The Ghost Who Wanted Revenge (Haunting Danielle Book 4)

C
lasping
his right hand over the bullet hole in his gut, Stoddard Gusarov couldn’t stop the blood. It oozed out, slipping between his fingers, soaking the white living room carpet in a warm puddle of red.

It hadn’t hurt when she first shot him. If asked, he would explain he was stunned, surprised to find her in his house, aiming a .38 in his direction. The first shot sounded like a car backfiring, and for an instant he thought the blast had come from outside. But then he looked down and saw the blood spilling from his belly.

He felt the second shot. That one hit his right knee and sent him tumbling to the floor. Helpless, he looked up. Unable to suppress his plea he moaned, “Help me…”

She stood over him. “There’s no way I’m going to let your high priced attorney get you off. You’re going to pay for what you did to my friend.” Her pistol-wielding hand trembled.

“Please…help me…” Overwhelmed with pain, he felt the room spin. His vision blurry, he watched as her gloved hand slipped the pistol into the red purse hanging from her shoulder. When he and Darlene had seen her getting into her new car at the grocery store parking lot, Danielle had been carrying that same handbag. At the time, his wife had suggested to Stoddard that Danielle had probably bought the ugly red purse to match her car.

“I understand this is a slow and painful way to die.” She tucked her braid up into the baseball cap atop her head.

“I never hurt your friend…” he managed to say.

“You didn’t? You kidnapped her. Tattooed her arm, tried to frame me for your niece’s murder, when you knew I had nothing to do with her death. Don’t play innocent. You were going to kill Lily when she regained consciousness. Don’t lie to me.”

“Please…” Reaching out to her with one hand, he looked up pleadingly into her dark eyes. “You can’t just leave me to die.”

She patted her purse and said, “I could just finish you off. But what fun would that be?”

Stoddard watched as she walked across the room and picked his cellphone up from the coffee table. Going to the far side of the room, she set the cellphone atop the fireplace mantle. Even if he managed to crawl to that end of the room, there was no way he could stand up and retrieve his phone to call for help.

“Do you have a landline?” she asked, glancing around the room. He did, but there wasn’t a telephone in the living room.

“No,” he lied. There was no way he could reach the cellphone, but if he could manage to crawl to the other room, he might be able to get to the telephone there and call 911.

Now standing over him she said, “Don’t worry, you won’t be alone for long. Your wife will be joining you shortly.”

“No!” he groaned. Hit by a wave of nausea, he closed his eyes and pulled himself into a fetal position. Searing pain shot through his injured knee. Crying out in misery, he opened his eyes in time to see his attacker slip out the front door, closing it behind her. He was alone.

Licking his parched lips, his eyes watering, he looked around the room in a panic. He was going to die, alone and bloodied on his living room floor. But he couldn’t die now; he had to protect Darlene. She was carrying his child. He’d waited so long to have a son—it had to be a son.

Taking a deep breath, he fought against the pain and stubbornly forced his body to crawl—inch by excruciating inch—from the living room toward the hallway leading to the study and the closest telephone.

Random images flashed through his head in rapid succession. There was his niece dead on her sofa. Calling Christiansen in a panic over Isabella’s untimely death. Isabella being carried from her home in the middle of the night to be taken to the cemetery and hidden in the Marlow Crypt. Lily Miller, comatose in the upstairs bedroom as the tattoo artist worked on her arm. Darlene, telling him of the baby—the baby he had long been waiting for. He had to protect Darlene. He had to protect his child. If he’d only known Isabella had changed her will, none of this would be happening now.

Pain ripped through his right leg. Gasping for air, he grabbed his thigh and squeezed tightly. The fabric was wet. Looking down, he expected to find his pant leg covered in blood, yet there was no blood on his thigh. His crotch was soaked, as was the portion of pant leg above the knee. He’d wet himself.

Refusing to die in such a humiliating fashion and determined to save his wife, Stoddard dragged himself over the carpet, leaving behind a trail of blood. He made it to the entry hall when he heard what sounded like a disposal truck, compacting garbage. It was trash day. If he could only make it to the door, maybe he could open it and get help from the garbage collector. Reaching for the door, he lost consciousness.

D
arlene Gusarov
once dreamed of becoming an actress. In high school, she was a member of the drama club, regularly landing the starring role in school performances. During her senior year in high school, someone told her that if she bleached and cut her hair, she could pass as Marilyn Monroe. Like Marilyn, she had blue eyes and was of a similar height and body type.

Darlene promptly made an appointment with the local beauty shop and transformed herself from a slightly overweight brunette into a curvy blonde, partial to snug fitting clothing and spiky high-heeled shoes. The new look garnered her more attention from the boys and her drama coach. After high school, she landed roles in community theatre, yet found it impossible to secure a paying acting job.

Darlene met Stoddard Gusarov on her twenty-first birthday. She was visiting a friend in Portland, who had taken her to a local strip club to celebrate. At the time, Darlene was shocked to discover how many strip clubs were in the Portland area and almost refused to go when her friend made the suggestion. But after a couple shots of tequila at another bar, it started to seem like a good idea.

