Almost Dead (12 page)

“But he seems happy,” Elyse had argued, and Marla had pinned her with those furious green eyes.

“Because he doesn’t know any better.”

“Then what does it hurt?”

“Are you going to do this, or do I have to?” Marla had snapped. “I will, you know. Without a second thought. He won’t feel much pain…. Just give him the shellfish: disguise it in a brownie.”

“Shellfish?”

“He’s violently allergic. He’ll go into anaphylactic shock, but the Valium should knock him out. Just cover the whole thing in lots of chocolate frosting. He’ll eat it, trust me.”

Elyse had been skeptical as she’d baked the batch, then tasted one. The shellfish taste was masked well enough. The brownies tasted “off,” but not necessarily bad, and when slathered in goopy chocolate frosting were pretty decent.

“Here ya go, Rory,” Elyse said, looking over her shoulder, hoping none of the aides accidentally wandered in. Rory had a remote-alert device, a call button he wore around his neck that, if pressed, would notify the staff that he needed help. She couldn’t take a chance that he would use it. “Here, let’s put that on the dresser. You wouldn’t want to mess it up with all that chocolate.”

He looked up at her with trusting eyes and bit into the brownie. Would it work? There should be enough crab oil and ground shrimp to start a seizure and cause his throat to swell.
If
he ingested it. But that didn’t seem to be a problem. He ate one brownie and was reaching for another when it hit. He started convulsing, and Elyse hurriedly took his call button and put it in the bathroom. Then she carefully wrapped up the rest of the brownies and returned them to her purse. Fear and adrenaline zinged through her bloodstream. Her mind spun crazily as she realized how close she was to being found out, to being caught in the act of murder, to losing everything she’d worked so hard to achieve.

Rory, gulping and gasping, eyes rolling upward, exposing only whites, slid to the floor, his seizure wild. Elyse pushed his wheelchair and rolling table away from him so that his flailing arms and legs wouldn’t strike the metal, banging and creating a racket louder than the strangled noises coming from his mouth. Again she adjusted the volume of the television upward. She stepped into the hall, closing the door behind her. Strolling slowly, she had to fight the urge to run like crazy. Instead she smiled casually at passing residents as she headed toward the double doors at reception. The corridor was so damn long! It seemed to have lengthened to the size of a football field while she was in Rory’s little studio.

She passed by other rooms where elderly wheelchair-bound residents sat like automatons in front of televisions. A nurse spied her and smiled, and Elyse, behind her thick glasses and tinted contact lenses, smiled back and nodded. The fat suit was uncomfortable, the makeup making her sweat even more than her own sense of panic. It was all she could do to keep from looking over her shoulder. Crossing her fingers, she hoped the stupid floor nurse wasn’t going to Rory’s room.

At the main desk, an aide was arguing with a woman in a wheelchair who was refusing to return to her room.

Elyse slipped by. The aide glanced up briefly, catching her eye before Elyse could toddle through the double doors to the vestibule. She punched in the code to open the exterior doors.

Nothing happened.

What?

She tried again, her heart racing, and this time, thankfully, a green light and buzzer told her she had fifteen seconds to shove open the door.

Now to make good her escape.

Pulse pounding in her eardrums, she headed for her car. Slowly. Painstakingly. As if fear weren’t propelling her to run.

Just outside the door Elyse clicked the remote to unlock the car, but she heard the sounds of panic forming inside the building.

Running feet. Shouts.

They’d discovered Rory.

Too soon!

This was way too soon!

Fingers shaking, she ran to the car, pulling her purse to her chest. In her haste, she dropped the key ring, and it fell between the front seats.

Oh God.

It was too tight to get her hand through the crack.

Damn!

The keys were there—she just couldn’t reach them.

She was trapped!

She couldn’t go back inside. She had to flee. Now. As soon as they revived Rory or called an ambulance…it would be over.
Think, Elyse, think.
Heart pounding frantically, insides quivering, she tried to edge her hand down through the tight crevice again and ended up scraping her knuckles and breaking a nail. Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed. Blood bloomed on the back of her fingers, and her skin burned from the scrape.

She leaned over, the fat suit rubbing against the steering wheel as she forced the passenger seat back and scrabbled for the damned keys. Still, she couldn’t reach them.

Shit!

Desperate, she looked around for something,
anything
, to retrieve the key ring and spied a hanger on which the dress that she’d picked up at the thrift store had hung. Sweating like a pig, she snagged the hanger, crammed it between the seats, and, breathing rapidly, flipped her wrist, shooting the keys onto the floor mat of the passenger seat.

