by A. C. Mason
Melanie’s eyes widened. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t intend to stand by and let those two, no three, counting John, get away with this. I‘m talking to the police, so eventually you’ll have no choice but to testify in court.”
Before I could make my exit, a noise from the other side of the room grabbed my attention. Michael and Trey stood in the doorway staring straight at me.
Twenty-three
Trey stood rigid with both hands balled into fists at his sides. Michael gave a furtive glance to his friend, and a look of alarm furrowed his brow.
“What the hell is she doing here?” Trey’s face turned fire-engine red.
“Why do you hate my brother so much you’re willing to allow him to take the blame for a murder he didn’t commit?” I yelled back.
“He slept with my wife.” He strode toward me, puffed up with unbridled anger, a time bomb ready to explode.
I was pretty worked up myself. “Amanda and Steven both denied those accusations.”
“I’m sure they did, but I don’t happen to believe their lies.” His glare bored into me.
It took all my strength not to completely fall apart. My knees felt like mush, but I kept after him. “I suspect there’s more to your hatred than simple revenge over a rumored affair. The woman who killed Anne, who is she?” My expectant gaze moved from one man to the other.
Neither one replied.
I felt the fragile control of my emotions start to slip. I forced myself to continue my assault on Trey’s character and his despicable actions. “What about the lie you told the police about where you were the night of the murder? And the lie of omission? You know who really killed Anne, but you withheld the information. I heard every word the two of you said and that deception is going to get you in deep trouble when I get through with you. If you won’t give me the name of the murderer, you’ll be forced to tell the police.”
I whirled around and started for the door with adrenaline rushing through me. Trey lunged after me and grabbed my arm. He spun me around to face him. My throat felt the strangling effects of panic.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said. The gleam in his blue eyes bordered on feral, his arrogant demeanor and sense of entitlement looming larger than ever in the heated moment.
I struggled to wrest my arm away, flailing my free hand against his face. My fingernails hit his cheek and made a long scratch. Defiance only made his determination stronger. His face twisted with fury. He caught me roughly by the wrist of my offending hand.
“Steven LaGrange is going down for his wife’s murder and you aren’t going to prevent it!”
“Do something, Michael,” Melanie squealed. “Make him stop!”
“Let her go, Trey. She can’t do anything. It’s her word against ours.” He grabbed Trey’s arm in an attempt to restrain him.
Pulling me with him, Trey jerked away from Michael and shot him an angry scowl. “What about her? She heard everything too.” He indicated Melanie with a nod in her direction.
Michael moved over beside Melanie and placed his arm around her shoulder. She flinched. His muscular over-six-foot frame dwarfed her small body. As panic filled my mind, I realized she could be in danger now because of me. She actually believed the absurd story about the wife-swapping group. As Steven suggested, it was supposed to be for her ears only.
“She wouldn’t do anything to hurt me,” Michael said. “Besides, a wife can’t be forced to testify against her husband. Let Susan go. No one will believe any story she tells. She already has the reputation for being a crazy woman inventing evidence to clear her brother.”
Trey reluctantly released my arms and took a few steps back. He wiped the bloody scratch on his cheek with his hand. “Bitch,” he mumbled, glancing at me. It was the first time I ever enjoyed being referred to in that manner.
I rubbed my arm to ease the sting of Trey’s tight grip and glared at Michael. My gaze moved to Melanie’s face. She averted her eyes. “Mel, are you going to be alright?” I asked, knowing full well she wouldn’t admit to anything else.
She nodded her head.
“The police will be speaking to all of you as soon as I get in touch with them,” I said, turning to leave.
I shoved open the sliding glass door and stormed down the driveway to my car. Steadying myself on the fender, I tried to collect my thoughts. Jim would be home soon and we had a lot to discuss. First and foremost I intended to file charges against Trey for attacking me and to find out if there was any way to prove this conversation without Melanie‘s collaboration. I prayed she wouldn’t suffer any consequences because of what took place in there. In so many ways she was also a victim.
Clues behind Melanie’s actions had looked me in the face all along, but I didn’t see them. The psychic’s words about her receiving false information should have connected when she relayed the tale about the swinger group. In her twisted logic, she believed the story was true.
Once inside the car, my breathing slowed. Common sense told me to go directly to the nearest precinct and file charges against Trey, but my unending fixation with verifying the identity of the woman in the photograph overpowered my reason. I had to find out the answer.
Now more than ever I believed her to be Charlotte McBride, and according to the conversation between Trey and Michael, the motive for Anne’s murder. Since I never had the chance to show Melanie the photo, Lisa seemed to be the last resort. I hoped she could confirm Charlotte’s relationship to Mary Catherine. As if to substantiate my theory I pulled the photo from my purse and studied the group pictured there.
The truth stared me in the face an hour ago. I simply couldn’t bring myself to believe it then. The woman I believed to be Charlotte didn’t resemble Mary Catherine at all. But she looked a great deal like Lisa. Viewing the photo again made the similarity seem more striking to me. Perhaps my brain had finally processed reality.
I checked the dashboard clock. Six-thirty; not much time before Jim returned home, but this couldn’t wait.