Stoddard had come to the club looking for a diversion from his failing marriage. He was much older than the men Darlene typically dated, but he obviously had money, and she was tired of waitressing while waiting for her elusive acting break. The fact that he was already married was a minor obstacle. She didn’t intend to remain his mistress indefinitely. Within a year, she became the third Mrs. Gusarov.

Everything seemed to be working out for Darlene. But then, Isabella unexpectedly died, setting into motion a series of events jeopardizing her comfortable lifestyle.

Darlene sat in the passenger seat of the police car, looking out the window as Brian Henderson drove toward the Gusarov Estate. Nervously twisting a lock of blonde hair between her fingertips, she glanced over to Brian.

“I really appreciate this. Especially considering everything,” she said.

“No problem.” Brian shrugged.

“I tried calling Todd, but he wasn’t answering his phone,” she explained.

“Yes, you mentioned that.”

“It will just take a minute to grab my extra set of keys.”

“I said no problem.” Brian glanced over at Darlene and smiled.

“It’s been a nightmare. I can’t believe Todd would do something like this.” Darlene moved restlessly in the seat. “I still don’t believe he did.”

“And you had no idea it wasn’t Isabella?” Brian asked.

“I really didn’t know her that well. She rarely came around. It’s not like we had any kind of a relationship. After all, even Sargent Morelli thought it was Isabella, and he’s known her for longer than I have.”

“Stoddard was emphatic that you weren’t involved,” Brian said.

“You don’t sound like you believe that.”

“I suppose it only matters what the DA thinks.”

“I care about what people in Frederickport think. I have to live here.”

“So you’ll be staying?”

“Of course. It’s my home. And we don’t know if Todd will have to serve any time.”

Brian glanced over to Darlene and frowned, withholding comment. He pulled up in front of the Gusarov Estate and parked.

Darlene unbuckled her seatbelt. “It will just take a minute.”

“How are you planning to get inside without a key?”

“Todd’s here; he’ll let me in.”

Unless he’s skipped town
, Brian thought as he watched Darlene run up the walk to her front door.

Sitting in the police car, Brian’s mind wandered as he absently watched Darlene. She stood on the front porch, ringing the doorbell. When no one answered, she pounded on the door. After a moment, she tried the doorknob. It wasn’t locked. She went inside.

Her scream jolted him back to reality. Hastily unhooking his seat belt, Brian bolted from the car and ran up the walkway toward the house. When he reached the front porch, he found the door wide open, with Darlene inside, cradling her husband’s bloody body.

Holding Stoddard’s head in her lap, she rocked back and forth, sobbing, “You can’t leave me, Todd. I need you.”

Kneeling down, Brian checked Stoddard’s vitals. The injured man was still alive—but barely. Brian immediately called for medical assistance and back up while dashing to the nearby powder room to find a clean washcloth or hand towel. He returned with a washcloth and quickly pressed it against the belly wound.

“Wake up!” Darlene’s arms tightening around her husband. A moment later Stoddard opened his eyes and looked up into Darlene’s face.

“You’re alive!” Darlene sobbed. “I love you so much! Who did this to you?”

“The ambulance is on the way,” Brian said while holding the cloth against the wound, applying pressure. “Is anyone else in the house?”

Stoddard shook his head no and tried to speak. With effort, he managed to form words. “She’s going to hurt Darlene. Keep her safe,” he whispered.

“Who did this to you?” Darlene asked with a sob. “Who shot you?”

Weary, Stoddard turned his face toward Brian. “Please keep her safe. She wants to destroy me.”

“Who did this to you, Stoddard?” Brian asked. “If you know who it was, tell us so we can help you—so we can keep Darlene safe.”

Stoddard nodded his head and whispered, “Danielle Boatman.”

“Danielle Boatman?” Brian repeated, surprised to hear the name. “Are you saying it was Danielle Boatman who shot you?”

“Yes,” Stoddard forced the words. “She wants to destroy me. My family. She told me she was going after Darlene next.”

“Why would Danielle Boatman do this?” Brian didn’t mean to ask the question, the words just popped out.

“She’s afraid my lawyer will get me off. She wants me punished for what we did to Lily.”

“Are you sure it was Danielle Boatman? Did you see her?” Brian asked. “Did she say anything?”

“Isn’t that what he just said?” Darlene shrieked.

“It was her,” Stoddard said. “I saw her. Heard her. She told me why she was doing this. You have to stop her.”

A moment later, the paramedics and back up arrived. After gently prying Darlene from her husband, one of the officers led her outside while the medical team worked on Stoddard. But it was too late. Stoddard Gusarov, heir to the Gusarov fortune, died just moments after they placed him on the gurney.

While the team roped off the crime scene, Brian Henderson called in an arrest warrant for Danielle Boatman—wealthy heiress and the owner of Marlow House. Brian wondered how Danielle would try to explain her way out of this one.