Weddings Can Be Murder (20 page)

So what, she thought. Everyone knew those
things happened. It didn’t mean Al had anything to do with it.
Reddick was probably just trying to scare her. He could have tossed
out any name he knew had been in the news.

Out of curiosity, she paged to the end and
found the obituary for Delvecchio. His surviving widow and children
would be cared for by a cash contribution from the man’s employer,
Pro-Builder Construction. Juliette felt the blood drain from her
face.

Two days after that particular account, the
newspaper posted a similar death notice for Sal Oberman, also an
employee of Pro-Builder.

She knew she could never return if she did
anything to antagonize Al. And then she knew—she’d already done it.
By calling his home. He had once bragged that he had ways of
tracing every call that came to the mansion. Surely, he would have
the same at his other home and he would know the call came from her
condo. He’d read her mind on so many occasions and she, stupid
young girl, thought it meant they were soul mates. He would know
exactly what she’d had in mind. How foolish could she be?

Gotta get out—now!

She stumbled over the chair legs in the
newspaper archive room, staggered her way out the door and to her
car, feeling as if there were eyes in the sky that could spot her.
She stuck to the main streets, looking for answers. At the first
used-car lot she spotted she pulled in, made a quick deal for the
Camaro and took the cash. A two-block bus ride later, she bought a
used Jeep Wagoneer and for the registration gave the first name
that came to mind, her grandmother’s maiden name.

Dusk was coming on as she drove the strange
vehicle away from the lot. Now what?

More than anything she was afraid to go back
to the condo. Even if he suspected nothing, he might simply decide
to drop by her place tonight anyway, out of habit. One look at her
face and he would know.

She would head for Texas. He knew she came
from there, but as long as she didn’t immediately go to her
hometown maybe he would never track her down. The whole incident
would eventually blow over.

But she couldn’t get to Texas without money
and she only had the clothes on her back and less than a hundred
dollars in cash. She could use her credit card. But what if Al’s
reach included people within law enforcement? Reddick had hinted as
much. They could probably trace her movements through credit card
purchases. She had some cash at the condo, plus her checkbook. She
could clean out the account first thing in the morning. And, she
would take the bits of evidence she’d collected as insurance.

The few items were in what looked like a
high school girl’s love-letter box with its flower-power green
paper. She’d stashed it at the bottom of her clothes hamper but a
real search of the condo would reveal it quickly. Every instinct
made her want to race home to pack, but she forced herself to slow
down and think clearly. Her life depended on it.

Chapter 18

Cold. Everything felt
so
cold. And
dark, a blackness deep as a well.

Bright lights flashed across the far wall of
her enclosure rousing Victoria from her fog of pain. She squinted,
moaned at the intrusion. Her breath came shallow and hot. The
burning pain in her shoulder ebbed a little. She tried to sit up
but the fiery sensation blasted back at her, flattening her to the
floor once again, and with it the fuzziness in her mind.

She lay there for a time—no idea how long.
When her eyes opened the quality of light had turned from pure
black to deep gray, a charcoal world. The cement beneath her felt
like a slab of ice. Her extremities were numb. Her body shook with
the intensity of the cold, except for the burn in her core, the
fire coming from her shoulder. Something told her she was in shock
but she hadn’t the clarity of thought to decide what that meant or
figure out what she could do about it. She drifted away once
again.

Somewhat more lucidity when she woke. The
charcoal air had brightened to deep gray. A cloth of some sort
covered her body. It smelled acrid, of something like turpentine.
Its texture was coarse—not clothing, not a blanket or drape. Her
fingers touched the edge of it, opening and closing, pinching it.
The fingers touched a softer fabric. Her bathrobe. She recognized
this item. She ran her hand up the sleeve, reveling in the soft
plush until she touched the source of fire at her shoulder. The
stabbing pain blinded her and she lost consciousness again.

Images and dreams plagued her. Ron, kissing
her goodnight at her own door. A white dress, a pile of items
neatly organized, something blue, something old ... she tried to
take a deep breath but it hurt so much. More blackness.

