Thyme to Live: A We Sisters Three Mystery (6 page)

I scraped at the stain with my fingernail and freed a chunk of the dried material. I took a cautious lick. Totally ketchup. I nearly gagged. I
loathe
condiments—all condiments, but ketchup and mustard in particular. Rosemary said it was because I was un-American. My culinary musings were interrupted by the front door opening.

I headed for the bedroom door with the comforter in hand to explain my discovery to Victor. Then I heard a male voice rumble low in Spanish. I froze. That definitely wasn’t Victor’s voice.

A second voice answered, also in Spanish, also not Victor. I began to shake and quiver and whirled my head around frantically, scanning the room in a panic as I considered my options. I could go back out through the window, but I was certain these men, whoever they were, would hear me pushing it open. My heart was thudding so loudly, I almost couldn’t think. I gripped the fabric in my hand and got an idea.

I pulled the bedroom door closed silently then backed into Helena’s closet and hooked my fingers through the slatted wood to pull the doors closed. Then I pulled the comforter over my head like a tent. The closet was dark, cramped, and hot. Under the comforter, I felt claustrophobic and cornered. And my heart was way too noisy. I scooted myself into the corner and hugged my arms around my knees, my eyes wide open in thick blackness, listening as hard as I could.

Heavy footsteps fell in the hallway. They stopped outside the bathroom. I heard voices echoing off the white tiles. The
skritch
as the hamper was pulled across the floor. Raised voices, alarmed I could tell even in a language I didn’t understand.
They’d found the towel.
I shrank further back, pressing myself against the wall as if I might flatten myself into its surface if I just tried hard enough.

The footsteps resumed, the voices drew closer. I whimpered involuntarily and slammed my hand across my mouth. I squeezed my eyes shut and felt hot tears stream down my cheeks.
This was it. I was going to die in another woman’s closet.

A
s I cowered
in the closet, waiting for something terrible to happen, I thought about my sisters.

Rosemary had taken down an armed murderer singlehandedly. Sage had crashed a golf cart through a plate glass window to save her boyfriend from yet
another
murderer. And here I was hiding under a comforter and trying not to whimper.

That’s it.
I was not going to spend what might be the last minutes of my life comparing myself to my sisters and coming up lacking. If I was going to die, I was going to die fighting.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have a golf cart or even a rubber mallet, since I’d left that in the kitchen. I squinted around the closet in the darkness and tried to think of a plan. It occurred to me that if the intruders did open the closet they certainly wouldn’t be looking up. While I may not have had a weapon, I was freakishly limber thanks to years of yoga and Pilates.

I tossed aside the comforter, stretched on my toes, and brushed the bottom of Helena’s closet shelf with my fingertips. I looped my fingers around the wooden lip that edged the shelf and pulled myself up, flipping my legs over my head. My feet connected with the shelf and I swung myself up as if I were a trapeze artist. Then I crouched in a pile of scarves and hoped the shelf would hold my weight.

Then I waited. Like a cat on the savanna waiting for a gazelle to wander by, I waited, still and silent, poised to spring. The voices were getting louder, and I knew it was just a matter of moments before the men were in the bedroom. I focused on breathing evenly and slowly.

Cacophony erupted. Shouts, thuds, and banging sounded from just outside the bedroom door. My heart ticked up a notch and my legs began to quake. The noise grew louder, a door slammed, and the walls shook from the force. And then, just like that, the apartment was still and silent.

It could be a trap,
I cautioned myself. I stayed hunched on the shelf, still shaking but refusing to be lured out of my hiding place and into a possible ambush. I told myself to count to one hundred. I got as far as thirty-seven when I heard the bedroom door creak open.

“Thyme?” a male voice called in a hoarse whisper.

How did they know my name?

I tensed and reminded myself to go down swinging, no matter what. I watched as the closet doors parted and opened. I lunged down from my perch and launched myself at the shape in the doorway. I hit him solidly, high on his neck, and he twisted. I clung to him and grabbed two fists full of his hair. He thrashed wildly. He stumbled into Helena’s bed and let out a curse. I dropped to the floor in a crouch and planted myself on my left foot. I kicked out with my right and connected hard with his knee.

He bleated. “Thyme! Stop!” He crumpled into a heap on the bed.

Finally, my brain took over and I recognized Victor’s voice. All the adrenaline that had flooded my body dissipated. I went limp with relief.

“Oh my gosh, are you okay?” I leaned over and inspected him with some concern.

