Bound by Suggestion (33 page)

“Drugs,” Brenda said. “And she probably had plenty of practice in D.C. I read the transcript, too. That woman is evil.”

“And I can’t prove she did anything,” I said.

“If nothing else, that video proves you and Grace were in Krista’s home office. According to the residence manager where Grace lived, the medicab company can document the times and dates she was taken there.”

I glanced over at the armoire across the room that hid the television with its disk player. “I guess I should watch that video.”

“No!” Richard said. “You’ve already put yourself through too much today. What you need now is a good meal and a good night’s sleep.”

“We could all use that,” Brenda chimed in.

“What about those steaks we’d planned for yesterday? Are they any good?” Richard asked.

“Still sitting in the marinade,” Brenda said. “All I have to do is make the salad.”

“Let’s do it.” Glass still clasped in his hand, Richard rose, heading for the door, with Brenda following in his wake.

I stayed put, my mind still on that video hidden away in Richard’s briefcase. Grace was dead, but images of her shame and fury still existed, and I’d been Krista’s clueless puppet inflicting that punishment.

Richard stood in the doorway. “Are you coming?”

“Sure.”

Somehow I’d have to avenge Grace. Somehow.

And I didn’t have a clue how to go about doing it.

Brenda’s little boom box on the counter cranked out yet another 70s disco hit. Richard regarded her taste in music like an ailment she might some day recover from, but I think he secretly delighted in watching her dance around the kitchen as she restored order. Tonight it was Donna Summers. Us macho guys sat at the table sipping after-dinner Drambuie, reading the morning paper we hadn’t had a chance to peruse before then, and trying not to tap our toes in time with the pounding beat.

The phone rang. Our eyes darted to the wall, then to check out each other, the unspoken question creating instant tension. Was it Timberly? Krista?

Brenda hit the CD’s pause button, grabbing the phone on the third ring. “Hello? Oh, hi, Maggie.”

Every muscle in my body tensed.

“Yeah, he’s right here.”

I shook my head, mouthed an emphatic, “No!” but she ignored me, handing the phone to Richard.

“Maggie?”

He listened.

“Sorry, I meant to call you last night, but—” He paused. “Yes, everything’s okay.” He listened again. “Better safe than sorry,” he agreed and glanced at me.

Uncomfortable beneath his scrutiny, I feigned interest in the financial page.

“Okay. Yeah. Bye.”

Richard handed the phone back to Brenda. She listened for a second, then hung it up.

The tension remained.

“Maggie wanted to make sure you’re okay,” Richard said.

“Thanks for not saying anything.”

“You know, if she hadn’t called me yesterday, I wouldn’t have gone over to your place. At least, not so early.”

“I kinda figured that.”

The guilt began to mount again.

“Are we going to jump every time the phone rings?” Brenda asked.

“Probably,” Richard said.

“Speaking of phone calls,” I said. “You were on the line a long time with your attorney.”

“I wanted him to know the situation in case that video ends up at one of the local TV stations. Not that they could air it.”

Brenda went back to the counter, hit the play button, but turned the volume down on Donna. Then she moved to the fridge, took something out and set it on the counter, keeping her back to us.

“What happens next?” I asked.

“If we get any calls, we put a message on the answering machine telling them to call Dan’s office. They’ll handle everything.”

“And then?”

“I don’t know. Wes may be bluffing.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“If he can’t get to me with that video, he may have an alternate plan. We’ll have to wait and see.”

I chewed at my lip. “I know how much you wanted that job. I’m sorry I fucked it up for you.”

Richard shrugged. “Since Saturday night, I’ve had to reassess my priorities. I wanted that chairmanship, but if it doesn’t work out, I’ll find something else to do.”

He’d already found a new hobby—clearing out the medicine cabinets of patent and prescription drugs. Even Brenda’s folic acid-laced vitamins had disappeared from the kitchen counter. And all the cleaning supplies were gone from under the sinks. Except for bathroom breaks, Brenda had stuck to me like glue for the entire day. That meant Richard had been busy before he’d hunted us down in the study.

Despite his earlier vote of confidence, Richard wasn’t comfortable leaving me alone, either. While Brenda made dinner, he accompanied me across the driveway while I packed some clothes and fed Herschel, then installed me in the guest room next to the master bedroom upstairs—not my former digs downstairs where I’d stayed for three months when I first returned to Buffalo a year earlier.

Okay. I could choose to look at it as a total lack of trust, or I could be reasonable and realize my brother cared enough to do everything he could to keep me alive.

I chose reason.

“Hey, birthday boy,” Brenda said, switching off the CD player and turning. She held a pedestal plate with the sorriest excuse for a cake I’d ever seen. Two rows of candles blazed atop the white mound; three above, seven below. A lopsided pink rose crouched on one side, with a crooked
Happy Birthday Jeffy
spelled out in green gel in the middle.

“I didn’t have thirty-seven candles, so you’ll just have to pretend,” she explained. “Besides, it would’ve been a fire hazard.”

My throat constricted as Brenda set the cake before me. I wasn’t sure if it was from emotion or stifled laughter.

“It’s beautiful,” I managed. “Thank you.”

“First we sing, and then you make a wish,” she said, her eyes bright. “Okay, Happy Birthday to you—”

Richard joined in. I had to cover my mouth to keep from smirking at his wobbly baritone.

“Now make a wish,” Brenda commanded, once they’d finished.

A wish. If I could have anything in the world, what would it be?

That was easy.

Maggie.

I took a breath and blew out all the candles.