Thank God!

Quick as lightning, she snatched the ring up, jammed the key into the ignition, turned the switch. The engine fired, and she wasted no time throwing the car into reverse and backing up, then shoving the Taurus into drive.

Calm down. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t burn rubber or drive too fast. Keep cool.

Fingers wet on the wheel, Elyse drove out through the main gates. She had to pull to one side as a screaming ambulance flew by. Oh God, they must’ve seen her. Someone would know. The nurse would put two and two together and call the police and…

Stop it! Just drive! Away. Out of the city. South toward San Mateo. Put some distance between you and the institution. Then, drive to a park-and-ride and trade out license plates. Find a Taurus with similar plates and make the switch. Then you can go home.

Calming a little, she glanced in her rearview. No one was following, no police cars with lights flashing, sirens
woo-woo-wooing
. No one passing even looked her way.

Slowly her heartbeat lessened its frantic tempo as she joined traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway.

She was safe.

If Rory wasn’t dead already, he was as good as.

Marla would be pleased.

Maybe.

“It’s Rory Amhurst,” Janet Quinn was saying from the other end of the connection, “Marla’s brother. DOA at Bayside.”

“What?” Paterno had been sitting in his recliner, beer in one hand, slab of takeout pizza in the other, when his cell had gone off. His eyes had been trained on his new flat-screen television, but his concentration on the basketball game stopped short with Quinn’s announcement. “You’re talking about the mentally disabled guy, right?”

“One and the same. Looks like someone left him with a lethal dose of chocolate. We won’t know for certain until all the lab tests come in, but the staff doesn’t know where the chocolate around his mouth came from. Probably a visitor, an older woman, one Mrs. Mary Smith. A nurse saw her in the hallway a few minutes before Rory was discovered.”

“Marla in disguise?”

“Highly possible. You wanna meet me at Bayside and we’ll go to the assisted-care center together? There’s already a unit there, and they’ve cordoned off Rory Amhurst’s room.”

“I’m on my way.” Paterno left his pizza, beer, and remote on the table, then found his service weapon, coat, and keys. His notepad and recorder were already in the pockets of his overcoat.

Would Marla kill a man who was mentally disabled?

She’d certainly been involved in killings before.

Corpse number two this week, compliments of Marla Amhurst Cahill.

He locked the door to his condo, the one-bedroom unit he’d bought after his wife died, then took the stairs two flights down to the garage. He didn’t much like the place, but he was rarely here, so he figured it didn’t matter much. His and his wife’s marriage had been rocky, her unhappiness stemming from the hours he’d spent at work, and they’d separated time and again, but, damn, he still missed her.

He shouldered open the door to the garage that was located underground. His Caddy was wedged into a tight spot between a Ford Focus and a Toyota, and he could barely get the door open, but he slid inside, turned on the ignition, and carefully backed out of his assigned spot. The Cadillac was just too big for newer parking spaces, but he couldn’t sell it, even though getting parts for it was growing tougher every year.

He drove slowly up a narrow ramp that wound up to the street. Waiting for the electronic garage door to open slowly, its warning system beeping loudly to make pedestrians aware that he was coming through, he thought about Marla. Obviously she was still in the area. Otherwise the body count of people she knew wouldn’t be going up.

And someone had to be helping her. Hiding her out. But who? He’d checked everyone she’d known on the outside and talked with her cell mates in that country club of a prison. No one purported to know anything. But someone did. Either someone was lying, or he’d missed a person close to her, close enough to harbor her and help her commit murder, someone with his or her own agenda. Someone who would benefit by Marla’s freedom and the resulting deaths.

Who?

The gate swung open, and Paterno eased the big car’s nose outside. Then, carefully, he rolled across the sidewalk, waited for the light a block down the street to change, and wended into the ever-heavy traffic of this section of the city.

It took him nearly half an hour to reach Bayside, and he had a helluva time finding a parking space, but eventually he was walking through the hallway and into the ER, where he caught up with Quinn and the emergency-room doctor, who explained about anaphylactic shock. Again he heard how it would take some time for the blood work to come back, and, as he looked down at the peaceful face of Rory Amhurst, the dead green eyes, still-thick brown hair, heavy beard shadow, and skull that wasn’t quite evenly shaped, Paterno felt rage. Deep-seated and hot. Marla was behind this, he knew it, and her brother would still be alive today if she hadn’t escaped. The system had failed Rory. Big time.

