Murder at Longbourn (37 page)

I saw a large metal flashlight hanging from a hook on the wall by the door. I grabbed it and sank onto the top step before I eased back down the stairs. At the bottom, I reached up and twisted the bulb out of its socket. The inky darkness was claustrophobic, but at least when Jackie returned, she wouldn’t have light to guide her. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Clicking on the flashlight, I searched every inch of the basement. I found nothing, and my efforts to smash the lock on the hatchway were futile. A razor and a flashlight were all I could muster to defend myself against a gun. I would just have to make do and ambush her as best I could. I lay back down on the floor where Jackie had left me and waited.

After what seemed a dark eternity, I thought I could hear her moving around upstairs. I don’t know how long I had lain there—it seemed like hours. The pains in my leg and my head were draining my energy. Eventually, the house fell silent. I struggled to remain awake, but my eyes grew heavy. The next thing I knew there was a hand on my shoulder. Disoriented, I jerked awake, my heart pounding. This was my only chance. I rolled over and slammed the flashlight as hard as I could into Jackie’s head. She fell back with a thud.

My flashlight did the job, all right, but I stared in horror at the crumpled form that lay beside me. It was Peter.

P
ETER!” I YELPED. “Oh, God, Peter! Speak to me!” I scrambled to his side and clicked on the flashlight. Blood poured from a nasty gash on his right temple and his face was a terrible shade of gray. The thought that I had actually killed him produced a sharp and sickening tightening in my chest, the intensity of which took me by surprise. The memory of my jest to Bridget that the minute Peter fell gravely ill, I would forgive him rushed over me and I felt sick. I cared for Peter, I
really
cared for Peter! I had let my anger from events fifteen years ago spoil everything. It figures, I thought bitterly. I finally meet the perfect guy and then I go and blow it by smashing his head in. He might have forgiven me for the dead fish in his bed, but this was different. Blood was involved. Cupping his face, I said, “Peter! It’s me, Elizabeth! Can you hear me?”

He moved his head and moaned peevishly. “What the hell did you do that for? I risk my neck to save you and this is the thanks I get?”

I sagged back with a rush of relief; he was alive. “I thought you were Jackie,” I whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Where is she?”

“Jackie? Jackie’s dead,” said Peter, groaning. “And I was the one
who got hit in the head?” Gingerly he raised his hand to his head and tried to sit up. He made it only halfway.

“Jackie’s not dead. She killed Linnet and is pretending to be Linnet. Where is she? Is she still upstairs?”

“Are you okay? Did she hurt you? What happened?”

“I’m fine. Well, I think I did something to my leg, but other than that, I’m okay. Is Jackie still upstairs?”

He took a long time answering. “Peter!” I repeated, shaking him. “Is she here?”

“Please stop that,” he said, wincing. “She left.”

“Peter, listen to me. She’s going to kill us. She has a gun. We have to get out of here, but I hurt my leg and I can’t walk. You’ve got to call the police.”

“Police,” he repeated, but his voice sounded faint. I shook him again. Hard. He tried to slap my hand away, but he was so weak it felt like the brush of a feather. He sank back onto the floor. I had to keep him talking. I had to keep him awake. “Peter, listen to me. How did you know I was here?” I heard the panic in my voice.

He was such a long time in answering that I thought he had passed out, but finally he opened his eyes. They were unfocused, but his voice sounded stronger. “I didn’t,” he said. “When you didn’t come back to the inn, I got worried. Aunt Winnie said you’d come here, so I came looking for you. But Linnet said you left hours ago. I saw your earring on the floor. Something seemed wrong, so I left and then doubled back. When she went out, I broke in.” The effort of this short speech drained him. He closed his eyes. The right side of his head was now covered in blood.

I reached down and cupped his face. He leaned his head into the palm of my hand. “Elizabeth,” he muttered, “don’t be mad. I was only trying to help.”

“I’m not mad at you, Peter, but we have to get out of here! She could be back at any minute.” As I said this, the basement door creaked open. I shrank back and clicked off the flashlight. Jackie’s silhouette appeared in the doorway. “What the hell?” she said, reaching for the light switch. She flipped it several times. “What’s the matter with the lights?”

I did not answer.

She slowly came down the stairs toward me, the gun out and aimed in my direction. Halfway down, she stopped in surprise at the sight of Peter. I grabbed his limp hand. Jackie’s eyes went from Peter’s recumbent form to the flashlight now clutched in my hand. Her mouth twisted into a cruel smile. “Well, well, well,” she said. “What do we have here? Did the gallant hero try to save the damsel in distress only to get bashed in the head?”

Coldly regarding Peter’s crumpled heap, she said softly, “This does complicate my plans somewhat, but no bother. It won’t be too hard to rig this so the police think Peter was behind the killings. I imagine a tragic fight to the death between the two of you ensued when you learned of Peter’s guilt. Yes, I think this might work out quite nicely.” Seeing the remains of the rope on the floor, she reached into her coat pocket. “I had a feeling that those wouldn’t hold, so I bought these.” She pulled out a pair of heavy metal handcuffs and threw them at me. They clattered across the cement floor, coming to a stop at my feet. “It’s amazing the things they sell at those adult video stores,” she said, with a shake of her head. She pointed the gun at me again. “Now move away from Peter, roll the flashlight to me, and put those on.”

