The Missing Piece

by Sala, Sharon

  “Yes, that’s true. No one else in the family cares for them. Why?”

  “I want you to go down to the bar and see if there’s an opened jar of pickled onions still there. If so, confiscate it and have it tested for arsenic. It would’ve been impossible to contaminate any of the liquor without endangering the whole family, but the jar of onions would work, since he’s the only one who has them.”

  “The onions! Yes! That makes perfect sense. And anyone in the household knows he’s the only one who has them with a drink,” Jason said.

  “If the jar is unopened, leave it, but get in touch with me. After the first attempt failed, whoever did it might have removed the tainted jar, and we don’t want to let on that we know,” Charlie cautioned.

  “I’ll go down now and text you back, one way or the other.”

  Charlie put the phone down to wait for the text, and reached for Annie’s picture. She was looking into the camera when he’d taken it, and the smile on her face was so real. It had been a long time since she’d looked at him that way.

  Back when she still saw him—knew him—loved him...

  “I miss you,” Charlie said. “I miss us.”

  Jason’s text came a few minutes later.

  New jar. Never been opened.

  Charlie sent a text back.

  When it didn’t work, they disposed of the evidence. Keep this to yourself.

  He pocketed his phone and joined Carter.

  * * *

  Wyrick hadn’t been home more than five minutes when her cell phone signaled a text. It was from Corne, her stockbroker.

  Your gaming enterprise is paying off. The release of your latest game shot sales up through the roof. You scored a little over twenty million today alone.

  She sighed. Money was easy to make. Life was what was hard. She sent a thumbs-up emoji to let him know the message was received, then laid the phone aside and went to shower and change. The ritual was necessary. It was an emotional signal to herself that was now free to be her true self. No leather, no makeup. No lies.

  This was where she lived her truth, and she held fast to the adage that the truth would set her free.

  Twelve

  Buddy Boy Pierce was feeling all kinds of relief now that he was off the Dunleavy job. He was feeling so good that he was thinking of taking a little trip down Tijuana way. Maybe it would give things here a chance to cool down.

  He’d ordered pizza over an hour ago and was wondering where the hell it was when his doorbell finally rang.

  “It’s about damn time,” he muttered and picked up his wallet as he headed for the door.

  But it wasn’t the pizza delivery.

  “You! What the hell? I already quit. I’ve had my say.”

  “But I haven’t.”

  Buddy frowned, and then he saw the gun—and the silencer.

  “No, no, no, I wouldn’t—”

  The pop was as minimal as the little bullet hole between Buddy’s eyes. But the blood and brain matter that hit the easy chair behind him was messy as hell. Now Buddy was on the floor, and the shooter was gone.

  A few minutes later, the pizza delivery guy drove up, grabbed the pizza box and took off toward the house. He was already up the steps and on his way to the door when he realized it was ajar.

  “Pizza delivery!” he called out, and when no one came, he pushed the door aside just enough to peek in. He saw a body on the floor, and the bullet hole between his eyes.

  He choked, then gagged at the sight of all that blood and threw up off the side of the porch. After he caught his breath, he pulled himself together and called 911.

  * * *

  Wilma Short hobbled toward the door of her apartment, grateful to be home. The moment she was inside, she kicked off her shoes. Her feet hurt. They always hurt at the end of a day’s work at the Dunleavy estate. Ruth kept telling her to get better shoes, but Ruth was always full of suggestions that irked Wilma. There was nothing wrong with the shoes she had. Her feet just hurt after running errands through that damn castle all day. But now she was home and grateful for her small apartment, and the first thing she was going to do was have a long soak in a hot bath.

  She started the water running, and then went back into her bedroom to get a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt to put on after she got out.

  Steam was rising from the tub as she undressed. She clipped up her hair and stepped into the water, closing her eyes in quiet ecstasy as she settled down in the tub.

  “Oh, my Lord, this does feel good.”

  She leaned back, resting her head against the rim of the tub as the heat soaked into her tired bones. She’d been thinking for days about what a mess she was in. She still couldn’t believe she’d let herself be swayed into anything as reprehensible as setting up accidents for Carter Dunleavy, then waiting for them to happen. Getting paid big money to do it had been the great persuader, but she obviously wasn’t good at it, because he was not only alive, but onto the fact that someone wanted him dead.

  Wilma sighed. She’d never really wanted him dead. She just wanted that money more, so she lay within the silence and the heat, letting her mind drift. The failures weren’t her fault. She’d done exactly what she’d been paid to do, nothing more, nothing less.

  She was on the verge of dozing off when she heard a noise, then decided it was the dishwasher changing cycles.

  Less than a minute later, she heard it again, and this time sat up, the water dripping from her bare breasts as she slowly climbed out of the tub. She was reaching for a towel when the door swung inward.

  Wilma screamed, “You! How did you get in? What are you doing here?”

  “I had a copy made of your door key. I thought you’d be glad to see me.”

  “Well, I’m not!” Wilma shouted. “Get out of my apartment!”

