Peak Season for Murder

by Gail Lukasik

  CHAPTER FORTY

  “Julian denied knowing anything about Danielle’s disappearance,” I complained to Bob, who was throwing a ball against the back wall, clearly bored out of his mind. “And stop that. Someone might hear.”

  “They’ll think it’s you.”

  “Where did you get that ball?”

  He stopped throwing and gave the ball a few quick squeezes. “Stress ball. I take it with me everywhere. College students get stressed too, you know.”

  He cocked back his arm, but before he released the ball, I grabbed it from his hand and shoved it in my pocket. “I should have your stress.”

  “Hey,” Bob protested, staring at my bulging pocket. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking about Julian and this Danielle babe, and you’re dead wrong. If anyone’s lying, it’s Harper. She’s a real player, if you know what I mean.” His pale eyebrows went up and down luridly. “Julian, he’s an old-timer and, well, he’s kinda like been a regular for the past four seasons. And I gotta tell you, of all the actors, he’s the best. Always asks me how I’m doing, stuff like that. He even went to bat for me with Alex. Rich thinks he’s a good guy too. And Rich ought to know.”

  I cringed at the mention of Rich’s name. “You put way too much faith in Rich’s opinion.”

  “I don’t see why you’re so down on Rich,” Bob continued. “He’s been looking out for you.”

  “Looking out, how?” I didn’t like the sound of that.

  Bob shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just something Rich would do.” He picked up the mystery book and started reading it, dodging my question.

  He was lying, and not just about Rich’s so-called “looking out for me.” From the onset, when Rich showed me Bob’s text message, I’d been suspicious. I stared at Bob as he read. He didn’t look up from the book, but he must have felt my stare, because a slow flush traveled up his neck to his face.

  “Rich contacted you, didn’t he? That’s how you found out about Lydia’s attack. He asked you to come back here.” It was all starting to make sense.

  Bob tossed the book on the coffee table, got up from the sofa and moved to the door.

  “He was bringing you food to the cabin, wasn’t he? I wondered how you were eating. But why involve me?”

  Bob had his back to the door, one hand in his pocket, the other on the doorknob, looking like he was ready to run. “I never left,” he whispered the words. “It was only after your friend Lydia was attacked that we decided to involve you. It was Rich’s idea. He said you solved two murders last year.”

  Rather than scream at Bob for not telling me the truth from day one and push him into silence, I clamped down my temper. “There’s no proof Nate Ryan was murdered, unless you know otherwise. And the only reason I got involved in the murders of those two young women was because I found the first victim.” I was pacing back and forth, as if I could walk away that horrid memory.

  I finally stopped pacing and stood in front of Bob. “Your friend Rich is using you to get to me. He’s been stalking me.”

  His eyes shifted right. “He wouldn’t do that.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t he?” I challenged, striding over to my tote bag and yanking out my notebook. I had to prove to Bob that Rich was dangerous. I leafed through the notebook until I located my interview with Rich. Bingo! Moonflowers were in the BT garden, just as I thought. Then I flipped forward to my notes on poisonous plants and read the toxic effects of moonflowers. I couldn’t prove it but maybe the reason I’d gotten sick that day backstage wasn’t because I hadn’t eaten. Maybe it was because I’d inhaled Rich’s bouquet of flowers. I distinctly remember the white flowers that looked like morning glories and their unpleasant sweet scent.

  I went to Bob. “See this list of poisonous plants?” I rapped the paper. He was looking at me like I’d gone crazy. “Now look what it says about moonflowers. Even inhaling them may cause nausea and dizziness. Moonflowers are grown in the BT garden.” Bob had the good sense not to say anything.

  “And your friend Rich gave me a bouquet of flowers with moonflowers in it. And guess what? I got sick.”

  He sidestepped away from me. “He probably didn’t know they’d make you sick.”

  “Then why did he warn you about not letting Dixie near the garden because some of the plants were poisonous? Oh, he knew.”

  Bob looked down. “Man, that doesn’t sound like him.”

  “He knows you’re here in my apartment, doesn’t he?” Guilt was written all over Bob’s face.

  “Yeah, but I didn’t know about the flowers. He shouldn’t have done that.”

