Killer Chameleon (24 page)

“Saint Something?”

“One of the apostles, and New Gospel in Mitchellville. Don't remember the name of the community center but it was in Columbia. And the private club was in Gaithersburg.”

I wrote all that down, even though some of it was a waste of ink. Saint Something certainly was. And Columbia had almost as many community or neighborhood centers as it had people. But Marty had lived in Gaithersburg before she'd married Jensen, so perhaps she could give me a line on the private clubs.

“This woman certainly gets around,” I said, seeing no particular pattern in her movement. “New Gospel and Gaithersburg will probably be the easiest for me to check out. I might not be able to pinpoint the exact date she used their computers, but at least I have a time frame to work with.”

“Come to think of it,” Plato said, shifting his weight awkwardly, “what set her off?”

“I already told you. She missed an audition—”

“That's not what I mean. She missed the audition back in the spring, right? This just started fairly recently. Why? What triggered it? Why'd she wait until now?”

I hadn't thought of that. “Maybe it took her that long to find me. After all, she didn't even—” I stopped, reconstructing my confrontation with her. “Well, duh.”

“What?” He pushed the button that controlled his pain medication.

“I was going to say she didn't even know my name, but she did. I gave it to her. When she flipped out, she said she was going to lodge a complaint against me. I was about sick of her by that point, so I told her to be sure and get my name right. I gave it to her, name, rank and badge number. Jeez, what a dunce I am.”

“That still doesn't answer the question,” Plato insisted, “especially if she's had the information all this time—and that's assuming she remembered it. Why wait until now to get back at you? What triggered it?”

It was a good question. I tossed it around all the way back to the condo, even during the fifteen minutes I spent in Home Depot looking for a welcome mat to replace Janeece's.

I'd have to power up the laptop and check the date of the first message she had sent, I was thinking, as I stopped in the lobby of the building to check Duck's mailbox. It was empty, as was the lobby itself, the TV in the corner, silent. Mrs. Luby and her Gang of Four had other things to do, since there were no soaps on Saturday.

Upstairs in the hall, I wondered why I hadn't had the foresight to leave the welcome mat in Janeece's car. It was heavy, practically cutting off the circulation in the wrist the bag was dangling from, and hampering access to the pocket I needed to reach to get to the door key. I did some juggling, found it and had it in the lock when the whole of the Baltimore Orioles whacked me on the back of the head with every bat they had, and a voice yelled, “Got you!”

17

“OH, JESUS!”

I didn't pass out. There's no way you could see as many stars in as many galaxies as I did if you're unconscious. I did, however, wind up on my fanny on the floor, probably about the time Orion's Belt flashed past, the back of my head throbbing in time with my escalating pulse.

“Oh, Jesus, oh, Lord,” someone mumbled again and, after the ringing in my ears lessened a bit, I recognized the voice.

“You hit me.” I squinted up at Mrs. Luby, which only added pain behind my eyes to the equation. Her sweat suit was a shriek of carmine red. Thank God she wore no shoes. I'd seen them. They were American Beauty rose.

“I'm so sorry, Leigh.” A tenpin-shaped dumbbell rolled across the carpet and stopped at her door as if pointing a finger of blame. “Did I hurt you? I didn't mean to.”

“Couldn't prove it by me,” I said. “In fact, I get the impression you meant to knock my block off. Congratulations. You just about succeeded. Mind telling me why?”

“I thought you were
her,
” she wailed. “Heard you out here. I looked through the peephole and thought she'd come back. I wasn't going to let you . . . her, I mean, get away again. I was exercising, so I just opened my door and . . .” Reaching down, she helped me to my feet. “What have you done to yourself? Why in the world would you want to look like that awful woman?”

The key was still in the door so I opened it, walking on eggs, and beckoned her in. “Mrs. Luby.” Heading for the couch, I lowered myself onto it slowly, and stretched out. “When you saw her in the elevator, you thought she was me. If, as everyone I've talked to today, insists I don't look like me now, how could you think I look like her?”

“Because I saw her earlier,” she protested, closing the door behind her.

“Today?” I forgot the manic drumbeat in my head for a moment.

“Yes. That's what I'm trying to tell you! About an hour ago, I was out on my balcony. You know how I love watching planes make their approach to the airport. I noticed this woman cross the street. I think she'd just come out of our garage.”

“What was she driving?” I sat up. Slowly.

“Nothing. She was walking. Fast. And she reminded me of you and I thought, Luby, it's that woman again. I had my binoculars with me to spot the planes so got a real good look at her. I could see the difference then. She's bustier and has more hips than you do and she was wearing dreadlocks, but that didn't fool me. I called the police but by the time they got here and checked the garage and nearby streets, she was gone. But she had on a white coat. That's why I thought you were her when I saw you from the back. I've never seen you in a white coat before.”

