Bones and Roses (21 page)

I stare at her in confusion. “W-what are you talking about?”

“You haven't figured it out yet? I guess you're not as smart as I thought.”

Had she decided she couldn't go through with it? Was she planning to fire me? “What's all this?” I motion toward the pile of confetti she's made of the documents she's shredded. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning house. Did you really think I'd let you drag his name through the mud? Have the press make him out to be a monster?”

“He tried to kill you!” I remind her. “You want him to get away with it?”

“I'm not talking about Douglas. He wouldn't have the balls.”

“But I thought …”

“That was me—I staged it,” she says, looking pleased with herself. “I was headed back to the party when I heard you coming—only I didn't know it was you—and decided to … improvise.”

“What, by jumping off a cliff?”

“Don't be silly. I didn't
jump
. I lowered myself down. It's easy when you're not afraid of heights.”

“Oh my God.” She's crazy. Just like Douglas said. I take a step back.

“My husband can rot in hell, but I'm not going to let you, or anyone, destroy Leon's legacy. Or my inheritance. All this,” she makes a sweeping gesture with her arm, “will soon be mine.”

“He murdered innocent people!”

“Yes,” she agrees. “He
was
a monster. Not that I loved him any less for it.” The hard look on her face gives way to one of tenderness, sending a trickle of ice-water down my spine.

“So you knew what he was like all along?”

“No, at first I knew him only as my kind boss who'd taken an interest in me, then later as my dear father-in-law. It wasn't until Douglas and I had been married for some years that Leon felt I was ready to know the whole truth. Naturally I was … disturbed when he first confided in me. But I was also smart enough to realize we'd all go down with the ship if I said anything. Besides, what good would it have done? Those people were dead and gone—nothing was going to bring them back.”

“‘Those people?'” I echo in disbelief. “One of them was my
mom
.”

“Your mother, yes.” She puts on a mock sympathetic face. “It was unfortunate she got mixed up in it. Which was why she had to go. He couldn't have her blabbing to anyone who would listen.” She pauses to reflect on this before saying gently, “I'm sorry for your loss, my dear. Truly I am. But if it's any consolation, you'll soon be joining her.”

“W-what are you talking about?”

“Don't tell me you haven't guessed. Why do you think I had you meet me here at night?”

“I thought you were going to help me.”

I take another wobbly step back, bumping into the CD tower behind me. It topples with a loud crash, sending the CDs that get fed into the speaker system during hours of operation—soothing New Age music to lend to the Fontana's relaxing atmosphere—spilling across the beige carpet. Joan's un-Botoxed brow creases in annoyance, but other than that, my clumsiness barely registers. She's more focused on keeping me in her sights as she pulls a gun from the pocket of her hoodie.

It's the kind McGee referred to as a “Saturday night special” when we were gun shopping at Markey's. He'd dismissed it as a “toy,” but, in Joan's hand, it doesn't look like a plaything. It looks frighteningly real. She takes aim, and the bottom drops out of my stomach like the trap door at a hanging.

“It's no use, my dear,” she purrs. “You're not going anywhere.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The missing pieces of the puzzle fall into place. It was Joan all along, I realize.
She
was the one shooting at me from the woods. She knew the route I'd be taking, and approximately what time I'd be travelling it, because it was she who'd arranged to meet with me at the La Mar house. When Bradley showed up at the Arco station, I didn't think to ask if his mother had been at the house when I'd phoned, but she couldn't have been. She would've arrived shortly thereafter.

“Not another move,” she commands when I edge back a step, “or I'll shoot.”

I freeze on the spot, because unlike Stan, she means business. “You won't get away with this. I didn't come alone—my friends are waiting outside.” I can't let her see that I'm scared shitless.

She gives a dry chuckle. “Nice try.”

“I'm not bluffing. If you kill me, they'll know it was you.”

“Really. And what will they know, exactly? They have only your say-so that you arranged to meet with me.”

“Oh yeah? And what will you tell the cops when they ask what
you
were doing here?”

“It's quite simple, really. I stopped by to pick this up.” She produces an envelope, stamped and postmarked, from her other pocket. “It's addressed to me, but it was sent here by mistake.” No mistake about it; obviously she'd set it up so she'd have an excuse to come. “I caught you breaking in, and, believing you to be an armed intruder, shot you. Most unfortunate, of course—tragic, really—but given your recent arrest, I don't think the police will have any reason to doubt my story.” She bares her teeth in a smile that sends another trickle of ice-water down my spine.

“I see you've thought of everything.” I put on a show of bravado even as my heart sinks. Any hope I had of reasoning with her has gone the way of the shredded contents of the plastic trash bag at my feet. “There's just one thing you failed to factor in.”

“Oh, and what would that be?” She looks more amused than worried.

“The fact that you're bat-shit crazy. Your husband knows it, and I'm betting even your friends are wondering by now. How much longer do you think you can pull off your Saint Joan act?”

“I see Douglas has been filling your ear. So much for my counting on your loyalty,” she adds with a shake of her head. “But I suppose it was to be expected. He's the one signing the checks.”