  I’d played right into Rich’s hand. My reputation for rescuing strays had bitten me in the ass. “And the mannequin, did you do that?”

  “No,” he protested loudly. “I found it in the cabin, just like I said, after Nate and Nina left. You don’t think it was Rich, do you?”

  That was exactly what I was thinking. What I still didn’t understand was, why have Bob lure me to the cabin?

  “What were Rich’s exact words when he told you to send that text to him about Danielle Moyer and the ghost?”

  “He said he knew for a fact that Ryan was murdered and that you could get to the bottom of it.”

  “He doesn’t know anything. If he did, he’d go to the cops. He used you, and he used me. He’s playing some psychotic game.”

  Bob was shaking his head. “He’s not like that. He isn’t. You got him all wrong.”

  I’d failed to convince him, and I was hopping mad. “Look, if he shows up here tonight while I’m gone, do not tell him I’m on to him. If you do, I’m personally calling your parents and telling them where you’ve been all this time.”

  “I’m not that good a liar.”

  “You’ve been pretty good so far.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Maybe it was the maximum-strength analgesics or maybe it was the nearly three hours of sitting and watching The Importance of Being Earnest, but my ankle was pain free, so I decided to take the shoreline trail to Serenity House rather than drive. I needed the time to think. My conversation with Bob was weighing on my mind.

  Before leaving the grounds, I strolled by the beer garden to check on Rich’s whereabouts. I didn’t need him “looking out for me” by following me down the trail.

  He was busy serving customers and didn’t even notice when I walked past. The picnic area was crowded with playgoers, some standing, some sitting on the green canvas chairs, drinking and chatting. Their voices sounded disembodied under the twinkling fairy lights, which cast shadows, as if this was all a dream no one wanted to wake from. I found a chair and sat for a moment, savoring the enchantment. This was no Midsummer’s Night Dream, but if I closed my eyes, it could be. Then I spotted Nina and Julian emerge from the back of the theater, and the enchantment was broken. I stood up and started toward the shoreline trail.

  As I walked, I gazed out over the water and watched the scuttling clouds move fast across the night sky. The wind was picking up, and waves were rolling and crashing against the rocky shore in a loud crescendo. Everything was in flux.

  Had Nate been murdered? And if so, by whom? The bloody mannequin with the playbill around its neck was meant as a warning. Whether to Nate or Nina, I wasn’t sure. But the message was clear—the past had come back to haunt them. Danielle Moyer’s bitter end would be avenged. But had revenge led to murder? Rich thought so, if Bob was to be believed—if Rich was to be believed.

  My ankle was starting to ache again. I should have worn the elastic ankle wrap instead of stowing it in my bag. The walking had agitated it.

  Rounding the trail, I spotted the bench marking the path to the Moyer cabin, a welcome sight. When I reached the bench, I plopped down, retrieved the elastic wrap from my bag, slipped off my sandal and pulled the wrap over my ankle. It was so swollen, I had a hard time getting my sandal back on. But after some maneuvering and moaning, I got my foot in the sandal. Then I unzipped the bag’s inner compartment and retrieved two more analg
esics from my pillbox and dry-swallowed them one at a time.

  Carefully I stood, a swirl of warm wind lifting my hair, and tested my ankle. Even with the wrap, it throbbed painfully. Okay, change of plans. I’d hobble back to the theater grounds, retrieve my truck from the back lot and drive to Serenity House. I’d only come about a quarter of the way, so I had ample time.

  I stepped back on the trail and started walking cautiously, trying not to put too much weight on my left foot. Then I stopped. Had I heard something? The waves were thundering on the rocks so loudly, it was hard to tell. I started to turn around, but never made it.

  An arm clamped tight around my neck, my left arm pinned, rendering it useless, as I was dragged into the woods.

  Screaming, I clawed frantically at his arm, but the more I clawed, the tighter his hold got. I could feel myself slipping away. If you lose consciousness, you’ll die. Fight. I dug my heels into the hard ground as the woods closed in above me like some final curtain. He shook me and pressed harder against my throat. I looked up at the trees as they started to blur, as if pleading with them for help. I realized, as I slipped into blackness, that I’d made a fatal mistake. One I wouldn’t live to regret.