“Remind me to warn you when I wear it again,” I said, taking it off. “I've got to find some aspirin. And an ice bag.”

“I'll get the ice out for you. I'm so sorry, Leigh. Think you should go to the hospital? You might have a concussion.”

“Been there, done that, concussion-wise,” I said, rising very, very gingerly. The room rocked for a moment, then settled down. “I'm all right.” An exaggeration, if not an outright lie, but I was fairly certain she hadn't done that much damage. Granted, I had a first-class localized headache and a small lump back there, but my memory was intact, my surroundings had ceased all seismic activity, and besides, I'd had enough of hospitals for one day. Thank God for Janeece's wig with all these braids and the cushion they'd provided. It lay on the coffee table looking like a strange, sandy-colored octopus.

Mrs. Luby helped me get comfortable on the sofa again, aspirin down my gullet, an ice bag chilling the goose egg, and my laptop within arm's reach. After another dozen apologies from her and my assurances that I would live, she left and I sat back up—again, slowly—and turned on the laptop. There were new messages from me to me, in other words from the hellion, all of them today's date. The first had been sent a little after midnight, the second at four this morning (didn't the woman ever sleep?), the last a half hour ago.

It was obvious she was still foaming at the mouth when she'd written the first of them. She hadn't even bothered with caps.

 

you scheming, conniving bitch! i started out meaning to let you know somebody out here didn't think you were such hot shit just because you wear a uniform and a badge, but that was before i saw you hugging that blond heifer. i told you how important that audition was that day. i had olivia down pat, she was in my soul! i could have been a lady macbeth and a portia no one would ever forget! i had studied for almost a year to be ready to handle any part they gave me! but you had to make sure that fat sow got into the shakespeare company instead of me. sisterhood means nothing to you! she's not even black! now that i see how things are don't bother replacing that crappy suit you were going to get married in. i'll make sure your man gets it back so you can be buried in it. you ruined my life and i'm going to ruin yours—permanently.

 

My headache intensified. This woman needed locking up. Jail or psychiatric ward, I didn't care. I forwarded the message to Duck at work, and to both Thackery and Willard.

The second message was more controlled but no less menacing. At least the capitals were back.

 

You won't see me but I'll see you. And before it's over you'll see nothing at all. Hope you slept well.

 

The third made me smile a little.

 

You can't stay in that apartment forever. When you come out, I'll be waiting.

 

So, if she'd been in the vicinity this morning, the disguise had worked; she hadn't recognized me. But Mrs. Luby's conk on the head made me think. Granted, the coat was the deciding factor for her, but if she'd mistaken me for the loony, then the wig, makeup and padding had had an unintended result. It had never occurred to me that I might now resemble Bitch Bar None. So there was a possibility that the jogger who'd mistaken me for someone named Shelly might have dropped her first name in our laps. And if she'd ever done a show at Arena, the jogger, at least, would recognize her picture immediately.

I checked the answering machine to make sure there was plenty of room for a message, in case Sunny called with good news. I was just turning away when the phone rang. I snatched it up and said, “Hello? Sunny?” before the caller ID registered in my brain. Things were still processing a bit slowly up there.

“I got the e-mail you sent and who's Sonny?” Duck asked, his interpretation of the name as being masculine obvious by his tone.

“S-U-N-N-Y,” I spelled it out for him. “Someone I met at Arena this morning. And there's a possibility—a small one, but still a possibility—that our girl's first name is Shelly.”

“What makes you think that?” He didn't sound as miffed as he had last night. By the time I'd finished telling him about the mistake by the jogger and the assault-by-Luby, all evidence of his temper were gone.

“Are you all right? Seriously, babe, you may have a concussion. I mean, a barbell? She could have killed you!”

“Well, obviously, she didn't and my head's feeling better. I swear. The barbell probably wasn't all that heavy, just effective. By the way, I stopped to see Plato and he asked a question I hadn't considered before. I met this Shelly—sorry if that turns out not to be her name; it'll do for now. I met her back in the spring, gave her my name, etcetera when she threatened to lodge a complaint. So why'd she wait until the fall to start this war? What lit the fuse?”

He snorted. “As nuts as she is, it might have been anything or nothing. Maybe she's been stewing about it ever since and finally decided to get it out of her system.”

Or perhaps the imminent arrival of the Shakespeare repertory company had pushed her toward the edge. She'd obviously kept up with the reviews as they opened around the country. The symbol of a major missed opportunity right here on home territory might have been enough to do it, since she obviously wasn't stable.

