Cancelled by Murder (22 page)

I
tried to cover my amazement that it was not my wandering boyfriend who'd returned at last, but Andrea Harris at my back door.

She wore a heavy jacket, a double-breasted navy blue knee-length with large buttons, the modern equivalent of my dad's old pea coat. Not what I would expect on a typical August night, not cool enough for most of us, maybe seventy degrees, even a couple of hours after sundown. She sniffed the air and breathed out appreciatively. “Smells wonderful. Too bad I can't stay for dinner, but I have to make this quick.”

I stammered out a few syllables and ended with “Hey, Andrea,” spoken as a question.

“I'm sure this is a surprise, but I find I have no choice.”

I gasped as my mind locked on to the reality of the moment. This was not overkill to make amends for a brief
exchange of unpleasantness. This was a woman who realized that I'd figured out how Daisy's notebook came to be in Jules's office. She'd been wrong until now, but she wouldn't believe that.

I screamed, something akin to “No,” as loudly as I could. I tried to close the door on her, but she'd already shoved her chubby knee and equally heavy elbow into the wooden panels and pushed me inside. I stumbled back and she pushed both of us over the threshold, back into the kitchen, wrecking my counter organization in the process.

She reached into the pocket of her heavy jacket. And pulled out a gun.

I screamed again (I think) and stepped back, nearly knocking over a kitchen chair. “Andrea . . . ,” I stammered.

“Don't worry, Cassie. I'm not going to shoot you.” She looked at the gun, and for a long minute I thought she was going to kill herself. “It's my brother's,” she said, as if I'd asked or might care about its ownership. “He has it for protection in the store, and I wouldn't want Pete involved in this. He's too law-abiding. Some might say wishy-washy.” She waved her hand in a wishy-washy gesture, making me back away a few more steps.

I almost asked why—why was Andrea holding a gun on me? But we both knew why. Andrea was giving me more credit than I deserved. She'd guessed correctly that I figured out the notebook was planted to frame Jules. What she didn't know was that I hadn't fingered her. Yet. I wondered if I could convince her now that I knew nothing and therefore was not a threat to her. Too late? Probably. I tried anyway. There was, after all, a gun pointed at me. I'd try anything.

“I didn't know it was you,” I said. Pitiful.

“You would have, eventually. I saw it in your face. And being best friends with the chief, well, you'd never give up trying to figure it all out. I had the paint and I went looking for something else to frame Jules with. Dumb,” she said, knocking the gun on the side of her head.

“Andrea, I—”

“Stop. You've done enough. I'm not sorry it happened. I couldn't let Daisy ruin our lifestyle. The things she was accusing Reggie of would have ruined him and all his plans. And what else could we have done in this town?”

When she waved the gun for emphasis, I held my breath, half thinking I might be able to wrestle it from her, but I couldn't take that chance. I was taller, but she was probably heavier. And armed. And still talking. That last was a good thing, I figured.

“We work hard for what we have, Reggie and me. Daisy didn't seem to get that. She called us royalty, as if everything has been handed to us.”

“I know how hard you work, Andrea. Daisy was just focused on her own survival in a small business.” What was I doing defending the victim to her killer?

“It's a little late to sort all that out, isn't it? And you, you just wouldn't let it drop. So what if Jules paid a little more for his crime? He stole on purpose; I never meant for Daisy to die.”

Andrea's logic left a lot to be desired, but I did understand that it made sense to her. Did it matter that she would have left me alone if I hadn't turned into an investigator? I felt drunk, though I'd had nothing but coffee and a spoonful of soup to drink. Was it too late to take it all back? I had to try.

“The police will understand that Daisy's death was an accident, Andrea. You didn't mean to kill her. You were arguing and it . . . it just happened.” Speaking as one who was at the crime scene? Not. Another brilliant tactic.

Andrea put the gun to her head—not pointing as if to shoot herself, but using it to massage her scalp. “I just wanted to talk some sense into her.” She seemed near tears; I thought I heard sniffling. “She didn't even have a big stake in the outcome of Reggie's project. Our project, which will put North Ashcot on the map. Daisy just needed some cause, some reason to speak out.”

