Killer Love (38 page)

“It was Hutch,” I told her. “If I don’t call him back, he’ll be suspicious.”

“Call him back, but leave it on speaker so I can hear what both of you say. I swear to God, if you say one thing that sounds out of line, I’ll shoot you before Rick can possibly ride to your rescue.”

I called and when he answered, he said, “Is Liza with you?”

I looked at Liza and her eyes rounded, reflecting my own surprise at the question.

“No, why would she be?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady while at the same time, searching my mind for some kind of code word that would tip him off, but wouldn’t rouse Liza’s suspicions. Maybe that only worked in the movies.

“I’m not sure,” Hutch replied. “But Deanna is here with me. She and I have been comparing notes. Maybe we should come out and talk to you in pers—”

“No! I’m not even at home. Tell me over the phone.”

“When will you be there? I really need to see you.”

“It’s going to be a while. Please, just tell me what’s going on.”

He sighed heavily. “Well, nothing’s for sure, I’m trying to piece it all together. But, you could possibly be in danger. What Deanna’s told me and what I’ve discovered in the investigation could mean Liza is behind everything that’s happened, including burning her own house down,” he ended incredulously.

Briefly, Liza closed her eyes, her mouth tightening as she gave a frustrated shake of her head.

“Why, that’s absurd,” I said, smiling sardonically at Liza. She gave a grim, cold smile in return.

“It sounds that way, but looking at the facts, it seems less and less absurd. Deanna was concerned about something she found, so she came to see me tonight. That, coupled with Liza’s strange behavior lately, made Deanna realize Liza may be the perpetrator. Liza could be coming after you, Isabelle.”

Still looking at Liza, I saw her eyes narrow and her lips mouth, “That bitch.”

“Thanks for the warning,” I said into the speaker. “I’ll let you know if I hear from her.”

“Okay. And call me when you get home. I really want to come out and talk to you.”

“I will.” I pushed one of the numbers instead of the end button, hoping I could keep the line open long enough for Liza to say something Hutch could hear, but not long enough for him to say something she could hear.

Liza must have been wise to my plan, because she raised the gun and pressed a finger to her lips in a shushing gesture. Then, she reached her hand out for the phone. I slapped it into her palm, and she punched the ‘end’ button herself, shaking her head.

“I should punish you for that, but we’re running out of time and need to get straight to the killing-you-but-making-it-look-like-suicide part.” She pulled back the hammer and pointed the gun at my face. “Now, tell me what the note said, or I’ll blow your head off.”

The expression behind the deadly pistol was menacing, the green eyes snapping with fury and determination.

But, suddenly, I’d either become resigned, or overly confident. I laughed and lifted my hands, palms up. “You know what? I’m tired of the threats. You’re going to kill me no matter what. Why should I make it easy for you? Go along with a plan that assures you’ll get away with my murder, in addition to the others? What have I got to lose?”

She smiled, coldly, like a serpent might if it could smile. “In a word, Rick.”

“Rick?” I parroted, some of my bravado fading.

“Yes. No matter what, I kill you. But if I’m going down for the crime, if I can’t make it look like suicide, I’ll kill him, too. And don’t think I can’t take him out before he gets to me. He’ll be here eventually to check on you, and I’ll be waiting. Even tough-guy Rick can’t survive a surprise ambush.”

I shook my head. “You love him.”

“Yes, I do.” She sighed regretfully.

“You love him, yet you’d murder him?”

“I know!” she exclaimed in a
can-you-believe-it
tone of voice. “It’s, well,
crazy
, isn’t it? Funny how, out of the three of us,
I’m
the one who got it.”

I furrowed my brow, hopelessness giving way to confusion. “Three of us? Got what?”

“The insanity gene. From your father.
Our
father.”

I went cold, not believing, yet somehow...believing. “He was your father, too?”