“The reason I called,” Duck said, interrupting my thoughts, “Jensen brought in the video of the wedding and reception and is showing it in one of the conference rooms. Thought you might like to see it and go out to eat afterward or something.”

Ah. I'd finally gleaned the real purpose of the call, a fishing expedition, a way to find out if I was ready to forgive him. His “or something” gave it away. Duck rarely said that unless he was uncertain about the outcome.

This presented a quandary. I had no interest in seeing Jensen's video; I'd been there, the reception had gone on forever, and I had a to-do list to pare down. And a headache. Still . . .

“Okay,” I said. “I'm on my way. Oh, and I'm driving Janeece's Cadillac.”

“You're WHAT?”

“See you in a half hour or so,” I said, and hung up, grinning. Payback. How sweet it was.

 

The skies had been sulky this morning but had improved immeasurably since then. Climate in the Washington area was always fickle, rarely sticking to the party line when it came to seasons. Except for three or four days, few and far between at that, there had been no truly cold weather this month or last, despite the anomaly earlier this week when it had snowed for all of seventeen seconds. Granted, the winter solstice was a couple of weeks away, but given the District's history, it would probably be warm enough for shorts that day, just to show who was in charge. I turned on the radio, found an all-news station, which before long announced that the whole area was wallowing in lower-sixties balminess. Fine by me. I hated cold weather.

As I zipped up the Anacostia Freeway toward Minnesota Avenue, I wondered what the temperature was on the Chesapeake. I'd find out tomorrow; the aunts weren't expecting me, but I knew their after-church routine well enough to know when I'd be able to catch them and let them know I'd need their services as a seamstress after all. I would have to be firm with them. No virginal white frou-frou. It promised to be a battle, but one I was determined to win.

I swept down onto Minnesota and headed toward East Capitol, grumbling at how smoothly traffic flowed today. I'd hoped to get to the Sixth District station late enough to avoid having to sit through too much of the videotape so that Duck and I could go on to dinner. Saturday traffic, however, was never as frenetic as during the week, and I arrived at my destination sooner than I'd hoped. And burst into laughter to see my beloved outside, waiting for me. Correction: waiting to see the Cadillac. About that I had no illusions. My spirits lifted. Perhaps we'd be skipping the videotape after all.

He recognized the car but did a double-take when he got a good look at me. I'd have loved to forgo the wig but hadn't dared. The expression on Duck's face left no doubt what he thought of it as he pointed, gesturing toward an available parking spot. I managed to get into it without embarrassing myself, and rolled down the window.

“Want to drive?” I asked, fluttering my fake lashes at him.

“You weren't lying. This really is Janeece's. How's your head? Are you sure you're all right?”

“As all right as I can be in this getup. The aspirin and ice bag helped. I'm fine or I wouldn't have driven.”

He squatted outside my door, taking in the interior, and whistled in admiration. “So where'd you bury Janeece? She's gotta be dead. There's no way you'd be behind the wheel of this beauty otherwise.”

I relented and confessed to my astonishment when she'd suggested the arrangement. “She's in hog heaven test-driving a rented Mercedes, says she's always wanted one. Chet brought mine back, but we figured that since Ms. Shelly Malicious knows it intimately, so to speak, we'd pull a fast one on her. Looks like it worked. Duck, do you mind if we skip watching the video? I'm starving, enough to let you play chauffeur.”

“Deal. Unlock the door.” His eyes glittered with anticipation. The man was practically drooling.

I got out and he was in before I'd barely cleared the seat.

“Some chauffeur you are,” I said, watching him move it backward. “Protocol says you're to escort me around to the passenger side and do the honors for me, door-wise.”

“Uh-huh.” Fiddling with the controls for the mirror, he hadn't heard a word I'd said. Which is why he didn't notice when one of a pair of uniforms striding past stopped and palmed my shoulder. His partner hesitated, then kept going.

“Hey, Mick! How come you didn't call me?” His voice was a low, sultry growl in my ear.

I turned, looked up. Six-two, Latino or Hispanic, and lip-smacking gorgeous. “Excuse me?”

“You were supposed to call me in exchange for the wine in my lap.”

“Wine? In your lap?”

A frown wormed its way between glossy black brows. His gaze shifted from me to Duck and back. “Oh. Hey, Duck. Sorry, miss. My mistake. I thought you were someone else.”

“Who?” I asked. If this was a repeat of this morning's encounter at Arena Stage, I was taking no chances.

“Yeah, who, Lopez?” Duck echoed me, scowling, the mirrors forgotten.

The officer backed up a step, distinctly uncomfortable now. “Micky something, I don't remember her last name. She accidentally spilled a glass of wine on me at Jensen's wedding reception and—”