Killer Chameleon (30 page)

I saw no sense in braving the cold to go downstairs with a far more convenient means to get there at my disposal. In the utility closet I fumbled around until I located the latch and opened the door to the stairwell. Evidently we'd left the one below either open or ajar; there was a patch of gray at the bottom but it was still far too little illumination for me to see, and I had no intention of taking these steps ass over teakettle.

I was patting the wall to find the light switch when I heard my grandfather roar, “Open this door, do you hear me?”

Ah. Granddad was stuck in the bathroom. I groped for the light switch a little more frantically and finally found it when I heard a response to my grandfather's demand.

“Just shut up, you old fool! I'm busy!”

I knew that voice, knew it well, and it damned sure wasn't Clarissa's.

21

HOW THE HELL HAD SHE GOTTEN IN? AND HOW
long had she been here?

My heart hiccupped and my pulse went into overdrive. I had tasted panic on a number of occasions, but in this instance it was more than a taste, it completely consumed me. Michelle, triple murderer, nuttier than a Baby Ruth, and with, as Evans had reminded me, nothing to lose, was down there with my grandfather and Clarissa. I could take some comfort that Granddad was still alive, but what about Clarissa? Michelle had already killed her twin. If she hurt Clarissa, if she harmed one hair on my grandfather's head . . .

Between one second and the next, the panic was gone. What followed was what I can only describe as an other-body experience, an instantaneous metamorphosis into someone I didn't recognize, a cold, calculating entity who knew what she would do. Calling for help was out; the cell phone was in the car. If Clarissa and her granddad were to survive this, she would have to kill Michelle. And she just might enjoy doing it.

I blinked, startled, and felt more like myself again. But that other person was still in there, and for the moment, she was welcome. I would need her. She'd sit on my emotions, help me stay focused.

I examined my options. The only other means to get into the downstairs unit was via the front door. Unlike this floor, there was no access to the outside from the master bedroom. The matter was decided. Leaning against the washer and dryer, I pried off my dress boots, ditched the page boy wig and the lashes, paring myself down to just the essentials. As quietly as I could, I hurried back to the kitchen. I needed a weapon, and the knife rack on the wall offered a wide variety of gleaming, sharp blades. Bypassing the largest of them, the cleaver and the butcher's knife, I selected one I could hide easily in the sleeve of my sweater. I might inadvertently slit my own wrist in the process of removing the damned thing, but it was a chance I'd have to take.

Returning to the utility closet, I took a deep breath to steady myself and started down the steps, hands against the walls, as if that might reduce my weight on them. The pocket door at the bottom was indeed partly open. Amalie must have left it when she'd come to turn up the heat, because I distinctly remembered Duck closing it. Unless Michelle had found it. I had to hope that she was no more observant than I'd been when I'd seen the utility room the first time.

Praying that the hidden door would move soundlessly, I eased it open just wide enough to step through. It probably wouldn't have been heard in any event. Granddad was attacking the bathroom door again. Which made me wonder how the hell he'd gotten trapped in there in the first place. Didn't bathrooms lock from the inside?

“Goddammit!” Footsteps pounded toward me.

I froze in front of the washer and dryer. The folding door shutting the utility room off from the hall was open about halfway, the bathroom directly opposite. If that was Michelle's destination, all she had to do was glance in my direction and she'd see me, or at least the left half of me. No fool, she'd know that there had to be a right half too. If necessary I could take her then and there, the problem with that being I had no way of knowing what kind of weapon she might have, what I'd be up against. Better to wait and find out. Of course, if she opened that bathroom door to so much as slap my grandfather, all bets were off.

Instead, she kicked it. “I'm warning you, old man! Anybody with as little time as you have left might want to make peace with his Maker. Keep that up and I'll deal with you first instead of this devious old bitch out here!” She stomped away.

I exhaled, peeked around the folding door, and saw Granddad's problem with his. A cord, probably from the blinds, was stretched tightly between the bathroom doorknob and the one on the door of the adjacent guest room, anchoring both of them closed. The temptation to slip across the hall and cut the thing was appealing, but I quashed it. While he might be trapped, for the moment he was safe, leaving just Clarissa and eventually Michelle to worry about—that is, if he kept quiet and didn't aggravate her. I had to let him know I was here.