She nodded. “He had an affair with my mother. My dad, who raised me, thought
he
was my father. Then, after he died, my mother told me the truth. But she made me swear not to go to Daniel. Not to confront him. She was worried because of his reputation. Worried he might do something to harm me. Ironic, huh?” She barked out a maniacal laugh. “The man who raised me was poor. We never had any money growing up. But your family was rich, and you got Dad’s inheritance. It wasn’t fair. Was never fair. All I got from him was the lunacy. Do you know how hard that’s been to hide all these years? How liberating it is to finally express it?” I didn’t respond. “It’s positively euphoric. Now, once you’re dead, my parentage will mysteriously be revealed and I’ll be entitled to your half of the inheritance. And, when I have money, maybe Rick will want me. Once you’re dead, he’ll have to stop wanting you.”

I stared at her, trying to see if I could detect a family resemblance. Not really, although she did have the red hair of my father’s Irish ancestry, where Carmen and I had our mother’s Italian features.

“Did he know?” I asked, thinking how ironic it was that my father had killed my mother because he believed
she
was cheating. And he’d conceived a child with another woman.

She shook her head and her voice turned hard, angry. “I’ve spent way too much time explaining all this to you. It’s time, now, to tell me what the hell was in the note.”

Thinking quickly, hoping at least to stall a little, that maybe a miracle would happen, I said musingly, “So, that’s what he meant.”

“What who meant?”

“Dad. In the note. It must have been about you.”

A glimmer of something, hope maybe, flickered in her unbalanced gaze. “What are you talking about? What did it say?”

“He said he’d tried to be a good father. He said he only wished he could have also been a father to
her
. He didn’t give a name, just said ‘her.’ That puzzled us, but we figured it was just part of his unstable rantings. But now it makes perfect sense.”

Every word of that, of course, was a lie. Dad’s note had simply said,
I’m sorry. I can’t live with the pain and I couldn’t let your mother live after what she’s done. I love you. Dad.
It was written in bold, firm, neat strokes, as if he were making a grocery list.

We couldn’t know for sure, but we speculated he’d written it after he’d killed mom. Otherwise, he’d probably have said “I
can’t
let your mother live,” not
couldn’t
. I would be forever haunted by the image of my father steadily penning the note while my beautiful, dead mother lay only a few feet away.

I looked at Liza. Tears pooled in her eyes. She appeared hopeful, yet at the same time haunted. I felt a tug of remorse and, for just a few seconds, the slightest bond with this woman. She was my sister. Then I looked at the gun and my
Gilmore Girls
moment vanished. She also wanted to kill me.

“Do you have the note?” she asked softly, her expression one of wondrous awe.

“Yes.” I was lying again. Carmen had the note. I’d wanted to destroy it, but Carmen had insisted on keeping it. She said that someday our children may want to see it.
Yeah, right.

“Where is it?”

“It’s out in my studio.”

I was getting so good at lying, if I survived this, I might consider a career in politics. The hope was that during the trek to my studio, in the dark, the terrain would be unfamiliar and treacherous enough for her that I might find an opportunity to overpower her. If that didn’t happen, and we made it all the way to my studio, well, I was basically screwed. I didn’t have a plan B, unless, once we got inside, I could convince her to hold her hand underneath the needle of my sewing machine while I stepped on the presser foot. It wouldn’t kill her, but it would hurt like a sonofabitch.

“Let’s go,” she said, motioning toward the door with her gun hand.

I took the flashlight from the table in the foyer and led my captor outside. I held the Coleman tightly, remembering my earlier consideration of it as a weapon. Somehow, a flashlight vs. a gun didn’t seem like a very even match-up.

When we were halfway to the studio, I pretended to stumble over a section of the cracked sidewalk.

“Watch your step,” I said over my shoulder. “This sidewalk is uneven in some places.”

“Right, like you care.”

I stopped and turned to look at her, hoping my expression was one of sincerity. “I do care. I just wish I’d known before that you were my sister. I’ve always liked you.” I gave a wistful smile. “And if I’d known...”

“What do you mean?” Her voice held suspicion, yet there was something else there, a longing to believe?

“I wish we could have known each other as sisters, could have grown up together.”

The gun wavered and I dared to hope.

