Chapter Seventeen
Calliope sat at her kitchen table and pondered Grace’s situation with regard to The Third.
Grace said he was becoming unbearable, and she didn’t know how much more of him she could take before something happened.
She frowned, wondering what Grace meant. She had always been adamant she would never leave The Third.
Did she realize now, after all these many years, that everyone had a tolerance point and she had reached hers?
Or…
Calliope considered another possibility. Did Grace intend to put an end to The Third’s nastiness by killing him?
Oh my.
Frightening thoughts flooded her mind. Visions of cops rushing into the Thornhill suite with weapons drawn ordering Grace to hit the floor with her hands behind her head. Envisioning a policeman Mirandizing Grace set Calliope’s teeth to chattering. The nightmare continued with cops grabbing her dear friend under the armpits, lifting her to her feet and shoving her out the door and into the backseat of a squad car for transport to the police station where she would be processed ― fingerprinted, photographed and garbed in a hideous twill jumpsuit.
Grace would never survive a jail cell.
Calliope could. She could almost say she was accustomed to the procedure.
“Ayaiiieeya.” She smacked her forehead.
“What’s the matter, muffin?” Wilson asked at her back.
Surprised, Calliope turned and looked at him standing in the kitchen doorway. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at the Gowan Brae?”
“I tell ya, darling,” he walked to the coffee maker and poured a cup of decaf, “I love golf, but not enough to play in the rain.”
“It’s raining?” she asked, immediately turning toward the window to see for herself as though only what she saw would she believe. When her eyes convinced her mind, she said, “It is raining.” So preoccupied with her thoughts and worries, her joints, normally attuned to the least change in atmospheric pressure, had failed her.
“Want to go back to bed and snuggle?” Wilson asked, raising his bushy brows high on his forehead.
She recognized the suggestive gesture. As much as the invitation tempted her, and as much as she wanted to try out the new feminine oil that not only lubricated but warmed and titillated, she had to take a pass. First things first ― stop a murder from happening, carnal desires, second.
When she looked into Wilson’s eyes, though, she wavered. Quickly, she analyzed her reason for the rain check. What was the rush to get to Grace? It wasn’t as though she had told her outright she was going to whack The Third this morning.
She took another gander at Wilson. He looked so cute in his plaid jodhpurs and yellow knee socks and, as if those weren’t turn-on enough, the gap in his front teeth, as it always did, upped her desire proportionately. Oh Lordy, she thought when those stirrings in her southern regions hummed in anticipation. She checked her watch. Why, she didn’t know. Perhaps for focus.
Mostly, Wilson took his time, like he was seeing and exploring her body for the first time. In many of those instances, she had suggested drawing him a diagram. That always garnered a chuckle.
“I’m all ready for you, darling,” he said, smiling widely.
Without hesitation, her gaze dropped to his crotch. She saw his interest ― his avid interest.
Oh my.
As she considered his proposal, she rubbed the area beneath her bottom lip with her finger.
Since he was already primed, why not? She slapped his hand. “Oh, Wilson, you started without me. Shame on you.” Giggling, she grabbed his tie, stood and pulled him toward their bedroom.
Fifty-five minutes later, Calliope, with all of her sexual fantasies fulfilled, danced through the spartan hallway of Villa Maria-Sedona, singing, “Hot time in the old retirement home tonight.”
She reached the Thornhill suite and listened at the door. She couldn’t hear anything happening inside. At first, she took it as a good sign. Maybe the pill she slipped The Third last night before the soirée had mellowed him. On further thought, she reconsidered and looked at her watch. 9:30. They should be up, and The Third should be complaining. Drugged or not, the man always had a complaint ― the paper was late; his eggs weren’t cooked as he liked them; the day was dreary or too bright; he didn’t sleep well…. mah blah hah. She could go on and on. Calliope took a deep breath and released it savagely.
Something stirred in the suite. She couldn’t distinguish the sound. A shuffling, perhaps. No. She shook her head. Scraping, maybe. No. Not that, either. The noise repeated. Her power of distinction failed her once more.
On an exasperated sigh and with her ear against the door, she rapped her knuckles on the hardwood surface below the peephole.
The not-shuffling-not-scraping reverberation stopped.