Along with laundry-related products, the shelves above the washer and dryer held plastic baskets containing odds and ends: a sewing kit, balls of string, thumbtacks, rubber bands; one held a yo-yo, three Matchbox cars, a few marbles, tiles from a Scrabble game, and, glory be to God, a box of Crayola crayons. Most in the box had been worn to nubs but, evidently, whatever child had left them hadn't had much use for black.

I needed paper. The only things available to write on were sheets of fabric softener. I laid one on top of the dryer, hoping it wouldn't tear under the pressure of the crayon. I kept the message short and sweet, going over the letters a second time so they could be easily read:

 

Granddad

         I'm here. Keep quiet!

                   Leigh

 

I hoped getting it to him would be as simple.

Concerned now for Clarissa, I risked a peek toward the great room and saw her sitting on the chintz-covered couch, part of a conversation area clustered to the left of the window wall. Michelle had made the most of what was available. Clarissa's hands were tied with a match of the cord holding Granddad prisoner in the john. Most of the bottom half of her face was hidden under a blue print scarf used as a gag. There was no trace of fear in her body language, but even from where I stood, I could see the loathing in her eyes.

They widened when she spotted me. I pressed a finger to my lips, silly given the circumstances, but she lowered her gaze and shifted position, as if trying to get more comfortable. Her wrists were secured right over the left, right palm down, left facing up. With a move that had to hurt, she twisted her right wrist to a position perpendicular to the left, raised her thumb, and extended her forefinger. After a second, she curled the forefinger back, twice.

I gaped at her, praying I might be misinterpreting the gesture. I pantomimed pulling a trigger and was rewarded with a nod.

Shit. Why couldn't Michelle have waited until tomorrow? I'd have been ready for her with Duck's Glock. As for the knife, I was no James Coburn with his lethal speed and aim à la
The Magnificent Seven
. By the time I got the thing out of my sleeve, I could be wearing four or five additional holes. For whatever reason, she hadn't used the gun yet, but I couldn't count on that lasting much longer. Come to think of it, what the hell was she doing?

Where is she? I mouthed to Clarissa.

She shifted position again to her left, fixing her gaze toward the side of the great room under the loft. Good enough. I stepped into the hall, slid the sheet of fabric softener under the door of the bathroom, then tapped lightly to be certain he saw it. In a second, it disappeared. I breathed a little easier.

It was time to focus on Michelle. I hadn't seen a weapon; only her left half had been visible. No surprise, she was in costume again, one I recognized, and I kicked myself for having missed yet another opportunity to confront her days earlier, considering the number of times I'd seen the outfit. Today she was the Reverend Mrs. Hansberry, lady preacher sans bucket for collecting money for presents for needy children. Frizzy black hair pulled back in a bun, frumpy black dress with white collar, old lady shoes. She was into me for a buck seventy-five. I wanted it back, every penny of it.

Envisioning the layout, I figured that if I could make it to the kitchen, I could crouch behind the sideboard that served as an island between the kitchen and dining area under the loft, at least until I could figure out how best to bring her down without sacrificing Clarissa's life and getting shot myself. The sideboard was at least six feet long, but only waist-high, if that. It was the only thing available to hide behind. Everything else was open, even the fireplace.

I gestured to Clarissa that I wanted to get to the kitchen. She seemed startled at first, then horrified, but finally gave a short bob of her head. Almost immediately she began to moan, and slumped to one side.

“Oh, no, you don't, you old bitch!” Michelle moved into view, her back to me as she yanked Clarissa upright and slapped her, hard, with an open hand. I almost lost it.

Hey,
an internal voice chided me,
Clarissa's taking the heat, distracting Michelle so you can make your move. So move!