I was still holding Peter’s hand. He gave it a squeeze. I glanced at him in surprise. He was lying back with his eyes closed, appearing for all the world unconscious.

“Move it!” Jackie demanded crossly.

I rolled the flashlight to her and reached out and pulled the handcuffs toward me. They were cold and heavy. Sliding away from Peter, I made a show of trying to put them on. While I did so, I palmed the razor. I had to stall her. If she just moved a little closer to me, I might have a chance. “Hurry up!” she barked again.

“I’m trying,” I said, as I continued to fumble with the handcuffs. “But I think I broke my wrist when you pushed me.”

She considered me suspiciously. “Don’t play games with me, Elizabeth. You’ll lose. Again.” Her eyes narrowed as her finger tightened on the trigger of the gun. “I can make your last hours painful or quick—it’s up to you. Now, do as you’re told and put those damn handcuffs on!”

“I’m trying!” I burst out, “but there’s something wrong with the clasp!”

She watched me doubtfully and cautiously crept a few steps toward me. She glanced once at Peter. He lay motionless on the floor. As she moved past him, he opened one eye and slowly raised himself up. Jackie was standing directly in front of me with the gun in closer proximity to my person than I was comfortable with. “Push the handcuffs to me,” she said. I dropped them to the floor and kicked them toward her. Putting the flashlight down, she grabbed them. “Hold your hands out in front of you,” she commanded. I did so, still clutching the razor. She edged closer to me and snapped one of the bracelets around my wrist. I jerked my other hand around and slashed her on the arm that was holding the gun. Blood sprayed and the gun clattered to the ground. “Jesus!” she yelped, stumbling back. I flung myself at the gun while behind her Peter leaped up and pushed her to the ground.

“You bastards!” she screamed.

A voice at the top of the stairs boomed out, “Police! Nobody move!”

Peter and I ignored the command. He threw his body onto Jackie’s while I picked up the gun and trained it on her. I heard the sound of several pairs of heavy boots thudding down the stairs, but I didn’t dare take my eyes off of Jackie. She squirmed and pushed against Peter as he pulled her arms behind her back. He was weak and shaky, but she was no match for his bulk. Detective Stewart’s voice rang in my ears. “You can put down the gun, Elizabeth. It’s all right now. We’ve got her.”

I lowered my arms and dropped the gun. “How did you know to come?”

“I called them,” said Peter, as he surrendered Jackie’s struggling form to one of the uniformed policemen who swarmed the basement.

“You called them?” I sputtered. “But when?”

“Before I broke in, of course. What kind of an idiot do you take me for?”

S
O NONE OF this was about Gerald after all?” asked Aunt Winnie, shaking her head in disbelief.

“No,” I said, settling back onto the couch. “Jackie just used the fact that most everyone hated him to her advantage. Remember, no one was really surprised when he was murdered. All Jackie had to do was pretend to know something about his murder and then when ‘Jackie’ was found dead, everyone would assume that the two crimes were related.”

It was almost midnight, but none of us were tired. After the police took Jackie away, they had taken Peter and me to the hospital. I had a twisted knee and a sprained ankle. Peter had a concussion and needed stitches. From the way he carried on about it, it seemed unlikely that he would ever let me forget it. “We are now officially even, do you understand?” he had yelled at me in the hospital. “Nothing I ever pulled on you compares to this!” He had a point, but I wasn’t about to admit that—to him.

“Does it hurt?” I had replied sweetly, actually feeling vast relief at how quickly he was returning to the Peter I knew. “Do you want
me to kiss your boo-boo and make it all better?” He responded with a gesture that I interpreted as a no.

Now, sitting next to me on the couch in the inn’s reading room, his mood had improved. We weren’t alone. Aunt Winnie, Randy, Bridget, Colin, and Detective Stewart were with us. We had discussed the details of the past week in more than enough detail, but still no one was ready to call it a day.

“I can’t believe that Linnet was Jackie all along. I truly believed her as Linnet!” said Aunt Winnie.

“That’s not too surprising when you think about it,” I said. “None of us knew either woman very well, and Jackie always wore those enormous hats that covered half of her face. But physically, they were very similar—I think Linnet herself told me that they used to pass for sisters when they were younger. After she killed Linnet, Jackie donned Linnet’s wig and clothes and made up her face the same way Linnet did. What we all thought was a recent weight loss due to grief was really the thinner Jackie wearing Linnet’s clothes. And then there’s Jackie’s talent for mimicry—she probably would have made it had she gone to Hollywood all those years ago.”

“But to fool everyone the way she did just seems amazing,” said Randy.

“I know, but remember before ‘Jackie’ died, Linnet’s special contacts mysteriously disappeared and she had to wear those enormous glasses. I’m sure Jackie threw the contacts out, knowing that Linnet would have to wear the glasses. They were simply part of her disguise. And she constantly seemed unsteady on her feet. We chalked it up to grief, but in reality she was just masking the differences in their gait. With those minor alterations, Jackie was able to offset the differences between the real Linnet and her imitation.”

“And all because Linnet stole Jackie’s boyfriend over half a century ago,” mused Randy. “That’s a long time to nurse a hate.”

“Yes,” said Detective Stewart. “We’ve gotten some medical history on Ms. Tanner and apparently she’s struggled with this anger a long time. She’d seen several psychiatrists over the years, but without success.” He paused. “Obviously.”