“I don't need him to tell me what I can see with my own eyes.” I gesture toward the gun aimed at me.

“You should ask yourself what's crazier, my wanting to hold on to what's mine—what I've
earned
putting up with that man for years—or your thinking I'd let you ruin everything? That I'd
help
you?”

“So this is just about the money.”

“A great deal of money. A fortune.”

“Money isn't everything.”

“If you'd ever gone hungry or had to let disgusting men paw you for tips, you might feel differently.”

“I'm talking about basic human decency. You can't put a price on that!”

I cast a glance up, looking for the closed-circuit camera I noticed outside, above the door, as I was coming in. Because with my hands tied, so to speak, the night watchman is my only hope. But it seems the Fontana management didn't anticipate a threat from, say, a disgruntled worker gone postal—or the boss's deranged wife—when they had the new security system installed. My desperation mounts. I'm trembling all over, my heart knocking like a washing machine spinning out of whack.

“Spare me the sermon.” Joan shows no emotion except in her eyes—they glitter with contempt, and something more. Something old and deep and twisted. “You have no idea what it's like to have nothing, to go without. Before I got married, every day of my life was a struggle.”

“I didn't have it so easy, either,” I remind her.

“You had a home. I didn't even have parents, much less a mom or dad to tuck me in at night. I wish I could say I'd been raised by wolves. Wolves are social creatures, not like the animals who call themselves ‘foster parents.' I ran away when I was sixteen. Picked up work here and there. I did whatever I had to in order to survive.” Activities best not mentioned in polite company, I'm guessing. “I met Leon through the food bank.” She refers to Loaves and Fishes, one of several local charities he'd founded, all part of his disguise, I know now. “I was just another girl down on her luck, but he must have seen something in me, because he offered me a job. He didn't change my life; he
saved
it.” Her expression softens briefly. “Marrying Douglas was just the added bonus. And you know the best part? I was in love with him—head over heels.” She gives a bitter laugh. “For a time I was even fooled into believing he loved me.”

I'm stunned. I had no idea. In the past she'd led me to believe she came from a privileged background. Though, come to think of it, she was always fuzzy on the details—now I know why. But none of it changes the fact that she's crazy. I don't mean “crazy” like my brother, but the kind of crazy that usually ends very badly. As in school shootings. It gives me an idea, though. I realize I'm well-equipped to deal with a crazy person. I've certainly had plenty of practice.

“I'm sure he loved you. He probably still does, deep down.” I speak in a soothing voice. “You had a lot of good years together, didn't you? So he had a midlife crisis. It happens. I guarantee he'll be bored with Tiffany before the year is out. Then he'll realize what a fool he was and beg you to take him back.”

I catch a glimmer in her eye—a touch of nostalgia perhaps?—then it's gone. “I wouldn't take him back if he came crawling on his hands and knees,” she declares with a scornful toss of her head. The hood of her sweatshirt slips back to reveal the velvet headband holding her smooth silver-blond bob in place. Throw in a twinset and pearls and she could be hosting a Junior League tea. I stifle the laughter clawing its way up my throat. “Besides, he's of no further use to me. By the time I'm done with him, I'll have it all. He'll wish our divorce is his worst nightmare.”

“What, are you going to kill him, too?”

“No. That would be too quick, too painless. He needs to suffer.”

“Torture, you mean.”

“In a way, though nothing so mundane as what you're no doubt imagining. I have something more fun in store. Soon he'll make another ‘attempt on my life.' And this time I'll make sure there's enough evidence to get him charged. A gun registered in his name, or perhaps a bloody glove—which, unlike O. J.'s, will fit. Lucky for me, I'll have escaped with only superficial wounds.”

The smile on her face makes me think of creatures that eat their mates. “Looks like you've got it all figured out.”

Her praying-mantis smile gives way to a frown of annoyance. “What I didn't count on was
you.
Sticking your nose where it didn't belong. You were so persistent. You never give up, do you?”

“So I've been told.” Stan had accused me of the same thing.

“Even going so far as to pump that clueless idiot, Seraphina, for information.”

“Actually, as I recall, she was the one doing the pumping,” I say of the colonic irrigation therapist.

Joan ignores my gallows humor. “She may be an idiot, but she's loyal. Did she mention she was my closest friend when I worked here? I send her a Harry and David fruit basket every year at Christmas. Call me sentimental. She told me you'd been to see her, that you were asking questions.”

Once wasn't enough for old Seraphina. I'm taking it up the ass again, thanks to her.

“Which is why you have to be terminated.” I know she doesn't mean my tenure as her property manager, either. I start to quake in earnest. My blood isn't just running cold. If I were a Sub Zero, like the one at the La Mar house, I'd be spitting ice cubes. “Sadly you've given me no alternative.”

