When I Kill You Page 5

  “Hey!” he objected.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said and made a show of mopping up his sleeve.

  “Well, you ought to be more careful.” He had good reason to be annoyed. I’d really made a mess. But as he sized me up, his scowl faded. His eyes swirled toward my cleavage like water down a drain.

  “Another beer for the gentleman, and the same for me,” I told the bartender, who grinned. And to Stanley I said, leaning in, giving him an even closer view of the falls, “That was terribly careless of me. I really do apologize.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” he breathed, looking kind of stunned. I doubted he’d ever been picked up before. He didn’t seem to know the moves.

  Our beers came. The person sitting next to Stanley left and I claimed the stool, sliding my bottom on it in a way he wouldn’t miss. He couldn’t even if he’d wanted to. In my foam padding, I took up most of the view.

  “I hope you don’t think I’m being forward,” I said. “But I’m new to town and I’m finding it kind of lonely. Folks here are nice enough but a bit standoffish, don’t you think?”

  “What? What?” he babbled. He recovered. “I mean, what’s your name?”

  “Wa—” I broke off. I couldn’t do it to Wanda. “Washington.”

  “Washington?” He looked puzzled. “Isn’t that a state?”

  “It’s my last name.”

  He laughed, a kind of haw-haw. “Oh. Like George Washington.”

  “Except my name’s Sally.”

  “Oh. Sally Washington. Well, mine’s Randy.”

  “Randy?” That brought me up short. Had I been targeting the wrong victim?

  “Randy’s what I get when I meet a lovely lady like you, haw-haw.” His left hand went for a wander over my bum while his right hand set his glasses straight. I changed my mind about him. He knew the moves all right.

  “Oh, you!” I gave him a playful sock that rocked him back. I hoped I’d left a bruise. “No, seriously, what’s your name?”

  “Stan,” he said, trying to make it sound manly. He whispered hoarsely in my ear, “Has anyone ever told you, your breasts are like two big bouncy balloons?”

  I wished I’d brought my hammer. The night is young, I told myself and gulped my beer instead. The hand was back. This time I let it stay.

  By nine the Happy Hour customers had cleared, leaving the hard-core drinking crowd. I’d been plying Stanley steadily with beers. He let me do the buying. At the rate he was downing them, I figured I should be charging Marcia expenses. The upside was that the barman and the bouncer Ox would remember that Stanley’s last hours were spent in the company of a heavyset redhead with a triple-D cup, not lean, trim Gina Lopez.

  By now I had a pretty good idea of what I was up against. A suppressed drunk, a closet letch. Everything about him was so buttoned-down but wanting to come out, he was bursting like a sausage. His eyes were the same pale color as Marcia’s. He breathed annoyingly through his mouth. He had a disgusting leer. He was in his own heaven with me, a seriously large lady. At least he’d go out smiling. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted an empty booth.

  “Look.” I swiveled his stool around so hard he almost flew off it. “Why don’t we go back there?” And I called out to the bartender, “Two more of the same.”

  I carried our drinks. He followed me across the room, rolling unsteadily from side to side.

  “You first,” I said, pushing him in ahead of me. I had to help him scoot along the bench. I slid in next to him on the same side. We were wedged tighter than sardines.

  “Why don’t you get comfortable, take your jacket off, dude?” I gave him an inviting smile and twisted around as far as my foam allowed to give him a full view of the goods on display.

  “Comf’able as I am,” he giggled, but he didn’t resist when I stripped him of his outer layer. I was relieved to see he wore a short-sleeved shirt. It would make my job a lot easier.

  “You told me you’re an accountant,” I said sweetly.

  “Yeah. A calculator cowboy.” More haw-haws.

  “Well, I just think that’s wonderful because I happen to be looking for an accountant.”

  “Y’are?” He squinted at me. He pulled free of my grip, put his hand on the inside of my thigh and pinched so hard I nearly screamed. I pried his fingers loose, slapped his hand back on the table and pinned his arm in place.

  “Y’r eyes…” he burbled, “are like runny poo—poo—pools.”

