We were making it to Ridgefield in record time, though it wasn’t fast enough for me.
“We got distracted with Bitsy and David and that shoe,” Kip said as we hit the stomach-lurching hill to Pound Ridge. “I think we missed that there are two separate things going on here.”
“I’m listening,” I said, clenching the arm of the door.
“Bitsy thought she needed to destroy the memoirs. She never got that far because she realized Lottie wasn’t going to betray her. It’s Marietta Hemlocker who has the real motive.”
Kip was driving like a maniac, looking so defeated that I wanted to do something to help. He wasn’t the only one who had been distracted.
“The prenup,” I said, gathering my thoughts. “Marietta and Tom have a relationship that threatens her inheritance. Mrs. Arlington was trying to blackmail Marietta into taking better care of Burton. So how did it backfire?”
“I don’t know,” said Kip, slowing the car as he rounded one of the sharp curves. “If they were tying up loose ends, they might have taken advantage of a situation that would rid them of Mark, who probably saw them together, even if he hadn’t added it up.”
“Other loose ends might include Brittany, and now Scoop,” I said, feeling my breath catch.
Kip accelerated again, and we were suddenly hitting the curves like we were driving in the Indy 500.
By the time we reached Mamanasco, the frost between Kip and me had completely thawed. This was bigger than my bruised psyche. It was bigger than Kip’s lack of trust. Both of us instinctively knew Scoop and Brittany were in danger.
We screeched to a stop in front of my cottage, and I threw open the door.
“Check the house and garage,” he said. “I’m heading to the Hemlocker place.”
“If what we just pieced together is true,” I said, “those two have probably already murdered once—twice, if you count Burton. You can’t go alone.”
“To Hemlock Hill?” he asked with a smirk.
“It’s not Hemlock Hill—it’s Hill Manor.”
“No, Winter,” he said. “It is definitely Hemlock Hill.”
“My last visit to Marietta—she was a Jekyll and Hyde. She could be a psychopath who tried to burn me to death! My friends could be burning now. I’ll stay out of sight, and we’ll work out a signal if you need me and—”
“Stream of consciousness,” he cut in.
I blinked, chasing his meaning. “Non sequitur much?”
“Exactly,” he replied. “You’re like a run-on sentence—endless thought without punctuation. Isn’t that what stream of consciousness is?”
It was a fairly artful assessment for a self-described “uncreative guy.” And one any writer could appreciate.
“This time you really should call for backup,” I said, ignoring his question.
“I will. First I’ll check out the scene. We might have this wrong, just as we were wrong about Bitsy. Besides, I don’t want to tip off Tom if he’s listening on the radio.”
“Be careful,” I said, meeting his eyes. It was the best I could do for now.
I shut the car door, and Kip rolled down the window. “Let me know if the kids are home.”
Another one of his silly comments that left no room for response, because he pulled away and all I was looking at was the dust he left behind.
I knew the scooter Scoop had left in the driveway meant nothing. He never would have taken it all the way to Stamford, especially with a passenger. Once inside the garage, I was relieved to see David’s black truck nestled beside the Subaru.
I pushed through the kitchen door and called out.
No response. And then like a smack in the face, I realized that Scoop and Brittany hadn’t left in one of their own vehicles. I kept calling out, though the house was as empty as a theater during COVID. How had they left without a car?
Racing next door, I could hear the dogs barking even before I started pounding on Horace’s door. He answered with a smile that fell fast when he saw my face.
“What is it?” he asked, opening wide for me to enter.
“When Brittany and Scoop left the dogs, did you see where they went?”
Horace looked puzzled.
Diva and Max were bumping me for attention. I batted them away until Diva finally crawled between my legs and Max stood on his hind legs to lick my face. Impatience wouldn’t do anyone any good, I realized, so I took a moment to scratch their ears. It appeased them and calmed me enough to explain.
“We have a problem,” I said.