She starts toward me, her face expressionless, as though she's wearing a mask that shows only her eyes. Those horrid, glittering eyes. I recoil at the sound when she thumbs the safety on her pistol. I'm about to make my Hail Mary pass, with me as the football, and hurl myself at her in an attempt to knock the gun from her hand, when I catch a lucky break. She steps on one of the jewel cases strewn over the carpet and it slides out from under her, causing her to lose her footing. She wobbles and almost falls, her arms pinwheeling as she attempts to regain her balance.

I don't hesitate. I make a run for it.

Outside I make a beeline for the wellness center. Was it only a few weeks ago I was there freaking over what was nothing, really, compared to the threat of being gunned down by a deranged society matron? Now it's a refuge where I can take cover while I phone for backup. I'm closing in on the entrance when I hear Joan's voice call from behind, echoing along the covered walkway, “It's no use, Tish! You can't escape!” I glance over my shoulder, surprised to see she's gaining on me. Christ. How can a woman her age move so fast? She's in better shape than I am! Must be from all those charity walkathons. I, on the other hand, am rapidly losing steam. I can't catch my breath and the stitch in my side is like a needle lodged between my ribs. I grit my teeth, digging deep into my reserves, and am rewarded by a burst of speed I didn't know I had in me.

I'm no more than six feet from the glass door at the entrance when a shot rings out. The bullet slams into the concrete column to my right. My step falters and I let out a yelp as fragments of concrete fly at my face like shrapnel. I feel a burning sensation in my cheek and blood dribbles down the side of my neck. I ignore it, knowing if I don't keep moving, I'm doomed.

Another gunshot rings out and this time the glass door, bordered in decorative tiles and flanked by potted ferns, explodes in a million pieces. My heart stops, but I don't slow my pace. I dive through the opening, somehow managing to keep from being ripped to shreds by the shards sticking from the doorframe like shark's teeth. My feet crunch over the pebbles of glass in my path. Joan did me a favor in providing instant access, though something tells me that wasn't her intention.

I streak through the reception area and down the corridor beyond, ducking into the first treatment room I come to. Only when the door is locked behind me do I pause to catch my breath, doubled over with my hands on my knees, gasping for air. I gingerly probe my cheek where it's bleeding. A scab is starting to form, so the wound couldn't be too deep. I can hear the muffled drumbeat of Joan's footsteps growing louder. And a locked door isn't going to stop her. Society Matron Joan would knock politely and go away when no one answered, but Rambo Joan won't observe the niceties; she'll bust her way in. My only hope is if my friends get to me before she does.

I thumb the light switch, so I can see what I'm doing, and pull out my phone, only to have it slide from my sweaty grasp and go skittering across the floor. Damn. I retrieve it, but when I go to call Ivy, there's no signal. I must be in one of the dead zones for which this remote area is known.
What now?
I'm freaking out. Full-on panic attack. Black dots swarm at the periphery of my vision as I sway on my feet, about to pass out. I flash back to when I almost drowned in the ocean, when I was six or seven, after I was dragged under by a huge wave. I recall my panic at being caught in the churning surf, unable to breathe, helpless to save myself. Luckily an adult who happened to be swimming nearby came to my rescue. But there's no one to save me now. I'll have to rely on my own wits.

Get a grip, Tish
. I draw in a deep breath, then another one. After a moment my head clears.

I glance around me, searching for a means of escape, but there are no doors connecting the room to the ones on either side, and the window is too small to squeeze through. Nor is there a sharp instrument or blunt object that could be used as a weapon, I find after I've clawed through the contents of the drawers and cupboards in the built-in cabinet. There's just a chair, the adjustable kind like you see in dentists' offices, that's bolted to the floor and a machine of some sort, roughly the size and shape of a freestanding ATM—for laser hair removal, I'm guessing from the poster on the wall showing before-and-after photos of female upper lips with and without mustaches. Which wouldn't do me much good. Unwanted hairs are the least of my worries.

I jump at the sound of the door handle rattling, followed by Joan's voice. “You're only making this harder for yourself.” Speaking of hairs, I feel the tiny ones on the back of my neck stand up.

“Fuck you!” I yell through the door.

“Now, now, there's no need for foul language,” she chides, reminiscent of Myrna Hargrave at the “puff.” “Do you know how I rose above my circumstances, Tish? By refusing to sink to the level of those around me, that's how. By never, ever using the f-word.”

“What, did you take out your aggression pulling the wings from flies and setting kittens on fire?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” she snaps.

“So it's just people you like to torture?”

“I'm not a sadist.” She sounds offended by the suggestion. “I only do what needs to be done. What others find … distasteful. I won't get any pleasure from killing you, if that's what you're thinking.”

“That was you in the woods taking potshots at me, wasn't it?”

“A warning you failed to heed.”

I check my phone. Now there's a single bar where before there were none. I feel a flicker of hope. If I can keep her distracted until I get a signal … “Where'd you learn to shoot like that? An article in
Martha Stewart Living
on how to bag your own Thanksgiving turkey?”

“One of my foster dads was in the military. He used to take me with him to the shooting range. He taught me everything there is to know about firearms. Only decent thing any of them ever did for me.”