I tried my most soothing voice, fraught though I was with anxiety. “You can just tell Sunni that, Andrea. We're friends, you know, and I can go with you and—”

“No, no, no.” Her sobs turned to angry screams and she began another gun-waving episode. “That's not how this is going to work. You're going to have an accident just like Daisy did, except we don't have a storm to help out. But we'll manage. You're going to follow me out of your house and down the back stairs, and we're going to take a ride in your car.”

I froze. I didn't want to leave the safety of my home, even though it was now populated by a killer with a gun. “Quinn, my boyfriend, is going to be here any minute.”

Andrea threw her head back and laughed. A crazy laugh. I saw the extent of her fury in her eyes. “Nice try.”

I looked at the kitchen clock. Only twenty minutes since Quinn's last text. My nap couldn't have lasted more than ten minutes. I had to stall only another ten, and Quinn would ride up and rescue me. I smiled in spite of my terrifying situation.
As if I could count on a travel estimate when Route 8 was involved.

I saw our plans for the rest of the summer and early fall disappear. No walking the Ashuwillticook Trail, hiking our little section of the Appalachian Trail, taking selfies on the way. I saw our post office flag at half-mast. My senses peaked and I smelled the sage in the pot next to me, heard the bubbling chicken broth. I considered dumping the Crock-Pot on the floor as a distraction, but then what? She'd still have the gun. I needed something more than hot soup as a weapon.

Andrea had no such problem. It seemed she had a plan in place. “Grab your keys,” she said. “And go ahead of me to the back door. You'd better put on your shoes. You're driving.”

“I don't know where my—”

“Your shoes are by the rocker and your keys are right on the table near the front door. Walk over there slowly, no funny business. I'll be here waiting. With the gun.”

I turned and started back toward the living room, measuring each step, stalling for time. Where was Quinn? Would he ever forgive himself if he dallied and couldn't get to me in time? I gasped. Did I want him here at all? Andrea could shoot both of us. That wasn't what I wanted. Unless I could warn him to bring the entire NAPD.

I found myself studying every object on the way as I crossed my small living room rug. The blue ottoman, an old afghan knitted by Aunt Tess, the small table with a lamp and a few newspapers. I'd decluttered to prepare for Linda's visit, even removing my sewing chest with its long pins and
eight-inch scissors, and taking away the remnants of my last meal alone with a knife resting on a plate. I made a note to myself to always leave potential weapons handy. If I lived for another quilting session or for another meal.

I had no choice but to obey Andrea. I picked up my keys and dragged my feet back toward her. She'd stepped to the side and indicated that I should lead the way out the door. My phone rang, echoing through the house. Quinn, I was sure. Andrea stepped closer to check and apparently saw his name.

“Move it,” she said. “The last thing I need is two people to deal with. Move it,” she said, louder, and I did.

The walk down the back steps and around to my car in the driveway seemed endless, and yet not long enough for Quinn to arrive. We climbed into my car and I drove as instructed. So close, I thought. Quinn had almost made it. Would he suspect something was wrong when I didn't answer? Probably not.

I headed west, toward the end of town. My car had a pocket on the driver's-side door. I'd stuffed it with necessities like tissues and change for toll roads. What else was in there? Could I rummage around without Andrea knowing? I had to give it a try.

I dropped my left arm and felt around the pocket. I felt a small tube of hand lotion, cough drops, a pen. Would the pen work? Not unless I was within an inch of her neck. I put my hand back on the wheel and shifted my weight. I needed to get my arm back farther. But Andrea was leaning over toward me. Suspicious? I straightened up and drove with both hands until I could get another opportunity.

Andrea ordered me to put my lights out and pull into a wide driveway, clearly a construction zone, with heavy industrial equipment locked inside a chain-link fence. Not just any construction site, but one with a large sign with
HARRIS CONSTRUCTION
in thick black letters. Another sign warned
DANGER: ELECTRIC FENCE
. A few small red-and-yellow lightning bolts radiated from the letters in case it wasn't clear. I stopped a few feet from the fence.

