based on her handicap?”
The man laughed. “Trouble qualifying? Hell, Donna’s won just about every tournament she’s entered as far back as I can remember.”
“Did you know Sally Maxwell?”
The man nodded. “Beautiful woman. Damn shame what happened. You know, you sort of look like her.”
“She was a good golfer?”
“Oh, sure. Nice game. Better putter than on the fairways, though.”
“But not in Donna’s league?”
“Not even close.” He smiled. “Why all the questions? You interested in taking on Donna, scoping out the competition? You’re a lot younger than she is, but she’ll still give you a challenge, I bet.”
“I might be taking her on, but it won’t be on a golf course.” Michelle walked off, leaving the man to stare puzzled after her.
She walked out into the parking lot and headed to her SUV.
She whipped her head around because she thought she heard something. She used her thumb to pop off the leather support on her holster. Michelle gripped the butt of her gun and tensed to pull it. But she reached her truck safely and climbed in.
A half hour later she got to the house. She drove past, parked down a side street, and climbed out. Donna Rothwell’s big house was set back from the street. There was a gate out front and a windy drive up to a front motor court. As she walked along the street, she found a gap between the hedges. The house was dark, at least in front. It was large enough to where any lights in the back rooms would not be visible from where she was.
Michelle checked her watch. It was nearly ten o’clock.
Why had Rothwell lied about such a seemingly trivial point? She’d told her and Sean that Sally Maxwell had played with Doug Reagan in a local amateur charity tournament because Rothwell’s handicap was too high and she couldn’t qualify. But apparently she was a far better golfer than Michelle’s mother had been. It was a stupid lie. She could only assume that Rothwell must’ve been counting on the fact that Michelle, not being a local, would never find out it wasn’t true.
But why lie in the first place? So what if her mother had played with Doug?
Michelle stopped. A footfall, some breathing other than her own; the slap of skin against metal. Gun metal. This was stupid. She wasn’t going to break into Donna Rothwell’s place, giving the woman an excellent reason to have her arrested. And she wasn’t going to stay out here waiting for someone to get the drop on her.
She got back to the SUV and called Sean, relaying what she’d learned about Rothwell.
“Bobby and I will meet you at your dad’s place,” he said. “Get there and stay put.”
She reached the house and parked in front. She glanced in the garage window. Her dad wasn’t home. She used her spare key to let herself in.
As soon as she closed the door behind her she sensed it. She pulled her gun, but a second too late. The blow hit her on the arm. The Sig clattered to the floor, discharging as it hit and the round ricocheted off the stone tile. Michelle grabbed her injured arm and rolled as something heavy fell close to her.
Then she felt something smash next to her head. She leapt up and kicked out with her leg, but caught nothing but air. Someone screamed and another blow hit Michelle painfully on the leg. She cursed, ran toward the living room, and threw herself backward over the couch. She at least knew the layout of the house.
When the person came at her again, she was ready. She ducked the blow, came up, and delivered a snap kick to the attacker’s gut, followed by a jab to the head. She heard a loud grunt as though the air had been driven right out of the attacker’s lungs. Someone hit the floor. Michelle leapt forward to take advantage of this when whatever weapon the person had been holding flew up and caught Michelle on the chin. It was metal. She tasted blood. She moved to her left and tripped over the coffee table, falling hard. Her arm and leg killing her and now her chin throbbing, she sat up.
Michelle felt the presence right on top of her, smelled something hot.
Shit, it’s my gun. They’ve got my gun.
She dove behind the coffee table, braced for the shot.
It rang out, but she felt nothing. There was a scream, high-pitched and terrified. Something clattered to the floor and someone fell next to her.
The lights came on.
She sat up, blinking rapidly.
When she saw him, she gasped. Doug Reagan was lying by the door with a gunshot wound in his chest.
And next to her was Donna Rothwell on her knees, holding her bloody hand and sobbing in pain. Michelle’s pistol was next to the woman. Michelle quickly grabbed it.
Then she froze again.
He was standing by the front door, next to where Reagan was, his gun out, a wisp of smoke floating off the muzzle.
Frank Maxwell came forward and put out a hand to help up his daughter. “You okay, baby?” he said anxiously.
CHAPTER 63
I TOOK THE PHOTOS of the license plates because I knew there was a party going on next door. I got the list of the people at the party and then compared it to the owners of the cars on the street that night.”
Frank Maxwell put down his cup of coffee and sat back.
It was the next morning and they were at police headquarters. Donna Rothwell had been arrested for the murder of Sally Maxwell and the attempted murder of Michelle Maxwell. She had been taken to the hospital to have her hand wound treated from where Frank Maxwell had shot her. Doug Reagan was in the hospital in stable condition with a hole in his chest from when Michelle’s gun had dropped and accidentally discharged. He was expected to fully recover, if only to be charged along with Donna.
Bobby Maxwell said, “How’d you get the car records?”