Horace waved me in, and I followed his shuffle to a small kitchen stuck in the 1960s: wood-paneled walls, hickory cabinets, even an avocado-green fridge and pink-swirled Formica countertops. He reached into a jar on the counter and tossed out two Sizzlers—bacon-laced twists from Blue Buffalo. The dogs pounced on them and paraded away. Horace led me to a small table by the window that unveiled the same soothing view I stared at every day. For some reason, though, looking at it through his eyes made it appear different.
“This is where I do my best everything,” he said as he noticed me taking it in. “There’s no problem I can’t solve when I sit here. And do you know why?”
I shook my head no, though impatient for answers.
“Because it reminds me that I’m not in control of the universe. See those ducks on the lake? Not a care in the world. Why? Because they aren’t in charge and don’t think they need to be. Do you get what I’m saying?”
“You want me to let it go and accept the big picture?” I asked.
“Sounds more succinct when you say it,” he said. “Probably why you’re the writer.”
“Okay then, here’s the smaller picture,” I said. “When Brittany and Scoop brought the dogs over earlier, what exactly did they tell you?”
Horace rubbed his stubble and looked toward the pups, who were now lounging in makeshift dog beds and chewing pork treats. He took his time, trying to relive the moment exactly as it had happened. Finally, he brightened.
“They said they were driving down to Stamford and didn’t want to take the dogs because they didn’t know how long they would be. They said they called your uncle to come this afternoon and give me a break. I don’t need a break—Diva and Max are already family.”
At the sound of their names, both dogs looked up, tails thumping.
“Did they say they were actually driving? As in, driving themselves?”
Horace squinted out at the lake again as he mentally reviewed his conversation. The clock ticked agonizingly before he started nodding.
“Brittany said, ‘We’re taking the truck.’ Those were her exact words.”
“Did they go out the back door, across the deck, or out the front door?”
Now he looked at me curiously. “Why do you ask?”
I explained about the growing commuter lot with the scooter and truck parked next door.
“Now that I think of it, I was almost laughing, because we were all in the kitchen and I was opening more treats for the dogs, and suddenly they were gone. They’d snuck out the front door, the way parents do when a new babysitter takes over.”
“I remember,” I said, tamping down a bittersweet memory from childhood. “Did you hear or see any vehicles—maybe stopping to pick them up?”
“Sorry,” he replied. “I stayed in the kitchen with my dogs. Well, your dogs.”
I patted his hand, because I could see he was trying so hard to help.
“Where are they, then?” he asked somberly.
It was tough to see Horace’s eye twinkle extinguish, but I would not sugarcoat this. People often treated the elderly like children, shielding them from pain and discounting their ability to help. If working in the obit biz had taught me anything, it was to never underestimate a senior.
“I don’t know, and I’m worried. Kip and I found photos proving that Marietta Hemlocker broke her prenuptial agreement by having an affair. She stands to lose her inheritance if her stepson finds out, and it’s likely that Marietta thinks Brittany has the photos to prove it.”
I relayed the details we’d learned that morning from the Shippan Point interlude, including our assumption that it was Marietta and maybe Tom who’d killed Mark Goodwin.
Horace remained quiet for a moment. Then he stood abruptly, his chair stuttering backward. “Let’s roll,” he said.
“Roll?”
“To the Hemlockers’. That’s where you’re going, right?”
I was stunned that he knew my plan before I’d fully formulated it.
“You’ll need help.”
I nodded and stood as well. “Actually, it would help me more if you would—”
He raised his hand in a gnarled high five. “Man the phones?” he finished. “I know, I would only slow you down.” He sighed. “I’ll let Richard know what’s happening.”
“Thank you, Horace.”
“Just don’t park at the Hemlockers’,” he instructed as I hurried out. “You’ll be a sitting duck.”
Today felt like the day that wouldn’t end: dawn-patrol with the dogs, my break and enter at Mrs. A’s, a narrow escape from a someone who was coming unraveled, the Stamford distraction, and now what felt like my final act in the play. I’d texted Kip that indeed, the kids had broken curfew, and he hadn’t replied.