He was rolling from side to side, with his right knee drawn up to his chest as if he were doing the
apanasana
pose. He groaned and pushed himself up to a seated position.

“What the hell?”

“I’m so sorry. There were two guys in here. I thought you were them.”

He gave a half-laugh. “I know. I ran into them in the hallway near the bathroom. I didn’t bother to ask who they were. I just drove my shoulder into the closer of the two and rammed him into the wall. His buddy pulled him up and they took off. But now I’m kind of wishing I’d let you handle them. I might have a permanent limp now.”

I smiled sheepishly. “But how’d they get into the building?”

“You probably buzzed them in. Or they came in with someone else. I got to the door at that same time as someone with an armload of groceries. I held the door and followed her right in. I’d have been here sooner, but I helped her carry her bags to her apartment first.”

Ever the gentleman.

“Did you get a good look at them?”

“The groceries? Some cat food. Lots of yogurt.”

I sighed. “No. The guys.”

“Two street punks. They were probably just trying doorknobs looking for an easy score.”

“I don’t think so. They were speaking Spanish. They looked in her hamper.”

“Lots of folks speak Spanish.”

I shot him a look. “Come on. Do lots of these Spanish speakers break into the apartments of missing women who have violent exes in South America and search their dirty laundry?”

He blanched then shook his head. “You think Gabriel sent them?”

“It stands to reason, doesn’t it?”

“Not really. We speak Portuguese in Brazil.”

“Really?” I felt like a dope.

“Yeah.”

“Wait—why?”

“Because Pope Alexander the VI gave Brazil to the Portuguese. Now, enough with the history lesson. Are you sure it was Spanish you heard?”

“No,” I admitted.

He dropped his head and cradled it in his hands while he digested the news. “Not that it’s determinative. Most Brazilians know Spanish, as well. This is no good—if those guys are working for Gabriel ...”

I watched him for a minute, unsure of how to comfort him. Then I remembered the comforter. “It might actually be real good. I have to show you something.” I reached into the closet and dragged the out the bedding.

He spread his fingers and looked through them. “That’s not new. That’s Helena’s bloody comforter.”

“It’s not blood.”

He raised his head and gave me a look that was a mixture of hope and disbelief. “What do you mean, it’s not blood?”

“It’s stage blood. This is chocolate mixed with ketchup, Victor. Helena faked her death or injury or whatever.”

“Thyme—”

“I’m telling you. Come with me.” I took off for the kitchen without waiting to see if he’d follow. He did.

I looked around the galley. “Where’s she keep her trash?”

“There.” He pointed to the cabinet under the sink.

I yanked it open. A small, white, plastic trashcan was wedged under the pipes. I rocked it free and rifled through its contents. I placed the empty ketchup bottle and can of cocoa powder on the counter with a triumphant flourish.

“So?” he asked in a defeated voice. “This means nothing.”

“Maybe nothing. You heard Lynn. Then suddenly, out of the blue, your sister needed to buy a blender. Do you think she had a daiquiri emergency? No, she needed it for this. And the new sheet set? I’m guessing she wanted to pick up a second set, so she wouldn’t ruin her only ones.” It’s what I’d have done, at least.

“And she got a travel toothbrush.” He stroked his chin as he considered it. Then he shook his head. “Lynn said she bought that stuff
before
she got the call that spooked her. Why would she be planning to fake her death before Gabriel called her?”

“You’re assuming that call was from Gabriel. I don’t know what went on to make her decide to mix up a batch of blender blood. But once we find her phone, maybe we’ll be able to piece it together.”

I returned the trash to the waste basket and washed my hands while Victor started to look for Helena’s cell phone.

After watching him search through her couch cushions and paw through several drawers, I finally said, “Why don’t you call it?”

“Call it. Right.” He shook his head at himself and took out his phone.

“What kind of reporter are you, anyway? Please say not an investigative reporter,” I cracked.

“I cover the financial markets,” he mumbled as he pulled up Helena’s contact information in his phone.

Bo-ring
, I thought. Financial markets news sounded like something that would interest Sage and old, rich guys and no one else.

The chirping sound of a cell phone ringing interrupted my musing. The tinny ringtone was muffled and distant. We followed the sound back to Helena’s bedroom, stopping so he could redial after her voicemail picked up. When the ringing resumed, it grew louder at first. But when we entered the bedroom, it faded again.

“Bathroom,” I said.

We U-turned out of the room and headed toward the bathroom. It was definitely in here. The sound echoed off the tile walls. I pulled open the shallow, wall-mounted medicine cabinet over the sink. The contents were spare and organized, not the jumbled mess I’d expected.
Project much, Thyme?