“I have a buddy at motor vehicles.”
“You found Mom dead in the garage and you just went out and started taking pictures?” Michelle said incredulously.
Frank Maxwell’s gaze swiveled to his youngest child. “She’d just been killed. No pulse, pupils unresponsive. There was nothing I could do to bring her back. The body was still warm. I knew the murderer was still in the area. I wasn’t in the shower. I was in the living room. I heard a sound in the garage and then a door slam.”
“You didn’t tell the cops that,” Bobby pointed out. “Hell, Pop, you didn’t tell me that.”
“I had my reasons. Anyway, I could’ve just called the cops and then sat crying next to her body, but I know how critical it is to get an early jump on a homicide, and I didn’t plan on wasting a second of it. I ran to the garage side door and opened it. I didn’t see or hear anyone. I ran up and down the street but saw nothing. I also didn’t hear a car start up so I figured that the perp was either on foot or hadn’t driven off yet. I heard the sounds coming from the pool party next door. I debated whether to go there, tell them what had happened, and see if anyone was there who didn’t belong there, but I opted for a different approach.
“I knew I didn’t have much time. I ran to the house and grabbed my camera. I snapped the pictures of the car plates. After that I went back into the house and phoned the cops. It took all of maybe two minutes. Then I ran back out to see if I saw anyone, but I didn’t. Then I went back to the garage to be with Sally.” He said this last part softly, his head down.
“You’re sure you didn’t see anyone?” asked Sean, who was sitting across from Frank.
“If I had I would’ve done something about it. As it turns out, when my friend ran the plates the car parked at the very end of the street was Doug Reagan’s. I didn’t believe that he’d been invited to a teenager’s birthday party. I confirmed that with the invitation list. It was the only vehicle unaccounted for. The other’s were people either at the party or who lived on my street.”
“Nifty piece of detective work,” noted Sean. “But why didn’t you tell the police?”
“Yeah, Pop,” added Bobby. “Why?”
Michelle was staring at her father with a mixture of anger and sympathy. The latter finally won out. ??
?He obviously wanted to work the angle to make sure he was right. So he wouldn’t waste everyone’s time,” said Michelle.
Frank looked at his daughter. Michelle thought she could see a glimpse of gratitude on his features.
“So you believed Reagan was involved. How about Rothwell?” she asked.
He said, “I never liked her. There was just something off about her. Call it cop’s instinct. After Sally was killed I started doing a little digging on the pair. Turns out that in Ohio about twenty years ago two people very closely resembling Rothwell and Reagan, but using different names, were charged with using a power of attorney to embezzle millions from a retired CEO. Then the old man was found dead in his bathtub one morning after his children started getting suspicious. The pair skipped town and were never heard from again. I don’t think that was the only time they did it. I found a couple of other similar instances that I believe they were involved in, but no one could ever build a case. People like that, that’s how they make their living. A dog doesn’t change its spots.”
“So her story of her husband being a retired CEO who she lived the good life with was bullshit?” said Michelle.
“It’s easy to make up a past, particularly these days,” added Sean. “She comes here as a wealthy widow who has traveled the world and sets up shop. Who can prove otherwise?”
“So her ‘recent’ steady Doug Reagan has actually been working with her for decades? Preying on old, rich people,” said Bobby.
“I believe so, yes,” answered his father. “But I had no real proof.”
“But why target Mom?” asked Michelle. “It’s not like you two are rolling in dough.”
Frank Maxwell looked uncomfortable. He stared down again, his hands clenching the Styrofoam cup tightly. “I don’t think they were targeting us. I think… I believe your mother enjoyed Doug Reagan’s company.” He paused. “And he enjoyed hers.” He fell silent and no one in the room apparently wanted to interrupt that quiet.
He continued. “He’d been everywhere, done everything, knew everybody, at least so he said. Stuff Sally had never been exposed to. He was handsome and wealthy and moved in certain circles. He was charming. He had a way about him. I was just a cop. I couldn’t compete with that. Hell, I could understand why she’d be intrigued.” He shrugged, but Michelle could tell that her father couldn’t really understand his wife’s infatuation at all.
“And Rothwell found out about it?” said Sean.
“Donna Rothwell is not the sort of person you ever want to cross,” said Frank tersely. “I didn’t know her all that well, but I knew her kind real well. I notice things other people don’t. Just the cop’s eye again. I’d seen how she looked sometimes when she wasn’t the center of attention, or when lover boy was paying some woman more attention than he was her. She was obsessive, she was controlling. And she couldn’t admit to anyone, much less herself, that she wasn’t in control. And that made her dangerous. Even on the golf course she was competitive beyond all reason. Would get pissed off if she was losing.”
Michelle said, “That must be why she made up that lie about letting Reagan play in the golf tournament with Mom. She didn’t want to admit that it was done without her permission.”
“Or being so adamant that your mother was not seeing another man,” said Sean.