  And yours, I thought, are like two mashed grapes. You got a mean streak in you, pal. No wonder Marcia wants you dead.

  “Stan-boy,” I simpered, “I got some tax forms I just can’t figure out. I’d give a lot to have someone like you look at them.”

  “Loo—lookin’ at ’em now.” He hiccupped and tipped sideways. His nose was almost down my dress. He collapsed heavily against me, snoring in my cleavage.

  Dream on, I thought. I had the needle in my right hand, plunger at the ready. With my left I stroked his arm, pushing and prodding for a vein. I located something stringy inside the hollow of his elbow, just below the surface of his skin.

  Die happy, jerk, I thought, and jabbed him. Or I tried to. But he sat up just as the needle descended and it speared the table instead.

  “Ooh, look,” he burbled, pulling it out. “A hypo—hypo—hermic.” He waved it around. “Lez play doctors and nurses.”

  I tried to snatch it from him, but he was as slippery as a fish. With a cross-eyed ogle, he grabbed my boob and stabbed me with the needle.

  It should have hurt, but I felt nothing. Only a weird, sinking sensation as the push-up deflated with a hiss, leaving my left breast going south. Stanley watched in fascination.

  “You got one tit higher’n th’other,” he mumbled in a puzzled voice. “Hey!” he yelled, like he’d been cheated. “How come you got one ti—”

  I clamped a hand over his mouth and snatched the needle from him. Ox was moving our way.

  “Everything cool here?” the bouncer asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “We’re just having fun.”

  “No, ’m not,” shouted Stanley for everyone to hear. “Sh—she’s got ’neven tits.” He poked my lopsided bustline hard, making it squeak and sag some more to Florida.

  Ox broke into a grin as he eyed me.

  “It was just a joke,” I said.

  “Lemme out.” Stanley was really mad. He pushed and punched me off the bench. Ox let it happen.

  “I’m goin’ home.” Stanley staggered a step or two before Ox caught him on his way down.

  “You’re going in a cab, man,” said Ox.

  “I’ll take him,” I said, standing up. “I’m fine to drive.” If I couldn’t do the job at Benny’s, I’d do it in my car and dump him somewhere out of town. At that point I really did want to kill him.

  Ox looked me up and down. His mouth was stretched wide, ear to ear. “No way, lady. You’ve had a skinful too. I’m calling you a cab.”

  I knew when I was beaten. “Okay, big guy.” I gave him a heavy flutter that sent one of my fake eyelashes sailing. “But first I have to visit the little Ladies.”

  The bouncer was now laughing so hard I had to shove him out of the way. I waddled across the room to the whistles of the hardcore drinkers, through the swinging door with the hand pointing Toilets This Way. I went past the Womens, past the kegs and crates of bottles, out the rear exit and kept going.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Marcia yelling at me on the phone first thing in the morning was getting to be a bad routine. I hated her uppity, nagging voice. I hated her telling me I’d failed again. I hated her saying I now had until tomorrow to do the job. I hated her. But when she didn’t call first thing Saturday morning, I began to get nervous. I found myself talking to her in my head, making excuses. I’d given it my all. It wasn’t my fault her horrible husband was still alive. Whereas my life was all but over. Come Monday I’d be looking through bars.

  People went missing every day. I decided I was going t
o be one of them. I had a few hundred in the bank, a credit card not yet maxed out and a banged-up car. Enough to get me—where? Winnipeg? Calgary? Vancouver? I’d run. I’d go underground. I’d get away from the mess my life had become.

  I told myself, Okay, girl, stay cool. You’ve got a lot to do. I drove downtown and closed my checking account. I stopped off at a pharmacy and came back with a box of Clairol and a bottle of Liquid Bronze. I took a pair of scissors and hacked my hair off real short. A few hours later, I was no longer blond with shoulder-length hair but darkest mahogany, gelled up into spikes, and my skin was a few tones darker. I looked like a giant hedgehog with a tan. I wasn’t crazy about my new appearance, but I had to say even my own mother wouldn’t have known me.