“Send everything you get on this guy to us,” he instructed the ER doc, who looked as if he wasn’t yet thirty. “Then we’ll want a full autopsy.”

“I already called the ME’s office,” Quinn said.

“Good. Let’s go to the care facility. I’ll drive.”

Fifteen minutes later they arrived at Harborside Assisted Living Center, which wasn’t near any harbor, but, Paterno supposed, you might get a glimpse of the bay from the roof, if you looked down a street, through a series of buildings. But then again, maybe not.

Rory Amhurst’s room was small, roped off by crime-scene tape, and Paterno had to weave through residents with wheelchairs, scooters, or walkers as he made his way down the hallway.

“This has never happened before, not at Harborside,” the director of the facility, Anne Baldwin, insisted as she walked with him. Paterno tried to ignore the smell of the institution—cleaning solvent, urine, and the remnants of some meat that had been served for dinner. Mixed in with the depressing odors was the feeling of overall malaise and sadness, despite the cheery, yellow-painted walls and the smiles of the staff.

Anne was thin and direct. Her blond hair was frizzy, her glasses as skinny as she was, and she wore a prim pink sweater and pressed black slacks. “I just can’t imagine who would want to hurt Rory. He was such a sweet man, a favorite with the caretakers and staff.”

Paterno held his tongue about Marla. “I heard he had a visitor last night.”

“Mary Smith, yes. She’s from a local church and visits fairly often.”

“When did the visits start?” he asked, since Marla had been on the loose less than a week.

“A month, maybe six weeks ago.”

That stopped him short, and he looked directly at her. “You’re sure?”

She nodded so fast, he thought her glasses might fall off. “It was in December, the holiday season…sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas.” Her forehead puckered above the bridge of her long, straight nose. “I remember she commented on the decorations the first time I met her. Said she liked our light display.”

So Mary Smith was
not
Marla Cahill, as Marla had still been locked up at that time. “Can you describe her for us?”

“Oh, yes. She was, oh, five six or seven, I think, heavy, in her late fifties, probably. She wore big glasses, the kind that turn dark with the sun.”

“Hair color?”

“Dishwater blond, going gray. Cut short.”

“Does the facility here have any cameras?”

She shook her head. “No. We don’t believe in invading the residents’ privacy.”

“But in the parking lot, right? Or the grounds?”

She was shaking her head some more. “Really, Detective, you have to believe me, we just don’t have any need of them. There is no crime here—” She heard herself and sighed. “Well, I guess that’s all changed now, hasn’t it?”

“Maybe someone had a cell phone, the kind that takes pictures? Or a camera?” Quinn asked.

Anne let out a short, amused laugh. “The residents aren’t exactly high-tech, and the staff, I don’t think so. But I’ll ask, send a memo.”

“Would you mind talking to a police artist?”

“Not at all. If it will help, of course!”

They’d reached Rory’s room, and one look inside was enough to silence Paterno for long moments. A single dresser with a television on top, a twin bed, wheelchair, night table, and movable bed table were the extent of Rory Amhurst’s furnishings. There wasn’t even a personal picture on the wall, almost as if the man had no family or friends.

So much for being an Amhurst.

Crime techs were already dusting for prints, collecting evidence, and taking pictures of the place, but Paterno was willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that they’d come up with diddly-squat. “I’d like to see his records.”

“You know that’s a breach of patient rights.”

“I’ll get a warrant.”

Anne nodded. “And when you do, I’ll hand everything over. As much as I want to help you, Detective Paterno, I have to go by the book on this. It’s a matter of liability.”

He’d expected no better. “We’ll need to notify next of kin.”

“That might be difficult,” she admitted. “Marla Cahill is listed as his closest relative.”

I got away with it!

As she drove into the city, Elyse couldn’t believe her good luck. She glanced at the other drivers, all caught up in their own private worlds, their own little problems, never once knowing that she was beside them—or that the frumpy woman in the nondescript car was a murderess, a genius, damned near infallible.

Elyse was so convinced she needn’t worry that she hadn’t bothered switching license plates after all. It would just be her luck that some anal jerk would be hanging around, watching, wondering what she was doing. The kind that would report the anomaly and send the police screaming her way. No, this time it was safer to keep things status quo.

But, oh God, what a high!

Yanking off the itchy wig, she rolled down the windows, inhaling salty-fresh air mingled with exhaust as she ripped down the freeway.