Ridgefield Police Officer Kip Michaels, partner to a corrupt cop with a gold-digging girlfriend, died by murder because he refused to listen to reason and call for some damn backup like certain smart people told him to …
So once again, it was just me climbing into a cranky car, tempting fate on the back-road curves that I was careening around. This was a different kind of storm than the recent one I’d navigated, but a storm nonetheless.
Up on the mountain, I pulled onto the now-familiar service road and parked behind the pool house in my lucky spot, nose out like last time. I hiked up to the wooded side of the yard out of view of Mrs. Arlington’s house, then headed west. Mark Goodwin had done an excellent job of making the path to the Hemlocker estate not only passable but nearly four feet wide through every stretch, and smooth enough for someone to bring along a cane or walker if needed. The precision of the work brought a stab of regret for his wasted talents.
The temperature was pushing eighty, and I felt uncomfortably warm in long jeans and a three-quarter-sleeve top I had worn to Stamford. I was, however, grateful for the hiding place the outfit provided for my cell phone. I turned off the ringer and slipped it into my jeans, very much the way I had done with Burton’s pill bottle. I pulled my top over to cover the bulge. I left the burner phone in the small cross-body bag I wore.
Stopping at the end of the path to study the house, I saw Kip’s unmarked car parked in front on the circular driveway. The house looked different from this angle. The imposing structure had an L-shaped wing housing a three-car garage protruding off the back. An additional detached two-story barn stood to the left of that. This was where I presumed Burton had kept his antique cars. While Kip was inside distracting Marietta and Tom, I would start searching there for Scoop and Brittany.
Still hugging the tree line, I hurried toward the barn, keeping my eye on the house in case someone exited. I crossed a small open area to get to the unlocked side door and slipped inside. Just as I expected, four tarps roughly shaped like cars lined the large space. I lifted each as I passed—an antique Mustang, a Rolls-Royce so polished I could see my reflection, a very old Porsche 911, and a vintage red snub-nosed truck—the one Burton had driven around town. I made my way toward a door that I assumed would open to Burton’s office.
The room was larger than I expected, paneled in dark wood and lined on two sides with shelves where rows and rows of books were crammed. The fourth side held French doors that led out to a patio with the same postcard view as the main house. A fireplace on the opposite wall was also surrounded by bookshelves. Three burgundy leather chairs occupied an Oriental carpet.
As inviting as it was, I didn’t have time to enjoy the room I assumed was Burton’s library. From the fireplace, I grabbed a poker leaning against the fieldstone. Weapon in hand, I crossed and began looking behind closed doors. One led to a bathroom with a full shower and the other to a small bedroom. Back in the garage, a staircase led to a second floor. I ascended.
Reaching the top step, I held my breath, listened, and heard nothing. I peeked my head around the corner to find a large bare-bones storage space, finished with flooring, paneled walls, and large windows. And completely empty.
Back on the ground floor, I exited the barn and moved toward the attached garage, an appendage to the main house. The side door on this one was locked. Through the window, I could see a large black SUV. Now what?
I couldn’t risk creeping around to the main patio, because I’d be visible from the large windows in the living room. If I snuck around the front, I figured, I’d have less of a chance of being seen. I headed in that direction, and just as I was making my way to peer into one of the windows, the front door swung open. I leaped behind one of the weak shrubs framing the stark home before Tom and Marietta walked out. Thank goodness they didn’t even glance toward my sparsely covered hideout as they strode to Kip’s car. As Tom opened the car door, they were so close I was afraid they would hear me breathe.
“Where will you hide it?” Marietta asked.
“I’ll leave it at the Arlington place,” Tom said. “That should buy us enough time to get out of here.”
“I don’t like being alone with them,” she said, tossing her head back toward the house.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes. Put the stuff you need in the car. We have to be downtown when this all comes down.”