  The darkness was absolute and cold. I blinked my eyes several times, afraid that death was black and endless, a place of both darkness and awareness—the worst kind of afterlife. But then I heard pounding, loud, hurried, insistent. I wasn’t dead. I was alive. As I lay on my back in the dark, three things reached into my consciousness. There was a wood floor under me. I was inside the Moyer cabin. And I knew my attacker. The scent of anise, sandalwood soap and faint BO lingered on my skin.

  Then the pounding stopped. I took in a deep breath, as if I hadn’t been breathing for a long time. My throat hurt, my ankle was beyond pain and I heard footfalls, followed by branches being shoved against the house.

  Though it would probably be useless to plead for my life, I had to try. I rolled over on my side, propped myself up, got to my feet and limped to the back door barefoot. During the attack as he’d pulled me into the woods, my sandals must have come off.

  “Julian,” I rasped, swallowing down the pain. “Julian,” I called out again, this time louder.

  All noise stopped, except his footsteps coming to the back door.

  “Don’t do this,” I begged.

  “How did you know it was me?” he asked, too calmly, as if we were discussing the weather and not my imminent death.

  “I didn’t. Not until now, when you attacked me.” He must have leaned in to hear me because the tree branches he was holding scratched against the wood door like fingernails.

  “You couldn’t see my face. I was wearing a mask.” Even whispering, his imperial voice boomed through the wood door, sending waves of dread through me. He sounded so reasonable, and that scared me.

  “Not your face, your smell. Anise and sandalwood.” I didn’t add the faint BO. I was dealing with a psychotic narcissist who’d waited twenty-four years to avenge the suicide death of Danielle Moyer, the woman he’d believed belonged to him.

  His laughter was so loud and deep, it startled me, and I pulled my head back from the door. “I really do like you, Leigh. You’re always so . . . so surprising. That’s why this pains me so much. But as Will Shakes says, ‘The die is cast.’”

  I had to get through to him. “You don’t want to kill me. Think about it. You were justified in killing Nate Ryan. A jury would understand your motivation. If you kill me, there’s no justification.”

  “Jury?” He chuckled sarcastically. “There’s not going to be jury. I’ve been too careful. And once I get rid of you, I’m free. You have no idea how satisfying it was to kill Ryan. How I seethed with hatred over the years as I watched his career soar, knowing what he did to my beloved Danny. Then, when he crashed in flames, oh, what joy I felt. But he had to come back here, to my theater, to where he ruined Danny. He had to die.”

  “My death will haunt you,” I said, aware of how fruitless my pleas were, but I wasn’t giving up.

  “I haven’t lost any sleep over that homeless guy, so why should your death bother me? Ryan had to be punished. You two got in the way. Just like your friend the slut.”

  “You killed Brownie?” I asked, shocked. “Why?”

  “He saw something he shouldn’t have. Now I’m done with you and your questions.”

  “What did he see?”

  “Have you prayed tonight, Leigh?” he asked menacingly. “I promise it’ll be quick. Just breathe in deeply, surrender and let the smoke work its magic.”

  “Julian, no! Please!” I cried. Then I heard the striking of a match, the crackling of burning wood, and his footsteps running away. Already smoke was seeping into every chink and cranny, the flames devouring the weathered log cabin. All that would be left when the fire was put out would be the stone chimney and my ashes.

  Don’t panic, I told myself. You don’t have much time before the smoke overcomes you. All the exits were barred. But there had to be a way out. There just had to be. Then I heard the frantic scuttling of animals overhead. Was there an attic? I remembered a small window tucked under the roof’s overhang. And if there was an attic, there should be a trap door to access it.

  I grabbed a kitchen chair, dragged it to the hallway, and stood on it. I felt around the ceiling, running my hands up and down the bumpy plaster, the smoke rising around me. I tried not to inhale, but it was impossible. The air was thickening with smoke and heat, and trickles of sweat ran down my face and arms. Then I felt a knob. Without hesitation, I pulled hard on it and the door crashed down with a loud creaking, knocking me sideways off the chair and onto the floor. Choking, I put my hand over my mouth, jumped up, kicked the chair away and climbed the crude ladder into the attic, pulling up the door by the rope and shutting it behind me.