  I packed only the clothes I needed, some camping gear, my iPod and my mobile. I boxed up the food I figured I could use on the road. I tossed all my personal stuff— letters, cards, photos. I hesitated over my wedding album. It was the only reminder of Chico that I had. I decided he wasn’t worth it, and it went too. I left everything else. I loaded up my car. Before I said goodbye to my apartment, I watered my plants. Maybe some kind soul would rescue them. And I called Jimmy.

  “Hey, Lava,” he sang out when he heard my voice. “I was about to give you a bell.”

  “Listen, Jimmy—” I started, but he cut me off.

  “I got great news for you, kid. You got your match! Janey Jumps pulled out. You’re on with Wanda Sunday.”

  I was so geared up for flight, I didn’t know what he was talking about for a minute. My life as a mud wrestler seemed a million years ago. I dropped into a chair. At that moment I wanted to tell him everything. About Chico, Bernie, blackmailing Marcia, Slippery Stanley and the horrible hand fate had dealt me. I wanted to bawl my head off. Instead I said, “Oh.”

  “Well, don’t say thank-you. I had to lean on Al for this. You said it was what you wanted.”

  “I mean it’s really great, Jimbo.” I tried to pump enthusiasm into my voice.

  “So, you up for this? You can win this, girl. Just get your head around it. You can win this.” Good old Jimmy. Always in my corner. Always pulling for me.

  Something—my backbone—stiffened. I stood up. “You’re right,” I said, really meaning it. “I can win this. I’ll flatten the head-butting bitch. And thanks, Jimbo. Thanks a lot.”

  I unloaded my car and humped my stuff back up to my apartment. I could run another day. I thought, Damn Marcia. And then I called her.

  * * *

  “I told you not to contact me,” she barked as soon as she recognized my voice. “I was going to call you—”

  “Shut up and listen,” I told her. “I’m not doing your dirty work. You want him dead, you do it. And you can take your video and shove it.”

  “Hold on. Not so fast. You still have time…”

  She went on talking, but I shouted over her, “You deaf ? I said no. Nix. Niente. You’re finished using me.”

  “…it’s simple, foolproof, and this time I’m even going to help you.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Domestic accidents happen all the time. Stanley’s away for the afternoon. So the coast is clear for you to booby-trap the cellar stairs. Think about it, Gina. It’s him or you. Is he worth a lifetime in jail?”

  He wasn’t. She’d called him a beast. I knew he was a sadist. I didn’t feel sorry for her being married to him. She got what she deserved. But I deserved better than a permanent berth in prison for a death I did not cause, even if I had to commit murder to make sure that didn’t happen. I knew now I couldn’t have saved Chico. I hadn’t let him fall. He’d set up his own exit, and there was nothing I could have done about it.

  Her plan was simple. Stanley always watched tv on Saturday nights. His favorite show came on at 8:00—Creeps, a new thriller series. I thought the name suited him. All I had to do was rig a wire across the cellar steps and trip the circuit breaker sometime after 8:00. The wiring in the house was old. Fuses were always blowing. The fuse box was in the cellar. Stanley would grab a flashlight and go down to the cellar to the get the power up again. Marcia would make sure the flashlight had dead batteries. She’d already arranged her alibi. She was going out. And Stanley would go bump.

  Her plan was simple, and it was smart. As I listened to her talk, I really began to think I could have it all. I could get rid of Stanley, get Marcia off my back and drag Wild Woman Wanda through the mud.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Marcia had told me to come around to the rear of the house because she didn’t want the neighbors to see her letting me in. She was waiting for me at the back door and jerked it open before I could knock.

  “Who—?” she started to say until she realized it was me in my new look. If she suspected I’d been preparing to cut and run, she didn’t say. Just, “Did you bring everything you need? I can’t be expected to supply anything. Nothing must link—”

  “I know,” I sneered, “to you.” The fact the murder was going to happen in her own home didn’t seem to count. As long as she was out of it. “Yeah, I got the stuff.” I had bought wire and nails from Home Hardware. I already had the hammer.