I drove up Orleans and turned onto City Park Avenue, passing in front of the park. The late afternoon sun filtered through the oak trees and pooled on the ground like splashes of spilled yellow paint. On any other occasion the scenic drive through this neighborhood would have delighted me, but not today. Even the beautiful old trees didn’t have their usual tranquilizing effect on me.
More tense now than earlier, my emotions were raw after the events at Melanie’s home and with this new revelation I felt like jumping out of my skin. In addition my head wound hurt, a reminder to me I’d been out of the hospital only a couple of days and probably had over extended myself. Trey’s attack didn’t help my recovery process either.
Fifteen minutes later I arrived at Lisa’s gallery and apartment. The front door of the gallery bore a closed sign, but the building had an outside entrance to her living quarters via a set of stairs, providing after-hours access to any visitors like me without a trek through the gallery.
At the top of the stairs, a heavy metal door with a combination keypad protected her home from intruders. I rang the bell and waited for what seemed like forever. I pressed the bell again, then knocked a couple of times.
“Who is it?” Lisa asked from inside.
“Susan,” I answered. Apparently she needed to confirm my identity because I knew she could tell from her view through the peephole. Or maybe she was stalling for time.
“Just a minute.” The clicking of locks followed.
Momentarily, the door opened and Lisa invited me in with a wave of her hand. Judging from the towel wrapped around her hair and the bathrobe she wore, my visit must have interrupted her plan for a nice relaxing bath. Too bad.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said. “Did I come at a bad time?”
“No, just got out of the shower. What’s up? You look a bit shaky.”
“I left you a message earlier about a photo,” I said, ignoring her comment about my condition. “You didn’t
get it?”
“I’ve been gone all afternoon and went straight to the shower without checking my messages.” She eyed me with a combination of curiosity and concern. “What’s this about a photo?”
“It’s a photograph of you and the gang with an unidentified woman. I feel certain she’s Charlotte McBride.”
“Oh yes, you asked me about her. Maybe a light bulb will come on once I see her face.”
My nerves apparently hadn’t settled down as much as I previously thought. The ache in the area of my head wound distracted me for a moment. My legs felt on the verge of collapse. I closed my eyes briefly. “
“Whoa,” she said, reaching over to steady me.
“Too much excitement for one day, I suppose.”
“Can I get you something?”
“Some aspirin or ibuprofen and the use of your bathroom would be nice,” I said.
“The bathroom is right through my bedroom there,” she said indicating the direction with a head motion. “There’s a bottle of store brand ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll make us some herbal tea and then you’re going to fill me in on all that excitement you mentioned.”
I managed a smile. “You got it.”
Lisa’s bedroom, like the rest of her apartment displayed her flair for decorating as well as her artistic talents. If the situation had been different, I would’ve lingered a while longer to study the large painting above the bed, another Louisiana swamp scene similar to the one in the living room. The memory of the strange image I envisioned early this morning flashed in my mind. Feeling a shiver run up my spine, I brushed off any notion of taking a closer look at the painting.
The small bathroom felt steamy, the results of Lisa’s shower. A subway-tiled shower stall with a large clear glass door, a pedestal sink, the toilet, and fluffy towels hanging on a painted wooden rack completed the totally white décor.
My reflection in the mirror surprised me. No wonder Lisa commented on my condition. I looked like hell warmed over. I felt like it too. Dark circles under my eyes and an obvious head injury did nothing for appearance. Coming to grips with my present situation didn’t help my nerves either.
I opened the medicine cabinet and reached for the over the counter pain killer. My trembling hand bumped an empty plastic prescription bottle sitting next to it and sent it tumbling into the sink, clacking against the porcelain. Oh great. Good thing this wasn’t glass. I retrieved the container and started to return it to the shelf. I froze in mid-action. My suspicions were confirmed. The prescription bottle belonged to Charlotte McBride.
Twenty-four
My mind fought against the obvious truth. Charlotte was Lisa’s sister. But Lisa couldn’t be the woman who killed Anne. That night the party was held at her home. She would have been missed by someone if she suddenly disappeared. Michael’s comment came back to me. “But I can’t figure out how she managed to leave her house undetected.” At the time I wanted to believe he referred to Mary Catherine’s avoiding the security cameras at her home. Now I remembered. Lisa’s former residence was located only a few houses down from Anne’s and Steven’s house except on the next street. It would have been possible to sneak in the back door and lay in wait for Anne. In less than thirty minutes she could complete the act and return to her party without a bunch of drunks even noticing her absence.
I shook two ibuprofen tablets from the bottle and swallowed them with a scoop of water straight from the faucet. Getting control of my emotions demanded a clear head, which I didn’t have at the moment. I closed my eyes and made an attempt to contain my scattered thoughts and feelings. Rushing in and accusing Lisa of murder without more evidence would not be productive. The situation required a lot more patience than I possessed. I decided to play things by ear, and try my best to restrain my desire to blurt out accusations.