  “Now, Wilma. We had an agreement. I gave you a lot of money to do one little thing, and you haven’t been successful. I came to let you know I won’t be needing your services anymore.”

  “Good,” Wilma muttered. “I’ve been the one taking all the risks, and I’m glad it’s over.”

  “It’s not over by a long shot. I don’t need you anymore, but I can’t leave a witness alive.”

  Wilma gasped when she saw the knife. “No! Get out, get out! I won’t tell. Why would I incriminate myself?”

  “Sorry, I can’t take any chances.”

  “No! I won’t tell!” Wilma cried and tried to escape, only to be hit in the back of the head with a fist. She fell backward into the tub, and water sloshed up and then all over the floor. Momentarily stunned by the blow, she sank beneath the water, and as she did, the assailant slashed the main arteries in both wrists.

  Wilma regained consciousness when she inhaled the water, and came up coughing and gasping for air. She couldn’t see for the soap and water in her eyes and was reaching toward the side of the tub when she felt a hand on the top of her head, holding her in place.

  “What are you doing?” she screamed, clawing and pulling on the hand, and then the wrist, trying to get free. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

  It took her a few minutes to realize the water was turning red, and then she let go of the assailant and stared at her arms, following the blood flow to the slashes on both wrists.

  “What have you done? Why? Why?” Wilma moaned as she grabbed her washcloth, trying to stop the gushing from the open arteries.

  “I have done nothing. You, on the other hand, just committed suicide because of a guilty conscience.”

  “I need help. Call 911,” Wilma said and began trying to climb out of the tub, but slipped and sank under the water again. This time when she surfaced, she was light-headed.

  “Help me,” Wilma begged. “Please.”

  “Sorry, no can do. But don’t worry. You left a note explaining your regret about what you tried to do.�
��

  “Nooo—” Wilma’s resistance was weak, and the hand was back on her head now, pushing her down beneath the water.

  Red bubbles broke the surface as she still struggled. In her last conscious act, she dug her fingernails into the hand holding her down, breaking the skin and bringing blood drops to the surface.

  The struggle ended. The assailant backed up, eyeing the bloody water all over the floor, and realized there’d also be footprints. Without hesitation, the assailant seized Wilma’s towel to smear the existing footprints into the water, then exited the apartment barefoot, carrying bloody shoes.

  A short while later, Wilma floated up to the surface, eyes wide and fixed, her hair matted and clumped from the clip that had come undone.

  * * *

  The next morning was management’s monthly pesticide spray for the hallways and storage rooms of the entire apartment building. They sprayed inside the apartments every three months, but Wilma had requested that her apartment be sprayed today. Twice she’d seen a cockroach since the last spraying and she’d known all too well that where there was one, there were others.

  Juanita Fargo, the building manager, knocked once, and when no one answered, used her passkey to enter. The pest control technician followed her inside.

  “Make it snappy,” Juanita said. “This is the only request we had for an apartment to be sprayed, and I need to get back to the office.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the tech said.

  He always began at the back of an apartment and worked his way forward, so he started down the hall to do the bedroom first.

  Within seconds of his departure, Juanita heard a scream, and then the man came running back up the hall, his eyes wide with shock.

  “There’s a dead woman in the bathtub!”

  Juanita ran to look, but got no farther than the bathroom door before she saw all the blood and the body. It was Wilma Short!

  “Oh, my God. Oh, my God,” she said and ran out of the apartment with the man from pest control right behind her. Once in the hall, she paused long enough to call 911. A man’s voice calmly answered.

  “Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

  “There’s a dead woman in one of the apartments I manage. We found her floating in the bathtub, and there’s blood everywhere.”

  “I have your address. What is the apartment number?” the dispatcher asked.

  “It’s Apartment 233.”

  “Please wait on scene for the police to arrive, and don’t touch anything.”

  “Yes, okay,” Juanita said and then saw the pest control technician standing a few feet away, the horrified look still in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry you saw that,” Juanita said. “Don’t spray any further in this wing. Just complete the rest of the building. The crime scene people will likely be taking samples of everything in this area and we don’t want to contaminate anything with pesticide. I don’t know how long I’ll be detained here, but if you need me to sign the work order when you’ve finished, text me and I’ll come down to the office. And don’t leave the building. The police will likely want to speak with you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said and gratefully moved to another wing of the second floor to resume his job.

  * * *

  Homicide Detective Calvin Bruner was just coming in to work when he got the call about a body in an apartment and rerouted himself to the address. Police and ambulance were on scene when he arrived, and he quickly followed a cop up to the apartment.

  “That woman is the manager who found the body,” the cop said. “Her name is Juanita Fargo.”

  “Thanks,” Calvin said and went to talk to her.

  “Ms. Fargo, I’m Detective Bruner from Homicide. I understand you’re the building manager.”

  “Yes,” Juanita said. “This is horrible, so horrible. Wilma Short was a really nice lady. She’d been renting from us for almost five years. Never caused a bit of trouble.”

  “How did you come to find the body?” Bruner asked.