She shook her head in disgust, and said, almost apologetically, “
Men
. If it weren’t for our father and Rick, I wouldn’t have to kill you.”

A chill coursed through me at the matter-of-fact way she spoke of my impending murder. When I looked into her face, the features were a bit distorted in the shadows, making her look truly insane, just as she’d claimed.

She once more raised the gun and motioned me forward. “Now, let’s go.”

I tried to remember the exact spot where the sidewalk was coming apart, where the chunks of cement were completely loose. I kept the flashlight beam aimed at the ground in front of me, but I had to know just a few seconds
before
we reached the spot, so I would know exactly when to fall.

About six feet in front of the door to the studio, I saw it. I stumbled again, this time going down on my hands and knees, the flashlight bobbing, falling away from me. Liza reached out, probably instinctively, to try to catch me. I gripped the loose chunk of cement. I sensed her leaning over me and felt the roughness of the stone against my fingers.

The reality of it sunk in at that moment. Could I actually
hit
her with it? Maybe kill her?

If you don’t, she’s going to kill you.

With that sobering thought,
I clutched the weapon in my hands and twisted sideways, bringing it up and slamming it into her forehead.

Her eyes rounded, and her pupils rolled back to where only the whites were showing. Her hand reflexively squeezed the trigger.

I’d never heard gunfire, other than on television, but I would’ve expected it to make a huge noise like a cannon going off. Instead, there was a snapping sound, sort of like the noise those little popper things made, the ones kids played with that exploded when thrown on the ground.

I thought I’d been hit, but felt nothing. Didn’t they say when you were shot, at first you felt numb? Then the pain started? But there was no pain. No blood. No bullet holes.

Once the shots stopped, the hiss of rain was the only sound. Otherwise, the world had gone eerily silent. Faintly, I heard the hum of an engine and the slamming of car doors.

I trembled from a combination of fear and relief, still clutching the concrete. Rain sluiced over me, through me, running in my eyes and under the collar of my shirt.

Then Hutch was there, pointing his gun at Liza where she lay in a heap on the sidewalk. But, she wasn’t moving. Deanna followed behind him and rushed over to Liza, dropping to the ground beside her.

I let go of the stone. Strong arms lifted me, and I was wrapped in Hutch’s warmth as he enfolded me in his embrace. Burying my face into his chest, I let the tears fall, mixing with the rain and the smell of him, the feel of him.

“Are you okay?”

I felt the words rumble from his chest, reassuring and real. I nodded, wanting to say so much. Wanting to tell him that, yes, I was okay, and I would always be okay, as long as I could stay right here, forever. And that I loved him.

But all I said, so quietly I was unsure he heard me, was, “She’s my sister.”

****

Shortly after Hutch and Deanna’s arrival, two ambulances came. Liza was alive and Deanna went with her to the hospital after apologizing to me half a dozen times for the way she’d treated me, for what Liza had put me through. She hadn’t known Liza was my sister, but she’d seen signs of instability and felt she should have said something sooner. I assured her I didn’t hold it against her.

The paramedics checked me over, but I convinced them I was fine, and they didn’t insist I go to the hospital.

After they and the police, other than Hutch, had gone, I took a warm, soothing shower and put on black, cotton athletic pants and a white sweatshirt.

Hutch was in my kitchen waiting for me. He’d made a pot of coffee and rummaged around until he found a bottle of rum I didn’t remember having. He poured a healthy shot into my steaming mug before handing it to me.

I took a sip and grimaced. It tasted awful, but it
felt
wonderful. It traveled through me, where I still felt cold on the inside, and left a trail of heat and tranquility.

“Are you okay?” he asked gently, tentatively.

I nodded. “Can you believe it was Liza? I can’t imagine how it must have been for her to hold in those feelings all these years.” The knowledge that she had felt her mental illness coming on for a long time made me think maybe I was okay. Maybe I would know if I had inherited the psychosis.

“She was obviously disturbed,” Hutch said. “I wonder if she was telling the truth. About your father.”