I crouched low as Tom pulled away and Marietta hurried back inside. That settled it. Kip, Scoop, and Brittany were being held inside. I couldn’t call 911 yet—not with Tom still in the unmarked. He would hear the radio and be back before help could arrive. He could even respond that it was a false alarm.
With Tom out of sight, I took a breath and, with the poker still in hand, crept to the front door and pushed it open.
Thank God there was no squeak. And no Marietta either, although I could hear her upstairs. I assessed my options. I ruled out the large living and dining rooms on the first floor, which were doorless open spaces unsuitable for holding hostages. Two smaller rooms on the front of the house, acting as a study and sitting room, were equally implausible for prisoners because of their view from the road. Besides, both doors were wide open.
Off to the right was the long hallway that housed the bathroom I’d raided and Burton’s bedroom. To the left would be the large kitchen and family room I’d seen on my first visit, and while I hadn’t noticed a back staircase, I was sure there would be one. Because that would be the closest stairway to the garage, I had to assume Marietta would use it to put her “stuff” in the car.
How much time did I have to search this house before Tom got back?
And then I had a terrible thought. Kip had been in uniform, complete with weapons and radio. Would Tom now have those in his possession in addition to his own?
Focus on what you can control, I reminded myself.
I listened for sounds and heard Marietta crossing the upstairs hallway, away from the main staircase. I crept up the stairs, stopped at the top, and stole a glance in the direction of the noise. It sounded like she was indeed heading down a back staircase.
Unlike Mrs. Arlington’s house, this upstairs hallway was light and bright, with windows looking out at the view on one side and all the rooms on the opposite. I didn’t bother with what I was sure was the master suite at the end of the hallway. The massive double doors, yawning wide as if to display the sleek king bed and contemporary tones, left literally nothing to the imagination.
At the other end of the hall, where Marietta had disappeared down the back stairs, another staircase climbed to a third floor. I hurried toward it, passing numerous doors open to handsomely decorated bedrooms. Just as I was about to climb, I heard Marietta returning.
I retreated into one of the bedrooms and positioned myself behind the open door. I held my breath, waiting for her to pass. It felt like an eternity, and then she paused outside the door. I was sure she could smell my perspiring body or hear my thundering heart.
To my momentarily relief, she muttered aloud, “Now where did I leave that phone?”
The first inclination of people who lose their cell phone in the house is to call it from a landline if they have one. I gazed around the room, and sure enough, on the opposite end was a small table with a cordless. I willed Marietta to keep walking.
And then she entered the room, passing so close to the open door that her perfume teased my nose. I could see her reflection in a mirror on the opposite side of the room as she picked up the handset and tapped in her number. At the same time, she peeked through the blind slats to look outside, presumably for Tom. If I could see her, couldn’t she see me? I prayed I didn’t cough or sneeze.
Distantly but unmistakably, a shrill ringtone echoed. Without looking around, Marietta hurried from the room in that direction. I breathed a sigh and was about to step out when she returned through the doorway, dropped the cordless in its cradle, and took another look through the slats. Then she hurried out again, to my relief never glancing toward the mirror on the opposite wall. A few seconds later, I heard footfalls back down the stairs.
I emerged from my hiding spot, wiping sweat from my forehead, and attacked the third floor. Tiptoeing up the stairs, I found a far less cheery environment. No furniture, no carpeting, no sense of use. Even the walls had been left bare and unpainted—chalky Sheetrock held in place by skeletal wood studs. I opened one creaky door after another, praying the sound wouldn’t carry.
Suddenly I heard Marietta back on the second floor, and something had changed. Her steps were hurried and purposeful as she spoke urgently into her phone. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, and a minute later the door to her room slammed shut.
I crept down two sets of stairs, landing in the kitchen. Through the kitchen window, I saw Tom jogging from the path toward the house. They know I’m here was the last thought I had before I heard the breath of movement behind me and felt a hard whack at the back of my knees. I hit the floor with whiplash pain in my limbs and back.
Tom burst into the kitchen, panting hard, and took in the scene.