She found it strange. She lifted on the tips of her bunny slippers and peeked through the door viewer but couldn’t see anything amiss. Anyone else might leave to come back later, but something prompted Calliope to investigate. Quite possibly, her innate skill to predict and sense danger.
With a determined grasp, she turned the doorknob and entered the suite. “Grace,” she said as she made her made through the hallway. But for the tick-tock of the wall clock, the suite was silent.
With a few exceptions ― this wasn’t one of them ― The Thornhill suite was never quiet. Surely to God, Grace hadn’t killed the old fool. Growing increasingly uneasy, Calliope quickened her step. In a matter of seconds, she peeked around the doorway into the living room.
What she saw almost frightened her out of her knee-highs. She jerked backward and flattened her back against the wall, coaching herself to calm. Breathe deeply. Long breath in through the mouth, hold, out through the nose. Careful, Calliope. Not too noisy. You don’t want him to see you.
She regained her composure and felt strong enough and courageous enough to take another peek. With her forefinger between her teeth, she leaned forward. Her eyes hadn’t deceived her. A strange little man wearing white painter’s coveralls, paper booties, surgical gloves and goggles and brandishing a silver crucifix leaned over The Third’s prostrate body on the floor.
“Do you remember me, you jerk-off-son-of-a-bitch?” Painter’s Coveralls asked.
Calliope looked at The Third, waiting for him to answer, but then realizing he couldn’t because of the duct tape holding his mouth closed. Why hadn’t she thought about doing that?
“Answer me, you no good son of a gun!” he said.
When The Third still didn’t acknowledge him, Painter’s Coveralls picked up The Third by his shirt and slammed his head against the ceramic floor, once, twice, three times! Still, The Third wouldn’t answer. He simply looked at the interloper wide-eyed, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Neither could Calliope, for that matter. She pinched herself to make sure this wasn’t a dream. Ow.
Painter’s Coveralls was obviously an enemy of The Third. Calliope was curious what The Third had done to make him want to kill him. Kill him…it just occurred to her that Painter’s Coveralls intended to murder The Third.
She should run and get help. She should... Yes, she should. It was the Christian thing to do. Help a friend in need. Save a life. But The Third was not her friend, and she didn’t know if she wanted to save his life. Oh my. She crossed herself and begged the Lord’s forgiveness for such an unholy thought.
She looked around for Grace, but couldn’t see her.
Did Painter’s Coveralls already kill her, or was she lying somewhere bleeding to death while Calliope dickered what to do?
The thought prompted Calliope to react. Time was of the essence. She grabbed hold of a lamp on the hall table and charged Painter’s Coveralls.
With a flying leap and all the force she could muster, she swung the marble base of the lamp against the back of Painter’s Coveralls head. His legs folded. He went down with a thud.
She stepped over his still body and looked at The Third. “Frederick, c
an you hear me?”
The Third didn’t answer, just stared straight at her. She straddled him and slapped his face a few times. Still, he didn’t respond.
Maybe he couldn’t breathe through his nose. He was so peaceful, though, with his mouth taped. Calliope? her brain asked. Aren’t you going to render assistance? “Oh, all right.”
“This is going to hurt,” she said, lifting a corner of the duct tape. “I’ll just rip it off in one smooth,” and hopefully excruciating, “move. Okay?” She waited for his response. “I know you can’t talk, Frederick, but you can blink or cross your eyes or something. This is no time to learn manners or turn passive.” She sat back on his chest.
After a moment, she said, “Okay, here goes.” She ripped the tape off his mouth.
The Third’s head lolled to one side at a difficult angle.
It should have hurt, yet he didn’t mutter a sound. The Third always had something to say.
Something was not kosher. She placed her hands on either side of his face and turned his head in line with her. His eyes stared directly at her.
Calliope cocked a brow wondering what was the matter. He should have regained consciousness by now. Painter’s Coveralls had hit The Third’s head hard against the floor, though. Ceramic didn’t give. Maybe he had slipped into a coma.
As seconds ticked past, she grew increasingly alarmed. Her heartbeat picked up speed, every beat coming faster and harder than the last. Her fingers shook as perspiration broke out on her forehead. She wiped away the sweat with her forearm and slapped his face a couple more times. When he still didn’t respond, and as much as it terrified to do, she checked for a pulse.
None.