Michelle added, “So she planned to kill Mom because she was fooling around with Reagan. She made a dinner date with her, obviously knew about the pool party next door and all the noise. She slipped into the garage and waited until Mom came out…” Michelle’s voice trailed off for a moment. “What did she use? To kill her?” she asked Bobby, who had a cluster of tears in his eyes.
He drew a deep breath. “Golf club. A newfangled putter. That accounted for the weird shape of the head wound. The police found it in her car trunk. Still had trace on it. She went after you last night with a club too. Except it was a driver.”
Michelle rubbed her arm and leg where the bruises were large and purple. “Lady has a natural swing,” she said wryly. “But why come after me?”
Her father answered. “Reagan was at the country club last night. I know because I was too. I was following him. He saw you by the trophy case. He overheard you talking to the man about Donna. He must’ve put two and two together. Did you notice in the picture in the trophy case?”
“That Donna was a lefty? Yeah, I did.”
“So then he slipped away, made a phone call, certainly to Rothwell, and hightailed it off.”
“To your house?”
Frank said, “I wasn’t sure about that because I stopped following him and started following you. But it ended up there because they were planning to ambush you.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because you were getting closer to the truth.”
“No, I mean why did you start following me?”
“Because I was worried about you. Because there was no way in hell I was going to let that scum hurt you. Guess I failed at that.”
She reached out and touched his arm. “Dad, you saved my life. But for you I’d be at the morgue right now.”
These words had a remarkable effect on her father. He put his face in his hands and started to cry. His children rose and knelt next to him, holding him.
Sean rose too, but he didn’t join them. He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
CHAPTER 64
QUARRY SAT in the library at Atlee counting his remaining cash. Two years ago he’d done something he never thought he would. He had sold some of his family’s heirlooms to an antiques dealer to help finance what he was doing. He hadn’t gotten anywhere near what they were worth, but he wasn’t in a position to be choosy. He put the cash away, pulled out his typewriter, slipped on gloves, wound the sheet of paper in, and commenced the last letter he would ever compose on this machine. Like the others he had thought through each word.
The communication after this one would not be through letters. It would be far more direct. He finished and called Carlos in. The wiry little man was staying at the house while Daryl pulled guard duty at the mine. He had a task for Carlos to perform. And after his fight with Daryl he’d decided to keep his son closer to home.
Carlos wore gloves too, as instructed by Quarry. He was going to take one of the pickup trucks and drive north and then out of state to mail this last letter. The man didn’t ask any questions; he already knew what was expected. Quarry gave him money for the trip along with the sealed envelope.
After Carlos left, Quarry locked the door to the library, stoked up the fire, lifted the poker, plunged it into the flames, got it hot, rolled up his sleeve, and added the third line to the mark on his arm. This was a slash perpendicular to the long burn, but on the left side of it. As the skin sizzled and puckered under the touch of the red-hot metal, Quarry sank back in his old desk chair. He didn’t bite his lip since it was all bandaged up and swollen from his fight with Daryl. He cracked open a bottle of Beam, winced as the alcohol burned his cuts, and watched the rise and fall of the flames in the fireplace.
He only had one more line to burn into his skin. Just one more.
He left the library and staggered up the steps to Tippi’s room. He opened the door and stared into the dark space. She was in the bed. Hell, where else would she be? Quarry said to himself.
Ruth Ann had quickly learned Tippi’s needs and had settled into a routine helping Quarry take care of her. He contemplated going in and reading to her, but he was tired, and his mouth hurt.
“You want me to read to her, Mr. Sam?”
Quarry slowly turned around to see Gabriel standing there on the landing, his small hand on the thick wooden railing that a man who’d owned hundreds of slaves had put there a couple centuries ago. Quarry figured that wood was just about rotted out now, as was the man who’d built it, or rather had the sweat and labor of his slaves to do it for him. To see that small dark-skinned hand on top of that old chunk of rotted wood was comforting to Quarry somehow.
“I’d ap
preciate it,” he said, his damaged lip moving slowly.
“Ma said you fell and hit your mouth.”
“Getting too old for farming.”
“You want me to read any particular part?”
“Chapter five.”
Gabriel stared at him curiously. “Why that one?”
“Don’t know other than the number five just popped into my head.”
“Mr. Sam, you think Miss Tippi might want us to read her some other books too?”
Quarry turned away from him to stare at his fallen daughter. “No, son, I think the one book’ll be just fine.”
“Then I’ll get to it.”
Gabriel walked past him and clicked on the overhead light. The sudden blast of illumination was painful to Quarry and he turned away.
I’ve definitely become a creature of the night, he thought.
He didn’t notice Gabriel staring at him until the little boy said, “Mr. Sam, you doing okay? Anything you want to talk about?”
Quarry focused on him as Gabriel sat there next to Tippi, the precious Austen novel cradled in his hands.
“Lots I want to talk about, Gabriel, but nothing you’d find