I eased around the folding door, walked as quietly as I could, and reached the end of the wall separating the hall from the kitchen. I'd taken a couple of steps toward them when Clarissa, who'd been knocked onto her right side by the blow, saw me and shook her head. She was right. Michelle would see me coming in her peripheral vision. Even more of a hazard was the revolver nestled in her left hand, her finger inside the trigger guard. I was willing to risk her taking a shot at me if she detected my approach, but I couldn't risk startling her and causing her to shoot Clarissa by accident. Me she might miss. Not Clarissa.

I hauled ass into the kitchen, squatted behind the sideboard, relieved to see that I needn't worry about my head showing above it. Michelle had piled her coat, suitcase, hatbox, purse, three-ring binders, and makeup kit on top of it, adding to its height. Kneeling would be hell on my patella, but I'd be able to squat rather than sit or lie on the floor.

I peeked around the left end.

“I'm not falling for that dying act again,” Michelle ranted, shaking Clarissa by her collar like a rag doll. “No coughing and wheezing this time. You fooled me once, had me thinking I'd killed you, and all the time you were just fine, probably laughing your head off.”

Pointing the ugly revolver at Clarissa's nose, she loosened the cord around her wrists, pulled it free. “Swivel around,” she ordered. “Hands behind your back. I've got to pee. Any other time, I'd take you with me.” She wedged the gun under the belt of her dress. “But I've got my damned period, so I prefer privacy.” She tied Clarissa's wrists together, yanking viciously on the cord before twisting her face front.

“Don't bother trying to escape while I'm gone,” she said, backing away. “There's no point. With your hands like that, you won't be able to open the door, so stay put. We've got a lot of talking to do.”

I heard her footsteps coming toward me rather than the steps to the loft and prepared myself for discovery. She stopped on the other side of the sideboard, however.

“Everything would be fine if I hadn't had to go to my stupid dumbfuck of a cousin practically on my hands and knees to beg her to let me hide out at her house.”

She moved away. I risked a peek. She had come for her purse. Hurrying, she ran up the steps and kept talking, even after she'd reached the bathroom. “But she didn't care if I was in trouble, said it was my own fault. She turned me down.”

I got to my feet, ran to Clarissa, and hauled her onto hers.

“And I knew she'd tell on me, knew it! So I had to do what I did, especially after Bubba showed up. He never liked me. He'd have ratted on me too. So it's all your fault, not mine, yours and that cop bitch. And you're gonna tell me where she is or else, you hear me?”

Nudging her to hurry, I took Clarissa to the utility room and the stairwell, and helped her lower herself onto a step. “Stay here,” I whispered, turned on the light for her, then slid the door closed. I wish I could have removed the gag and untied her hands but I had no idea how long Michelle would be in the john.

On the way back to the kitchen, I came up with a diversion I hoped might work, crossed to the front door, opened it, and left it ajar. It was a long shot, but if she went outside to look for Clarissa, I could lock her out.

“You've got to work at your craft, you know? You've got to hone it, pay your dues. And I've done that.” Michelle's voice rang clearly, projected with apparent ease.

I took the time to see if there was anything else I could use as a weapon, something with more reach. Nothing heavy enough, not even a poker.

“I've played young women, old women, whores, queens. I've been in tragedies, comedies, farces, you name it. And I'm good,” she said, flushing the toilet. “Damned good. Everyone says so, as if I need anybody to tell me that. I'm a star! I've always been a star!”

I heard more water and had to give her credit. At least she was washing her hands.

“I'd have made it into that repertory company if I could have gotten there on time. They'd have hired me; diversity's the big thing these days. So I
know
I could have been a principal member of the company. Juliet, Ophelia, Lady—” The wife of the thane of Cawdor was left hanging. “Shit!”

Michelle was done, had come out, and had obviously looked over the railing of the loft.

She pounded down the steps. “Goddammit, I warned you not to move! How far do you think you'll get?”

She did exactly what I'd hoped. The front door banged open, slammed against the wall. I popped up, ready to dash the second she stepped down onto the deck. She did, darting away, and I was there in a flash, closing the door and throwing the deadbolt. Her footsteps muffled the sound.

I rushed to the bathroom door. “Granddad, can you hear me?”

“Yes, honey. Where's Clarissa? Is she all right? What the hell is going on?”