“Why are we here?” I asked, not sure I really wanted to know.

“Everyone knows you've been questioning Reggie. It makes sense that you'd head out here after dark to break into his trailer.”

“I didn't even know it was here.”

“You'd have found out.”

I wished Andrea didn't think I was so smart. “But why would I do that?”

She shrugged. “Maybe to find some evidence. I know you're dying to prove he's getting kickbacks from everyone he deals with, even though he's the most honest guy around. Anyway, the story will be that you came out here to snoop around, and you had an accident.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out what looked like a remote control device. She pressed it and the fence crackled.

I had no question about the kind of accident I might have.

“This will have to do as a plan,” she said.

A pretty good one, I thought, and shivered.

I reached down into the door pocket again. One last shot. This time I hit on a possibility. A flashlight. I had no idea
whether it had batteries or not, or how bright it was if it did. I'd used it recently but couldn't remember how bright it was. Neither had I been under such stress.

I clutched the metal casing and felt for the slide to turn on the light. Wasn't there a saying about taking a flashlight to a gunfight? But it was my last remaining chance for survival. Once we stopped and I got out of my car, I felt, it would be over.

I hit the lever to move my seat to the farthest back position, then quickly slid the flashlight lever to
ON
with my thumb. I coughed to cover another movement and swung the light directly into Andrea's eyes. Back and forth, first one eye, then the other, as close as I could get, reaching at the same time for the gun, which she'd forgotten momentarily in her struggle to protect her eyes. I managed to hit the gun to the floor—her side of the floor, unfortunately, but at least it was out of her hands.

Hand-to-hand combat had not been in my training for the postal service. I flailed around, using my long legs and pointy-heeled sandals to pin Andrea's midsection to the door. She groaned in pain as I doubled over to scramble for the gun. Not exactly one of those graceful yoga moves I'd seen on exercise videos, but working for now. Andrea (foolishly, I thought, but I wasn't the one with a sharp heel in my gut) opened the door and tumbled out, falling on her back. She scrambled up and stumbled toward the fence, this time using the remote to open the lock. This time the fence swung open.

I wondered if I'd punctured an organ with the heel of my sandal. I looked down and, in the dim overhead lights strung around the site, thought I made out stains on the car seat
that could be blood. But it was not time to be worrying about Andrea's well-being.

I stayed in my car, not trusting the reach of the electricity in the fence, and tried my phone. Not surprising, I was well beyond the reach of phone service. Meanwhile, I found Andrea's gun on the floor of the car and picked it up. Andrea had headed into the darkness of the construction site. I guessed she knew it well and therefore knew where there might be another gun.

I thought of chasing Andrea, but then what? A shoot-out? Not in my skill set. And besides, I had no confidence that I could get past the fence uncharred.

I wished I knew Andrea's overall plan. Maybe Reggie or one of his henchmen was right behind me. Or maybe he was in my house, waiting for me. Their plan B. I wished I knew if Reggie was in on plan A.

If I drove away, I'd avoid Andrea, but only for now. She'd be at large and who knew how long it would take to find her? Or whether she'd pop up again in my home?

I decided the safest thing was to drive away, head out, and hope for a cell phone signal soon. How to get to Andrea wasn't really my problem.

I backed down the driveway, happy to be putting distance between me and the evil fence. Almost immediately, I heard a car rumbling down the road toward me. An SUV from the height of the headlights. Quinn? Please, Quinn, and not a construction worker.

I stopped, my foot on the gas pedal, ready to slam into the vehicle if I had to. The SUV stopped within a few feet of my back bumper; the driver jumped out. Quinn? Yes!

“I missed the turn when your lights went out,” he said,
banging his fist against his thigh. I barely heard him. I took a breath, maybe my first one since the knock on my back door.

“She went back there,” I said, pointing madly, skipping the welcome-home hug I'd planned. “That fence. Don't touch it. I was supposed to be electrocuted.”

The last words slipped off my tongue as I collapsed on the rough gravel, my new sandals ruined. All I could see were red-and-yellow lightning bolts that seemed to be aimed at my chest:
DANGER: ELECTRIC FENCE
.