“I have her phone,” said Marietta triumphantly, holding up the bag she had wrestled from my shaking body with the burner phone inside.
As I slowly sat up, I could still feel my iPhone in my jeans. My top had slid up in the fall, so I maneuvered awkwardly to pull it down. My arms and shoulders burned, and pain shot through one knee. A fireplace poker, a twin to the one now sitting uselessly at my side, lay across the countertop where Marietta had dropped it.
“Breaking and entering seems to be your modus operandi,” said Tom, sweat dripping down his forehead.
“I didn’t break anything. All I did was open the door,” I said. “Where’s Kip?”
Marietta shoved her phone in front of my face. I watched as she pushed “history” on her Ring app, and there I was, sneaking around the garage and then entering the front door.
So much for my supersleuthing skills.
“You just can’t keep your nose out of things, can you?” said Tom. “And what makes you think Kip is here? I haven’t seen him since he asked for a new partner.”
“You don’t have partners,” I shot back. The second it was out of my mouth, I regretted it. Why remind him that I was a former reporter for the Ridgefield Press and that I knew very well how the town police department operated?
“True,” he said thoughtfully. “Kip was assigned to me to get him through that rookie stage. Can you believe he requested a new mentor?”
I’d have been surprised if he hadn’t. Kip had never told Tom about David or Bitsy or even taking my phone to the station to check for prints. He might have had reservations about my truthfulness, but his actions spoke loud and clear about his lack of trust in his “mentor.”
“Can you blame him?” I asked. I knew I should zip it, but it was hard not to respond to this sleaze.
Up until this point, I’d been hoping Tom and Marietta might send the nosy obituary writer away, but I now saw that Tom was reassessing.
“Kip said he was coming here to see you, though I guess he’s not here,” I said, trying to backpedal.
Tom ignored me and asked Marietta for her phone. She punched in the code, and he opened it to the Ring app. From the time stamp, he could see how long I’d been on the property. He would know I’d seen him leave with Kip’s car.
“Where’s your ride?” he asked.
I didn’t answer.
“Who knows you’re here?”
“A number of people.” Technically, it was true—there were two of them right in front of me.
“You’re lying,” he said.
“What do we do with her?” Marietta asked.
“The same thing we do with everyone else,” Tom replied, “unless you have a better idea.”
“Brittany and Scoop are no threat to you,” I said.
“That tramp is not getting Burton’s life insurance policy,” Marietta snarled, and for a moment she looked like a child whose sibling had just gotten the bigger slice of cake. “If she’s out of the picture, the money reverts to me.”
“Is that all this is about, money?”
“I told you, it’s been ten long years, and I am not walking away empty-handed.”
“Tom,” I said, “what about you? Why would you get involved with all of this?” I gestured toward Marietta.
I knew my fate was cast when he pulled a gun from the back of his waistband.
“I’m sick of this rat race,” he said, aiming everywhere as he talked with his hands. “I’m sick of goody-goodies like your boyfriend. He’s the one the chief is looking to promote, and he’s brand-new. We’re getting the money and getting out of Dodge. Now, enough—let’s get this thing done.”
He indicated that I should move into the living room.
My legs were shaking, and my knee ached from my fall. No way would I let them see that, so I managed to put one foot in front of the other.
“I have the photos of you two,” I blurted out. “They’re on Mrs. Arlington’s iPad.”
At this, Marietta, who had been trailing behind, came around to face me, halting us all in our tracks.
“Prove it,” she demanded, and a spray of spittle hit my cheek.
I swiped it away in disgust before answering.
“It’s safe for now. But if something happens to me … well, I made a backup plan.”
“If your plan was with your friends, that isn’t going to work,” she said smugly. “We have your nosy reporter friend, and those old men you hang with can be handled.”
I forced a yawn, which made Marietta’s eyes turn to daggers.
“So, prove it,” she said again, jabbing at my chest.
I stepped backward and felt the gun graze my back. “Who killed Mark Goodwin?” I countered.