Blue sky
was fading to a hazy gray the following afternoon as Brenda took a flat of begonias from the trunk of my car. “There’s not supposed to be a frost tonight, is there?”

“I checked the forecast. It should stay above forty every night for the next week,” I told her. “Once you hit Memorial Day, you’re pretty much safe.”

“Let me get those,” Richard chided Brenda, taking the dirty plastic tray from her. “You’re not supposed to lift anything heavy.”

“Great. Then maybe you’ll empty the dishwasher when we get inside. Those pots from dinner last night weigh at least a ton.”

Richard gave her a sour look, but he probably would empty it—not that he’d know where to put anything.

After lunch, we took Brenda’s and my car to visit three nurseries and buy most of the annuals for the back garden. No doubt Richard thought I needed a project to occupy my time, to keep my mind from dark thoughts. And keeping busy was better than sitting around waiting for the damn phone to ring. He’d also called my boss at the bar and told him I had the flu and would be taking the week off. Too bad I hadn’t thought of using his M.D. to spring me from math class years before.

“Who’s brave enough to check the answering machine?” I asked as we grouped the flats on the deck around back. We’d decided not to take cell phones with us.

“Not me,” said Brenda.

We finished unloading the plants onto the deck—a riot of reds, pinks, purples and blues against a green leafy background. If the weather held, we could start planting the next day.

Brenda dusted off her hands. “I’m going inside. Put the cars away and hurry up and come in. I don’t want to listen to those messages all by myself.”

Richard saluted her. “Yes, ma’am.”

We watched her head for the back door.

“Getting bossy, isn’t she?” I said, pulling the keys from my jeans pocket.

“It’s hormones,” Richard said, still staring after her.

His Town Car sat parked in its regular spot in the garage. “Let’s take the Lincoln back to the dealer tomorrow,” I said.

“The service manager assured me there’s nothing wrong with it. Besides, I’m thinking about trading it in.”

“Why? There’s tons of life left in it.”

“It’s almost four years old. I’ve never kept a car that long.”

Richard plucked his keys from his jacket pocket and climbed in Brenda’s car, while I parked my wreck. He waited for me to shut the garage door, then we walked back to the house.

Brenda had hung her jacket on the back of a chair, and stood by the counter, antsy with anticipation. “The light’s only blinking once. You press the button,” she told Richard.

He sighed, but complied.

“Tuesday, one forty-seven p.m.,” said the machine’s mechanical voice.

Beep.

“I just got off the phone with Mona Humphrey,” said a disembodied male voice. “She hasn’t heard from you, Dr. Dick. You’ve screwed me for the last time, and somebody’s going to pay for it.”

A click, and nothing else.

“End of messages,” reported the machine.

“Was that Wes Timberly?” I asked.

Richard nodded, looking grim.

We’d missed the call by two hours.

“Better save that message,” I said. “You might want to use it as evidence.”

We stood in silence for a minute or more, digesting Timberly’s threat, before Brenda broke the quiet. “You ought to listen to your messages, too, Jeffy.”

“There won’t be any; I unplugged the phone on Sunday.”

“I plugged it back in,” Richard said.

So he had.

I dialed my own number, feeding in the remote access code and hitting the speaker button so they could listen, too.

“Monday, Two-twelve, p.m.” said the same mechanical voice as on Richard’s machine.

“Jeff, it’s Krista. I asked you to call me on Sunday. You could at least have the courtesy to do so.” She rattled off another number I was unfamiliar with.

“I asked her
not
to contact you,” Richard said.

“She doesn’t take orders well,” I said.

The machine gave off a resounding
boop
.

“Message Two: Tuesday, ten forty-six a.m.”

“You should have called me, Jeff,” Krista said—definitely not in a good mood. “Now, I won’t be responsible for what happens.”

Click.

“Message Three: Tuesday, three-thirty one.”

“Jeff?” Maggie’s strained voice. “If you’re there, please pick up.” Seconds ticked off. “He’s not there,” she said away from the mouthpiece.

The background noises told me she was calling from a cell phone—probably from a car.

“We’re heading for Lake Ontario,” Maggie continued.

We? Was she with Doug?

“Your
girlfriend
is in the back seat, holding a gun on us!”

“Stick to the script,” Krista ordered.

“If you and Richard don’t show up at the following address by eight o’clock tonight,” Maggie continued, “she says she’ll kill us!”

She read off an address on Lake Road—Route 18.

“Don’t call the police,” Krista said, sounding clearer. She must’ve grabbed the phone from Maggie. “Call them, and I’ll make sure you’re real sorry you did.”

The connection was severed.

“End of messages,” said the unemotional voice of the answering machine.

Eyes wide, the three of us stared at one another. Richard had gone pale.

“Call the police,” Brenda said.

“No. I believe that bitch will kill them,” I said.

“Who’s with Maggie?” Richard asked.

“It has to be Doug,” Brenda said. “How could Krista find Maggie, let alone take her and Doug hostage?”

“I might have told her where Maggie works,” I admitted. “During one of those times she drugged me.”

Richard studied his watch. “That call was made almost twenty minutes ago.”

“Call the police,” Brenda repeated.

Richard’s gaze grilled me. “What’s your gut telling you?”

“Nothing. And since Maggs and I are so in tune, I should be feeling something.”

“Does that mean . . . ?” Brenda stopped herself.

“That Maggie’s already dead?” I didn’t want to think about it.

“Call the police!” Brenda said yet again.

I dug in my pockets for my keys. “I’ve got to go.”

“Not alone you don’t,” Richard said.