  “Today is spraying day for this month, and Wilma wanted her apartment sprayed. We found her when I let the technician in.”

  Bruner frowned. “Did he spray any part of the apartment before that?”

  “No. He always starts at the back of an apartment and comes forward. He had no more than walked down the hall into her bedroom when he saw the body in the bath. He cried out, then came running. When he told me what he’d seen, I ran down to look and got no farther than the bathroom door. Neither of us went in, and I sent him on his way to finish the rest of the building.”

  Detective Bruner nodded, making notes as he spoke.

  “Was Ms. Short married?”

  “No,” Juanita said.

  “Boyfriends?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Do you have any information on her that would give us the names of emergency contacts or her next of kin?”

  “Yes, some of that is on her lease. If you’ll stop by the office when you’re done here, I can give you what I’ve got.”

  “Thanks,” Bruner said.

  “Can I go now?” Juanita asked.

  “Yes, but I’ll be down later to get that info from you.”

  “I’ll have it ready,” Juanita said, then glanced into the apartment and shuddered. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe this happened, and on our property.”

  She left the floor, moving as fast as she could toward the stairwell.

  Bruner eyed a uniformed office standing guard near the door.

  “Is there any sign of forced entry?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” the cop said. “Nothing we could see, but there’s a suicide note on the bed.”

  Bruner slipped some disposable booties over his shoes and went inside. The apartment was very small, but clean and well kept. He moved down the hall to the single bedroom and then toward the bath.

  He grimaced at the sight of the body. The water was red. She’d bled out in the tub, which could mean it was a suicide, but there was a lot of water and a bloody towel on the floor. It didn’t look so much like a suicide anymore. To Bruner, it looked like someone had been in here with her and tried to erase footprints with a towel on the way out.

  He turned around to look at the note on the bed beside him, then leaned over to read it without picking it up.

  I can’t live with the guilt any longer. Tell the Dunleavy family I’m sorry I tried to harm Carter. He was always so mean to me, I just wanted to pay him back.

  Bruner straightened up with a jerk. “Oh, shit. Carter Dunleavy!” This note was for a suicide, but again, it appeared to him that she might have been murdered. He’d heard Jason Dunleavy’s speech at the courthouse and immediately got the drift of what this might mean. “Double shit,” Bruner cursed. “Someone wanted her silenced.”

  The crime scene crew arrived. He could hear them talking, and then they were behind him.

  “Dang, Bruner. You got here fast.”

  “I was on my way in when I got the call. This doesn’t look like a suicide to me, not with all this bloody water on the floor and a bloody towel all the way over here. It looks like she might have put up a fight. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find a bloody fingerprint on the damn towel. However, the note on the bed connects this woman to Carter Dunleavy’s disappearance, so don’t miss anything. Carter Dunleavy is friends with the chief, and this may be connected to whoever is trying to kill him.”

  “We’ll get the goods. You get the man,” the tech said.

  Bruner nodded, then backed out and left them to it. He pulled the booties off his shoes out in the hall and went downstairs to get the victim’s information and see about talking to the pest control man who found the body.

  * * *

  Ruth was in the kitchen with Chef Peter when her cell phone rang. She took it from her pocket to check the caller ID and t
hen frowned.

  “What in the world?” she muttered.

  “What’s wrong?” Peter asked.

  “It’s the police department. I’d better take this.” She stepped away from the noise of a blender Peter had running. “Hello? Ruth Fenway speaking.”

  “Ms. Fenway, this is Detective Bruner from the Homicide Division. You’re listed as the emergency contact for Wilma Short.”

  Ruth’s heart skipped a beat. “Yes. I’m the housekeeper at the Dunleavy estate, and Wilma is an employee here. Has something happened to her? We’ve been wondering because she’s usually here by now.”

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Wilma’s body was discovered in her apartment this morning.”

  Ruth screamed, and Peter came running.

  “No! Oh, no!” Ruth said and started to cry.

  “Ma’am, do you know if she had any next of kin?”

  “She has a mother in a nursing home, but the woman isn’t in her right mind. You can’t be giving her that kind of news.”

  “No, ma’am, of course not. So that’s her only living relative?” Bruner asked.

  “Yes,” Ruth said and took the handful of tissues Peter gave her.

  “Had she ever been married?” Bruner asked.

  “Not that I know of, and she never mentioned boyfriends, either. Oh, my God, I can’t believe this!” Ruth wailed.

  “Is Mr. Dunleavy still on the premises?” Bruner asked.

  “Yes, sir. The family will be coming down to breakfast anytime now.”

  “Ask him to call me. Can you take down my number?”

  “Yes, just a moment while I get a pen and paper.” Ruth ran back into the kitchen, dug a pad of paper and a pen from a drawer. “Okay, I’m ready,” she said.

  Bruner gave her his cell phone number and repeated his name.

  “I’ve got it,” Ruth said.

  “Thank you,” Bruner said and ended the call.

  Ruth’s hands were shaking, and Peter was still beside her, waiting for answers.