Tom moved around to face me. “That was a mistake,” he said. “Marietta was trying to burn the house to get rid of any evidence when Mark trapped her, so she clobbered him. It was self-defense.”
“I grabbed one of those iron statues that Lottie had all over the house. I didn’t think the hit would kill him,” she said.
“But you were going to leave him in there to burn,” I pointed out.
“Not a great loss,” Marietta huffed. “He wasn’t a man you could trust. Now, where are the damn photos?”
“Just so you know, Mark had no idea that Mrs. Arlington was troubled by your affair,” I continued, ignoring her question. “And he certainly knew nothing about your prenup.”
“He must have told Lottie,” Marietta insisted. “She sent me the photo, obviously taken from that shortcut he had been working on. He saw us; I know he did.”
“It was Lottie who took the photos, not Mark. She wanted something in return for not showing them to anyone. What was it? Better care for Burton? Did she find out you were sitting on his meds?”
“So you were snooping in my bathroom.”
Tom whirled his head toward Marietta. “You did that?”
She looked wistful for a moment before shrugging. “He was old and sick. Pills or no pills, he would’ve died soon.”
I was trying as hard as I could to appear calm, but my insides were starting to catch up. I could feel the panic rising, from the tips of my shaking fingers to my rapid breathing. I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself while the two of them went at it.
“God, Marietta, I thought he died of a heart attack!”
“First Burton, then Mark,” I pushed. “So far, I don’t see a good future in front of you, Tom.”
“Don’t listen to her, sweetie,” said Marietta. “She’s trying to turn us against each other.”
Tom’s mouth twitched, and his charcoal eyes deadened even more.
“I gotta hand it to you, Marietta,” I said. “You really did spook Mrs. Arlington. I thought she was made of Teflon. What did you say to make her so frightened?”
Marietta smirked. “She wasn’t the only one who could play that game. I told her that I knew about her book club.” Her lips curled. She was enjoying the shock she saw on my face, and I hoped Tom would see her real colors.
“What book club?” asked Tom.
“My mother was one of Lottie’s famed book club members,” she said. “Her ‘club,’ as she called it, used to dig up dirty secrets and blackmail people.”
“Seriously?” he asked. “Mrs. Arlington did that? Your mother did that?”
“And more,” said Marietta.
Was that why Marietta and Burton had moved to Ridgefield? Had Marietta been protecting her own mother’s reputation by keeping an eye on Lottie?
“We changed our identities when my mother started getting death threats over things Lottie had cooked up. My mother got sucked into it and couldn’t get out, because she was as guilty as anyone.”
Marietta was wrapped up in her trip down memory lane, so I played up to her, trying to look rapt with her every word. Anything to give me time to think of a way out of this mess.
“Who were the threats from?” I asked.
“Some guy they caught with his hand in the company coffers. He worked for Roth Arlington and suspected it was Lottie and her crew who destroyed his career. He’s long gone now, and once we changed our names, no one ever came after us again. But that didn’t stop my mother from uprooting us every year or two. She was always looking over her shoulder. Before she died, she told me to keep an eye on Lottie.”
“How did the guy who threatened your mother die?” I asked.
Marietta’s face twisted into her Cruella de Vil look.
“Unfortunate accident,” she said.
“Fatal house fire,” I prompted, and Marietta smiled.
With pieces of the puzzle falling into place, I now understood why Scoop had never been able to find Marietta’s backstory—there wasn’t one. She had been reinvented when her mother changed their identities. I also understood why Mrs. Arlington was suddenly afraid that her days might be numbered. She would have known about the “player” dying in a fire way back when because she kept track of everyone she had leveraged. She’d probably suspected that Marietta’s mom had killed him.
“Did Lottie know you’d learned about the book club?” I asked.
Now Marietta laughed and confirmed my theory. “I told her who I was. Seeing her squirm after all the squirming she made my mom do was such poetic justice.”