A pink iPhone sat on the bottom shelf, mostly concealed by a brighter pink tampon box.

“Found it.” I removed it from its hiding spot and passed it to Victor. “I assume your sister doesn’t typically store her phone with her feminine hygiene products?”

He shook his head, staring down at the phone in his palm. “She usually charges it beside her bed. Why would she hide it in here?”

“More support for my theory. She’s on the run, Victor. She wanted to leave you a clue but she didn’t want to just leave it in plain sight—in case Gabriel got here first.”

He looked unconvinced. “Maybe.” He started messing with the phone.

I figured he was trying to pull up her call log. But the fine hairs on my arms suddenly stood straight up and a chill ran through me.

“Come on, we can do that someplace else. Let’s get out of here.” My voice cracked with urgency and fear.

“What’s wrong?”

“If Gabriel hasn’t been here yet, he could be on his way. He could be in the stairwell right now. Or outside in the hall. Did you lock the door?” As if it mattered—a flimsy apartment door lock wasn’t going to keep out a deranged police officer. I tugged on Victor’s arm, almost frantic now. “Let’s go.”

He slipped the phone into his pocket. “You have a point.”

But when we reached the hallway and I headed toward the kitchen, he pulled me back to the bedroom.

“What are you doing?”

“Let’s go out the way you came in. Just in case you’re right.”

We hurried through Helena’s bedroom. A flash of green and purple caught my eye. “Wait.” I ran over and shoved the comforter back into the closet. As I did so, the hint of a thought danced through my brain. A wisp of smoke that said something was wrong or out of place. But then it vanished.

I frowned and filed the emotion away to think about later then joined Victor, who was waiting for me at the window. “Ladies first.”

I threw one leg over the windowsill and straddled it for a moment to get my footing, then I slipped out onto the metal fire escape and clambered down the ladder as fast as I could. I didn’t stop until I was crouched on the ground below.

W
e sprinted
through the alley to the waiting town car. I was half-convinced I could hear feet pounding after us. I had to force myself not to turn around and look behind me. Maybe the two guys who’d been in the apartment had hung around to catch us on our way out. Maybe Gabriel himself was running us down, a gun in hand, ready to take aim.

I lowered my head and poured on the speed, running flat out until I reached the shiny black car. Victor came up right on my heels, breathing hard. He popped the locks while he was still running and we threw open the doors and flung ourselves inside the car.

I leaned back against the seat and tried to catch my breath while he turned the key in the ignition. He peeled out of the alleyway, palming the steering wheel one-handed while he jammed his seatbelt clip into the buckle. I fastened my own seatbelt then eyeballed the speedometer and sent up a silent prayer to the universe.

“You make a pretty solid getaway driver for a financial reporter. And don’t tell me it comes from your taxi driver days. Unless you did some off the books driving.”

That earned me a chuckle. “Yeah, the commission didn’t take too kindly to speeding. But this is how everyone drives in Rio. Fast.”

I silently added Rio de Janeiro to my list of countries not to drive in. It’s a long list.

“So what now?”

“We need to go someplace where we can review Helena’s phone log safely.” He glanced at me and put special emphasis on the word ‘safely.’

“Are you saying we’re in danger?”

“I’m saying I don’t know. If those guys in the apartment are working for Gabriel, I’m sure they reported running into me. If they gave a halfway-decent description of me, he’ll realize who I am. And, from there, it’ll be easy enough for him to get a tail on me. Did they see you?”

“The guys?”

I shook my head. “No. I buzzed you—well, them—in and then went back to the bedroom to check out the comforter. When I heard them, I hid. So they know
someone
buzzed them in, but they don’t even know that it came from Helena’s apartment. I mean, right?” I thought what I was saying was the actual situation, but I also desperately needed to believe it. Even if it wasn’t true. The near-miss in the apartment had rattled me.

“I think that’s right. And they wouldn’t have any reason to connect you to Helena or me just because you both worked for Cate Whittier-Clay.”

I noted his use of the past tense but didn’t mention it. He couldn’t really believe his sister was dead—if he did, we’d be talking to the cops, not running around like idiots. “So, my place should be safe.”

“Should be. For now, at least. But I don’t want to risk taking you back there. If Gabriel is looking for me, I sure don’t want to be the one to lead him to you.”

“So, where can we go?” I really wanted to get off the street. I’d feel much safer inside some anonymous building. “Your office?”

He shook his head no. “I know a place.”