The final check of my appearance in the mirror was more out of habit than an attempt to make me look better. I stepped out of the bathroom and walked through the bedroom, carefully surveying the area. The sliding doors of the closet sat open a fraction of an inch. A light-colored piece of cloth spilled out on the dark wood floor from the crack in the door and caught my eye. I could hear Lisa moving around in the kitchen area, presumably preparing the tea. It would be a disaster if she came in and found me snooping around in her personal belongings. I stepped over to the closet and stooped to investigate the item.
The piece of cloth turned out to be a blond wig. My stomach churned. I swallowed hard and took a deep breath. This proved she used the wig as a disguise, but a savvy attorney could easily dismiss this in a second. Wearing a wig didn’t necessarily prove she was the unidentified woman who visited Steven’s house with Greg, or the one who broke into our house. I’ll show her the photo, see what she says, and go from there. That is if I can just keep from falling apart.
My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. Probably Jim calling. I should answer…no, I’ll call him back later.
Noting a jewelry box on the dresser, I couldn’t help wondering. Did she lie about not having a windmill charm? There wasn’t time to check the box out now.
Lisa appeared in the doorway, her damp curls sans the towel and the bathrobe replaced with a pair of denim shorts and a tee shirt. Her quick change of apparel made me wonder if she’d worn those beneath the robe. If it wasn’t for the steamy bathroom and her wet hair, I wouldn’t have believed her story about just getting out of the shower.
“Hey, I was beginning to get concerned about you,” she said.
“Oh, I’ll be okay after about two or three straight weeks of sleep.” I attempted to laugh.
“Come on. Sit down and relax. Tea is ready.” She motioned toward the sitting area with two plush upholstered chairs near the fireplace hearth, the spot where we compiled the list of party guests. A pang of betrayal stabbed at my insides. How could I have been so completely deceived by her?
“Okay now,” Lisa said, settling in the chair. “Let me hear about all the excitement.”
Maybe the knowledge I gained from my visit to Melanie’s home and the evidence in Lisa’s medicine cabinet and bedroom colored my thinking, but I interpreted her tone of voice as condescending, as if she knew I knew the truth now. She wanted to tease me, to play with my emotions. I chose my words carefully.
“When I couldn’t get in touch with you, I drove to Melanie’s to show her the photo. I never got the chance to see if she could identify the woman.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What happened?”
“We were interrupted by a loud discussion between Michael and Trey in the next room.”
“That must have been interesting.” She took a sip of tea.
“Very,” I said. “Michael chewed Trey out for hassling me. He said Trey was calling attention to himself and eventually the trail would lead to him and John.”
“To Michael and John?” she asked for clarification.
I nodded. “To make a long story short, it appears Trey witnessed Anne’s killer entering the house and leaving afterwards.”
Lisa leaned forward in the chair, a frown creasing her forehead. “What was he doing outside the house?”
“That’s a good question. Michael implied Trey’s visit at the scene was part of a plan the trio had concocted, the intention being to beat Steven up.”
“I take it your brother wasn’t the person he saw.” Her face remained expressionless.
“No, he wasn’t. They know who killed Anne, but they’re not revealing the information to the police because they want Steven to go down for the murder. They seem to have a lot of grudges against him.”
She gave me a look of amazement. “Wow, what a story. So Melanie also overheard them talking.”
“Yes, but she refused to testify against Michael. Can you believe it? She said she couldn’t send him to jail.”
Lisa rolled her eyes. “Yes, I can believe it. She’s been brainwashed by her husband, her parents, and the rest of our social
set. I’ll bet she thought his arrest would be too much of a scandal.”
“Probably,” I said, amazed at her insight.
“My parents disapproved of my decision to make a living through my art. They still have these archaic ideas about how ‘proper’ young ladies live. It’s like something straight out of the Middle Ages.”
I forced a laugh. “I know what you mean.” Reaching inside my purse, I pulled out the photo and handed it to her. “Do you recognize the woman standing next to Melanie?”
Lisa pretended to study the picture. She returned her gaze to me, but said nothing for quite a while. I stared back anticipating her response.
“She’s Charlotte McBride,” she said, her expression stoic.
“And?” I prompted her with the irrational hope she would admit their relationship. She didn’t. Lisa simply gave me a questioning look, so I pushed on. “Charlotte is your sister, isn’t she?” My words came out surprisingly calm.
Her lips tightened into a thin line. “Yes, she was…until your brother came along, my twin to be exact.”
“So all those cutesy questions you asked me about twins and their ESP were all a ruse.”
“I just tried to find out if you and Steven communicated telepathically like Charlie and I did.” Her glassy-eyed stare cut right through me. “Steven’s responsible for her death.”
“There must have been a glitch in your communication system if you believe Steven is to blame for your sister’s death. How did you come to that conclusion?”
Lisa reached her hand between the seat cushion and the arm of the chair.
I found myself staring into the barrel of a pearl handled revolver, a smaller version of what I envisioned as an Old West gun. Although small, the weapon loomed large in my view. When you have a gun pointed in your face no matter the size it might as well be an AK-47. Perspiration filmed beneath my clothing. A lump formed in my throat.
Lisa smiled. “This revolver might be an antique, but it’s fully loaded and still works well. The antique dealer I purchased it from told me the gun was a Smith and Wesson Lady-Smith from the 1930’s. And don’t let the size fool you.”