up to thwart the blast of hot air, the AC on high as she crested the hill then dropping into Hansville, Puget Sound lying out in front of her. A quarter mile farther she turned down Gramp’s driveway and parked next to Skip’s Jeep.

  Lifting Robyn from her car seat, she carefully navigated the three steps to the lawn and put Robyn in the playpen. Gramps came to the door to greet his granddaughter, kissed her on the cheek and smiled at his great granddaughter.

  “Thanks for putting up the playpen, Gramps. I passed Skip so I should have time to bask in the sun for awhile before putting Robyn down for her nap.”

  “Your mother brought over a fish stew earlier.”

  “Fish?”

  “Yes, she’s been reading up on diets for marathoners. Seems fish was near the top of the list,” he chuckled, ducking inside out of the heat.

  Gilly kicked off her sandals, handed Robyn her now favorite toy—the white bunny—and settled herself on the lounger. She tied the shirttails of her blouse in a knot above her white shorts. It was a peaceful summer afternoon and it felt good to be away from the shop for a few hours.

  Shielding her eyes she gazed at Gramp’s garden from the guesthouse up to the road. Her eyes lingered over the strip of grass from the garage to the berry bushes, the round bed of roses in the middle, the pine trees marching up the side of the driveway and opposite the large flowering bushes up the other side. The far end, shielding the road, was a big raspberry and blackberry patch. Something caught her eye through the leaves in the blackberry patch. She propped herself up on her elbows but didn’t see anything moving. Probably just the leaves fluttering in the breeze, or some squirrels playing tag. She looked over at Robyn swatting a toy fastened to the side of the playpen, and then she lay back reveling in the heat of the sun’s rays on her skin.

  Hearing a car slowly roll down the driveway, Gilly lifted her head, her hand raised to her forehead protecting her eyes from the sun as the car parked behind Skip’s Jeep.

  Helen Churchill emerged from the car a few seconds later and stood at the top of the steps her face hardened in a frown.

  “Helen, hi. Nice to see you,” Gilly said, squirming to get up from the lounger. “Come on down. See how Robyn’s grown.”

  “Stay where you are, Gillianne Wilder,” Helen snapped.

  Gilly was startled at the guttural sound of Helen’s voice. She took a step away from the lounger and another toward Helen, who was still standing on the edge of the driveway.

  “I said, stay where you are,” Helen yelled. She pulled something from her tote, one of Gilly’s totes the woman had purchased at the Port Gamble Boutique.

  Gilly, blinded by the sun, couldn’t see what was in Helen’s hand. It was shiny and caught a glint from the sunlight.

  Gilly took another step.

  Helen was holding a pistol.

  She was pointing it at Gilly.

  Gramps opened the screen door. Gilly waved her hand behind her warding him off but he walked up beside her to say hello to his friend.

  “Helen, how are—

  “Stay where you are Clayton Wilder. I’ll tell you both how I am. I’m sick with grief.” Tears sprang from her eyes.

  “Helen, what’s the matter? And please put that gun away. Talk to us,” Gramps said taking a step toward her.”

  “The matter? Edward’s dead. You killed him … both of you. Well, let’s see how it feels to take a bullet in the foot Mr. Clay Wilder.”

  Helen pulled the trigger. The bullet flew up in the air the recoil throwing Helen off balance, her shoulder banging into the side of the guesthouse. Huffing, putting her hand against the clapboards, she struggled to regain her footing.

  “What happened to your grandson, Helen?” Gramps asked in a low voice inching forward.

  “In prison, thanks to you. He was bullied and beaten. Last night they found him in his cell. Dead,” she said, dazed, then quickly focusing again on Gilly and Gramps.

  Gilly knew Skip would not return in time to help. She and Gramps had to somehow talk Helen into giving up the gun. She glanced sideways at her grandfather. He was holding his hands out, open to Helen, showing her he was not a threat.

  “It’s your fault,” Helen screamed at him. “If you hadn’t shot him, if the police hadn’t chased him for no good reason … he didn’t copy your designs, Miss Gillianne Wilder,” she hissed. She waggled the gun at Gramps. “If you hadn’t shot him, hurt him … he was in such pain … he wouldn’t have gone to Mexico. They butchered his foot. All your fault,” she said hatred burning in her eyes.