  In the dark attic, I couldn’t see the animals, only hear and smell them. Something brushed against my leg and scurried away. Then a loud fluttering of wings started, back and forth, hitting the attic walls over and over. The smell of ammonia assaulted me. Bats, wild with panic, were everywhere.

  Stifling a scream, I took off my blouse and tied it over my head. I had to find a way out. The tiny attic window was still boarded, but it was outlined in light. I made my way toward its feeble glimmer, crawling on my hands and knees, searching as I went for anything that could pry the window free. Nothing. When I reached the window, I pushed on it, but it wouldn’t budge. I kept pushing and pounding and finally gave up.

  In my fury, I hadn’t noticed that the fluttering had stopped. The bats were gone. Where did they go? My eyes roved the attic and there, high up in a corner, was a smoky oval of light I hadn’t notice in my panic. I crawled to it. The bats must have flown in and out of the attic through this hole under the eave. It wasn’t easily visible from the outside; it was barely visible on the inside. I pushed with all my force on the jagged hole, and it started to crumble away. I pushed again, enlarging it. Quickly I untied my blouse and put it back on, then I wedged myself through the opening and out onto the narrow ledge under the overhanging eave. I could see the flames were now up to the windows. The heat was intense.

  I had only one option. Jump. It’s only one story, I told myself. Not that high. But I’d have to jump out to avoid the encroaching fire. Quixotically, I flashed on my years of dance training, the brilliant height of grand jetés across a dance floor. The ledge wasn’t long enough to get a running start, but the scissoring dance move might get me out and over the flames and ease my landing. “Remember to plié.” The warning words came back to me.

  I moved to the very end of the eave, took in a deep breath, swung my arms back and forth a few times and went for it. Run, run, leap and off. For a moment I was airborne, my legs scissoring in the air, and then I came down, landing in an awkward plié, my ankle erupting in a sharp pain as I rolled over onto my side. I was free of the burning cabin. I was alive.

  Flames were licking up the sides of the cabin, sending smoke and embers
into the night sky. I had to get out of here before the entire woods went up in flames.

  I eased myself up on one foot, holding onto the nearest tree. Tentatively I put weight on my injured ankle. A burning pain shot through it, but the ankle held. I didn’t think it was broken. I tested it again, then grabbed a nearby branch as a makeshift crutch and limped barefoot toward the rocky path.

  Try as I might, it was impossible to hurry. The jagged rocks cut into my feet, and my makeshift crutch made for slow going. A million thoughts flew through my brain. My bag. I had to find it and call 9-1-1. I remember dropping it as Julian dragged me into the woods. Julian. Where was he? Still lurking in the woods to make sure I was dead? Or had he gone on to the party at Serenity House, his cool charm assumed, like all the roles he’d played, confident that the last loose end—me—was taken care of?

  Just as I neared the shoreline trail, sirens cut through the night. I let out a deep sigh. It was going to be okay. The firefighters would douse the fire in time. I just had a few more steps. Suddenly, I saw a dark figure start down the path carrying something under his arm. I froze. As the figure came closer, I realized it wasn’t Julian. The figure was too gangly and too bald. It was Rich and he had my bag tucked under his arm like a football.

  “Leigh, are you hurt?” he asked.

  “I’ve got to call the police.” I took my bag from him, then moved around him and continued toward the shoreline trail.

  “Wait.” He was behind me. “Don’t you want your sandals?”

  I stopped. “Where are they?”

  He took the bag from me and retrieved the sandals. Leaning against a tree, I struggled into the sandals, wincing in pain. “We’ve got to stop Julian,” I demanded in a whispery voice as I continued down the path.

  “Julian? What’s Julian got to do with anything?”

  As soon as we emerged onto the shoreline trail, I hurried to the bench, all thoughts of my throbbing ankle and cut feet gone. I flipped open my cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. When the dispatcher answered, barely taking a breath, I explained how Julian Finch had tried to kill me, his involvement in the deaths of Nate Ryan and Brownie Lawrence, emphasizing the importance of arresting Finch. Then I asked her to contact Deputy Chet Jorgensen. “And make sure you tell Chet to check Julian Finch’s arm for scratch marks. I scratched him when I was fighting for my life.”