A sound at the back door, she in her robe
turning to check it. Two men pushing their way into her home. Shock
and fear. Backing away from them.

“Hi baby, it’s me, your dad,” said the one
with silver hair.

“No … no!” She cried out in her sleep and
moved, sending a fresh bolt of fire through her body. She had no
father. He’d died in Vietnam.

Darkness faded back into the dream.

“I won’t hurt you sweetheart,” the man said.
“I only want what your mother left for me.”

The other man said nothing, merely walked
around her living room poking at things on the shelves, lifting a
cushion on the sofa.

“Get out of here!” she shouted at them. “Get
out!” Her voice would not cooperate. The firm words came out only
as high moans.

“Just give me the papers,” said the man with
the gentle voice. “Then we’ll go away.”

The other man now held a gun. The barrel
seemed huge, aimed at her. Her heart pounded and she felt a real
tear run down her face.

“No …” she cried.

She tried to run but her legs were useless,
barely moving, tangling in her bathrobe. She startled into a
half-wakeful state, realized it had been a memory, felt exhausted
by the struggle. Once again, unconsciousness.

When she woke, the place lay in
semi-darkness. Something told her it was daytime. Would the men
come back? She pushed herself upright, sitting with her back
against a concrete wall. The pain had receded somewhat, although
she knew it could return any time with a vengeance. The space was
an almost-bare square room, maybe twenty feet on a side. High,
narrow windows covered in grime let in the little light by which
she surveyed her surroundings. Across the space from her, a short
flight of steps made a turn and climbed out of sight. In the corner
near them she could make out a pile of items—two sawhorses, some
cans, tarps. Her head pounded with the effort of trying to figure
them out, and when she closed her eyes she had the coherent thought
that it didn’t matter. She didn’t know this place. However she got
here, either she or someone else had placed one of the tarps over
her for the small bit of warmth it might offer.

She looked down. She was in her plush
bathrobe, the one that used to be pale pink. Stains marked it now,
especially on the left sleeve. Her shoulder throbbed so painfully
it set her teeth on edge. She hugged the arm to her body and tried
to get her feet under her. The movement, slight as it was, sent
fresh pain ripping through her and she sank back to the floor.
Sparkles floated before her eyes and she closed them again.

The faces reappeared. The silver-haired man
wheedling, asking for something from her mother, his ice-blue eyes
unrelenting. His request puzzled her, but the other man’s
intentions were clear. Images of Ron, the boys, Charlie and
Drake—this ruthless one would harm them all. She backed into the
dining room, hoping to reach her phone and call for help. A firm
grip on her wrist, pulling, dragging her to the sofa. The older man
looking through her possessions, coming to the photo of her mother
on the shelf, picking it up, smiling in a way that frightened
her.

She told him to put it down, to leave her
things alone. The scene shifted and she saw a box, cardboard,
covered in brightly patterned paper—a gift? Then the memories
again. The heavy man twisted her wrist, pulled her arm behind her
back and she kicked out at him, grazing his shin. At once, the gun
waved directly in front of her face. The percussion threw her to
the floor. Her left side went numb, her ears rang.

The men were shouting at each other but she
could not pick out their words. She got to her feet, hugged herself
to stop the pain that roared through her shoulder and arm. Then she
ran, knowing at any second they would surely catch up with her and
finish her off.

When Victoria next looked around, the
concrete room was in total blackness. The scenes from her delirious
dreams felt disjointed, out of sequence somehow. Her head felt a
little clearer; she wanted to search the room, look for something
to take for the pain, but the darkness was too intense, the effort
to stand too daunting. She gathered her few covers and fell into a
deep sleep, this time without dreams.

Chapter 19

The days without answers were taking a toll
on Ron—I could see it on his unshaven face and in his eyes, where
new wrinkles appeared each time I looked at him. I’d awakened early
Tuesday morning (noticing my own baggy eyes in the mirror), tended
to the dog’s routine and my own, talked briefly on the phone with
Drake before he headed out for his second full day of flights for
the Fish and Game Department.