  The pistol fired. Again she was thrown off balance from the recoil. The bullet penetrated the patio window leaving a hole and cracked glass.

  Helen suddenly crumpled to the ground sobbing, her arms hugging her body, rocking back and forth, the gun dangling from her fingers.

  Gilly ran up the stairs to her side, took the gun from her fingers still squeezing the grip, handing it to Gramps as she wrapped her arms around Helen, holding her tight. Helen continued rocking in Gilly’s tight embrace.

  Skip turned the corner into the driveway. Gramps held up the gun the silver metal barrel sparkling in the sunlight. He signaled to Skip to come, to look down at the ground in front of the cars. As Skip rounded his Jeep he heard then saw the gray-haired woman sobbing in Gilly’s arms. Heard Gilly trying to comfort her, telling her over and over again that she was going to be okay. He then saw Robyn lying on her back, holding a white bunny, thumb in her mouth, eyes wide open in the shade of the umbrella.

  Skip helped Gilly and the sobbing grandmother to their feet. They walked her to Gilly’s car and into the back seat. Gramps climbed in beside her, put his arm around her and held her hand. Helen’s head fell to Gramps shoulder. The sobs subsided but the tears continued to stream down her face. Her breathing labored.

  Gilly sat Robyn in her car seat as Skip located the car keys in Helen’s car hanging from the ignition where she had left them. With a couple of nods between Skip and Gilly, they agreed that Skip would drive Helen’s car. Skip put the gun on the seat beside him, pulled out of the driveway, let Gilly pass and followed her. She and Gramps were taking the distraught woman home to her husband.

  Mr. Churchill, tears in his eyes as he spoke with his son in New York and what his plans were to claim his grandson’s body from the prison morgue, was unaware of his wife’s disappearance from the house. He was startled, dropping the phone, when Gilly pushed open the front door and saw Clay Wilder holding his wife as she staggered into the house.

  Mr. Churchill took over holding his wife, guiding her into the bedroom. With Gramps help they managed to get her on the bed. Gilly rushed in with a glass of water, held Helen’s head up and urged her to take a few sips. Helen would have none of it slapping the glass out of Gilly’s hand then rolled over, pulling a pillow into her body, still sobbing.

  “She’ll be okay in a little while,” Mr. Churchill said. “It’s just that it is such a shock …about Edward … the way he died. Thank you for bringing her
home. I’ll take care of her.”

  He shuffled out of the bedroom, Gilly and Gramps following, Gramps hand resting on Gilly’s shoulder as they entered the living room.

  Skip was sitting next to Robyn in her car seat when the three came into the room. Mr. Churchill put the dangling phone receiver to his ear then hung up the phone. Skip stood up and handed the gun to Mr. Churchill. “You might want to put this in a safe place, a place your wife doesn’t know about.”

  Mr. Churchill looked at Skip. His face blank, uncomprehending. He looked at Gramps. “Was there trouble?”

  “Nothing we can’t deal with, but Skip’s right. Maybe just get rid of it.”

  They said goodbye, Gilly adding that if Mr. Churchill needed any help to please call.

  Skip slid in behind the wheel of Gilly’s car as she and Gramps climbed in the back seat next to Robyn for the trip back to Hansville. No one spoke. Gilly and Gramps had literally dodged a couple of bullets.

  Chapter 24

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  SKIP ROLLED GILLY’S CAR down the driveway, pulling in behind his Jeep. The car came to a stop. Gilly, Gramps and Skip sat … waiting. Waiting for what? Someone to come along and wipe the images from their mind of what had happened an hour ago?

  Robyn’s lower lip quivered followed by a wail. It was past time for her bottle and nap.

  Her cry was a call to action and everyone climbed out of the car, trooped down to the house with Robyn in her mother’s arms. Gilly warmed a bottle and settled Robyn in her crib. Strong sucking emptied half the milk and then she fell asleep, the bottle falling to her side.