A part of her, that stubborn egotistical part, considered driving back to tell Marla and crow about her feat, but Elyse decided to wait. Marla was such a downer, and Elyse wanted to celebrate. She’d driven around the south side of the bay and stopped at a minimart where she changed her clothes quickly and tore off the padding around her neck, spitting out the stuffing in her mouth. Now, after wiping off the wig glue, she stripped out of the rest of her hated Mary Smith disguise.

Once again she was Elyse, her alter ego. She gassed up the car and made certain again that she wasn’t being followed as she drove the last few miles to her townhouse, pulling into her garage. Relieved, she plotted out the next steps. She planned to leave pieces of her fat suit in dumpsters all over other parts of the city. She would roll up the wig and glasses, put them in a sack, and toss the bag into a garbage bin behind a restaurant in Oakland. She’d leave the dress and shoes anonymously at a thrift-shop collection site in San Jose. Eventually there would be nothing to link her to the nefarious and murderous Mrs. Smith. She’d even hoist her fake set of rings into the bay for good luck.

Adios, Mary!

Grinning to herself, Elyse hurried upstairs to her bathroom, needing to wash the remnants away. She stepped into the shower and felt the hot needles of water ease the tension from her muscles as it washed the thick makeup from her face. She was thankful that she’d never have to return to Harborside Assisted Living ever again. The place was so depressing. How did the retard stand it?

Besides, she had others who would meet a similar fate as had Rory; others she was more interested in seeing suffer. First and foremost was Cissy, that miserable, spoiled brat. What a loser! Elyse couldn’t wait to confront the bitch and make her understand just how useless and stupid she was.

But tonight she wanted to celebrate, so she would avoid crossing the bay. Seeing Marla would only make her miserable. Tonight, she was going to have a little fun, and she wouldn’t tell Marla about it, not ever. Elyse would meet the man she intended to marry and spend the rest of the night with him. Hot sex after a chilling killing. Oooh, she liked the sound of that.

Licking her lips, she thought about the evening ahead and was already fantasizing. Should she reveal to him what she’d done? Or wait?

She thought it best to keep her secret to herself. He might not understand, and she didn’t want to risk losing him. But it would be hard not to brag about it. She wanted to boast and shout it to the world.

See how smart I am?

How clever?

I’m the one who sprang Marla Cahill.

I’m the one who killed her mother-in-law.

I’m the one who took care of the retard.

And I’m the one who bloody well will reap the rewards.

No matter what Marla thinks.

Detective Paterno stood on the porch outside her front door.

Cissy couldn’t believe her bad luck as she caught a glimpse of him through the window.
What now?
she thought, bracing herself for another barrage of pointed, privacy-invading questions. The guy just never gave up. His face was long and drawn and reminded her of a bloodhound, but his personality was more like a pit bull with a bone.

Lucky me,
she thought.

It was as if she couldn’t get away from the man.

She waited for him to ring the doorbell, and Coco went nuts. Of course the dog had to bark madly, as if Cissy didn’t already know that someone was on the other side of the door panels.

“Coco, hush!” Cissy commanded, and for once the little white scruff stopped yapping, cowering behind Cissy’s ankles and peering around her legs as Cissy opened the door to find that Paterno wasn’t alone. The mannish-looking woman detective, Janet Quinn, was with him, and Cissy could tell from their expressions they were not the bearers of good news.

Would it never end? Last night she’d been subjected to Jack’s less-than-warm-and-fuzzy family, the night before Gran had been killed, and now…Oh God, what if something had happened to Jack?

Her knees threatened to buckle, and her heart lost a beat as she recognized the detectives’ grim expressions for what they were.

“What?” she said, her voice hoarse.

“Can we come in?” Paterno asked. His tone was almost kind.

“I-uh-yes, of course.” She backed up on rubbery legs, then somehow guided them into the living room. B.J. was asleep upstairs, thank God, but Jack…Where the hell was Jack? Now that he’d invaded her life again, she’d come to expect him. “What is it?”

“There’s been another death.”

Cissy inhaled sharply. She couldn’t believe it.
Not Jack. Please, God, not Jack!
“Who?” she whispered.

“Please, sit down,” Paterno said, and she dropped into a chair, letting the force of gravity pull her into the deep, soft cushions.

“Rory Amhurst was killed earlier tonight.”

Cissy blinked. “Rory…? Killed?”

“Murdered.”

She felt cold inside. Numb. “My uncle in the care center.” She was shaking her head. This was crazy. “There must be some mistake. No one would want to harm him. He’s…well, he’s not all there.”