Ron showed up in the kitchen in his
bathrobe, reaching blindly for a cup of coffee. I toasted him two
slices of bread, even though he swore he wasn’t hungry. He showed
no inclination to get dressed and it felt as if the day stretched
out ahead of us with little hope. The one item I might follow up
from yesterday’s interviews was Ida Van Horn’s mention of Victoria
writing down the name of the man who’d called her. If the scrap of
paper was still in her purse, the police had it.

At the very least I could ask Kent Taylor if
they’d had a chance to check it out and I could tell him why it was
important. I mother-henned Ron into eating his toast and
practically shoved him toward the shower. Nothing would be gained
by moping around the house all day.

While my brother was out of the room I
phoned the police department and got Taylor on the line. I laid out
my findings as succinctly as possible but he’d obviously been on
some other mind-track and it took him a minute to respond. I could
hear crackling sounds in the background and finally figured out he
was handling plastic or cellophane.

“I don’t see any little scraps of paper here
among the contents from her purse,” he said after a couple minutes
of this rummaging.

“Maybe the witness was mistaken and it
wasn’t a scrap.” I mentally grabbed for ideas. “Maybe she jotted it
in a checkbook or on a matchbook.” Of course, who carried either of
those items these days? “Maybe on something—”

“Charlie—whoa. I think all that’s been
covered, but I’ll go through everything again.”

“Oh, wait! Her cell phone. You have it,
right? The call came in Wednesday morning, according to Mrs. Van
Horn.”

He gave a patient sigh. “Charlie, we know
how to check this stuff.”

“I know, Kent. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to
sound—”

“Worried? I know that’s what it is, hon.
It’s just that right at this moment there’s nothing else I can tell
you.”

Hon. It was the first time the crusty old
detective had used any sort of endearment. Usually, he treated me
like the pain in the ass that I am. I felt a catch in my throat as
he went on to say the call I was asking about had come from a
disposable cell that no one was answering. They were not giving up
but there wasn’t much to go on.

“How’s Ron doing?” he asked.

“Not great. He’s holding his emotions in
check but this is ripping him up, especially the media’s tone.”

“I’ll talk to them again,” Taylor promised.
“One thing we’re doing is having the DNA tested from the bloodstain
on the rug.”

“Oh god, I hadn’t thought about that.”

“We need to know if it’s Victoria’s or if it
came from her assailant.”

“How will that help?”

“We might identify the intruder, if it’s
his. Otherwise, you never know—any little clue can help.”

I thanked him, even though it felt as if in
some ways the investigation had stalled. On the other hand I was
amazed he’d shared as much as he had, and he’d offered to try to
get the press off our backs. In the living room, I spied through
the crack between the drapes, only to find the reporters were still
out in force. What we needed was a super-frigid, sub-zero night to
run them back to their hidey holes. Unfortunately, the forecast was
for clear skies with temperatures in the fifties. A person could
practically sunbathe out there.

I heard Ron’s electric razor buzzing away in
the bathroom so I shouted through the door that I was walking over
to check on Elsa. I’d begun to worry how she might be coping with
the onslaught across the way.

Freckles followed me, knowing a treat is
always at hand from Grandma. I tapped at her kitchen door.

“Pretty exciting, isn’t it?” Elsa said,
handing the dog her requisite cookie. “I mean, not that I’m wanting
them to pester you guys … but did you see the crew from CNN? I know
that anchor lady. I watch her all the time.”

Her fluffy white head bobbed as she talked,
the blue eyes definitely sparkling.

“Gram! You haven’t talked to them, have
you?”

“Well, no.”

“Well, don’t! I’m serious. They’ll take any
little thing you say and twist it around. Next thing, it’ll be
‘sources near the family say …’. And you can bet it will be
something harmful to Ron.” I found that I’d paced the length of her
kitchen twice.

“Sweetie, I’d never do that.”

I stopped walking and took her veined hand.
“I know you wouldn’t. You’d never hurt any of us in a million
years, but you might say some little thing, something none of us
could guess.”