  She got right down to business. “The cellar stairs are off the kitchen.” She led the way in through a mudroom and a pantry. The kitchen was roomy and old-fashioned, with a worn tile floor and painted cupboards reaching to the ceiling. But the appliances were new and gleaming white. It figured.

  She pointed to a door at the far end and said in her hoity-toity twang, “I’ll leave you to it.” She stalked off, very lady-ofthe-manor. I was the hired help. Except I wasn’t being paid.

  I opened the cellar door and groped for a light switch. A single bulb dangling from the ceiling gave weak lighting to some very steep, narrow, wooden stairs. I went down them carefully, surprised no one had broken their neck on them before now. They ended in a real cellar, not a basement rec room. It had an earth floor, something you don’t see except in old houses. The fuse box was on the wall near the bottom of the stairs. There was a lot of dusty, cobwebby junk piled up all over the place. The air smelled damp and moldy.

  I chose the third step down. It wasn’t rocket science, two nails and a bit of wire strung tightly across the side supports. The job was done in five minutes. Then I realized there were two problems. First, I wasn’t supposed to trip the breaker until after eight o’clock. But if Stanley came down the stairs for any reason before then, he’d turn the light on and he’d go down carefully, like I did. A wire across any of the steps would be visible. I’d have to do something about the lightbulb. Second, I had forgotten to bring a wire cutter.

  “Marcia?” I called.

  No response. I went up into the kitchen and called again. I wandered through the dining room into the living room. Everything in the Beekland house was like a freeze-frame from an old movie. The furniture was heavy mahogany and overstuffed upholstery. The oak floors were highly polished with dark carpets here and there. Heavy curtains blocked out the sun. Gloomy paintings hung on the walls. There were knickknacks and framed photos everywhere. Gents in jackets and women in hats and mid-length dresses. There was a studio shot of a boy and a girl that I figured were the Beekland’s kids when they were little. They were both chubby and blond and had a discontented look that had stayed with them in later photos that I saw. I knew why, growing up with such parents.

  That was when I heard the wail. It was high-pitched—the same sound I’d heard when I’d prowled around the house four days ago, only weaker. It came from upstairs, and this time I knew it wasn’t a cat. I wondered again if the Beekland’s had a kid, but it sounded more like a soul in distress than a baby. Something funny was going on. All along I’d been praying for a way out. Maybe—just maybe—this was something I could use against Marcia to even the playing field.

  The big oak staircase was uncarpeted. I took the steps quietly. There was an open door just off the landing. I looked in. I saw a sunny room and something I had totally not expected—an old woman
propped up against some pillows in a bed. Her eyes were closed. She was thin, with white hair, and her arms and face were covered in bruises. She’d been eating something and food had spilled down her front. When she tried to raise a hand to pick at her soiled nightgown, I saw that she was strapped into the bed.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I whirled around. Marcia was standing right behind me. She looked furious.

  “I’d like to know what’s going on,” I demanded. From her startled expression, I thought I had her. This helpless, battered old woman, tied down against her will, was something Marcia didn’t want the world to know about. And my ticket to freedom.

  The woman’s mouth twisted open, and another cry filled the air. Up close it grated on my nerves.

  “Get out.” Marcia shoved me away from the doorway.

  “Who is she?” I said, holding my ground in the hall.

  “My mother,” Marcia snapped. She carried a wet towel in one hand, a squeeze bottle in the other.

  “Your m-mother?” I stammered.

  “Yes, my mother,” Marcia said impatiently.

  “Why’s she tied up like that, if she’s your mother?”

  “She’s ill. She tries to get out of bed and falls down because her balance is bad. She hurts herself, so she has to be restrained. Now if you don’t mind, I have to clean her up. Have you finished?” She jerked her head, meaning downstairs.

  “Need a wire cutter,” I mumbled, backing away.

  “You were supposed to bring everything with you.” She was madder at my failure to come equipped than at my discovery of her mother. “There’s a toolbox in the cellar. You may find something there.”

  I did. Marcia came looking for me just as I was finishing up.

  “I’ll have to loosen the lightbulb,” I warned. “In case he comes down before eight.”