“I’m guessing your mother crossed the line and Lottie found out she had started the fire that killed the threatening player. Your mother wasn’t looking over her shoulder because she was worried about retribution from other players. It was because she knew Lottie didn’t approve of what she had done, and now she was watching.”
Tom, who had been silent during the entire exchange, was looking at Marietta as if seeing her for the first time.
“Lottie turned on my mother!” Marietta erupted. “She thought my mom was going off the rails—into arson and all, I get that. But she wasn’t crazy. She just wanted certain people out of our lives. And I got back at that crazy old coot Lottie. She thought she was so smart until I told her that her days were numbered. You should see her emails.”
If I ever got out of this, I would definitely track down the digital record. My guess was it would have started right about the time Diva arrived. The emails must have been what convinced Mrs. Arlington that the psychopath next door might come after her.
It was then that Tom shifted his feet, loudly, as if to punctuate a remark. Marietta looked at him like she had forgotten he was there. Her vindictive smile shifted effortlessly to something more angelic.
“You do realize,” I said to Tom carefully, “she’s a nutjob?”
“She’s at it again,” said Marietta.
In a wounded voice, Tom asked, “Did you kill Mark on purpose?”
“I told you it was an accident,” she replied, eyes blazing with challenge. “I was afraid of getting caught starting the fire. When I realized he was dead, I thought it would be convenient if he were blamed for it.”
Then she all but fluttered her lashes at him and added, “Really, what’s the difference?”
I wondered if, while they were distracted, I might be able to knock the gun from Tom’s hand. It was a desperate and fleeting thought, because Marietta turned to me.
“You’re trouble,” she stated coldly. “I knew it the first time I met you—all your questions.”
“It’s my job to ask questions, and by the way, you called me,” I said, and suddenly thought of something else. “Was it you who trashed Mrs. Arlington’s bedroom and study?”
Marietta looked at me in surprise. “It was a mess when I got there. But I found the photos under her mattress, of all places. My plan was to take my time, go through the whole house for more prints and any electronics, and then I heard the driveway alarm. I had to hide downstairs in the powder room until I heard that Goodwin guy leave. That’s when I decided to torch the place.”
Marietta described how she’d run out to the landscaper’s shed, confirming my assumption that she’d found a gas can there. She then hauled it into the house, doused some major furnishings, and barely escaped without injury before retreating. The can had run out of gasoline, so she hurried back to the shed in search of more. That’s when she saw Mark run back into the house.
“By then there was so much smoke. But I had to stop him. He probably knew where Lottie had hidden everything and was returning to get all the dirt. Next thing you know, he’d be the one doing the blackmailing.”
“I thought you said he trapped you and it was an accident when you tried to defend yourself,” interrupted Tom.
“Grow up!” snapped Marietta. “I was defending us both!”
“So you followed him, clocked him, and left him for dead,” I finished. “Did you know I was locked in the study?”
Marietta looked back at me slowly, as if coming back to earth.
“I had no idea,” she said, and I thought those were the first honest words to come out of her mouth.
Tom stared at Marietta for a few moments. Whatever inner debate he was having was decided when he jabbed the gun into my back, steered me toward Burton’s room, and said coldly, “Move.”
Marietta opened the door and, with a spine-chilling smile, called inside, “You have company.”
Three distraught faces turned my way as I was led into the room. Brittany and Scoop were tied to separate bedposts. Tape had been wrapped around their ankles and chests, immobilizing their legs and pinning their arms behind them. Kip was in a chair that had been brought in from the dining room. The tape was wound around him so many times that he looked like a mummy from the neck down. All three had duct tape over their mouths.
Kip’s angry eyes followed Tom as he stuffed the gun into his waistband.
“We have to find out what her backup plan is for those pictures,” insisted Marietta.
Tom patted the gun and said, “As soon as one of her friends gets their head blown off, she’ll talk,” he said. “Now, quick, go get the other roll of duct tape from the garage, because this is almost empty.”
As Marietta hurried out of the room, Tom picked up the nearly empty roll from a nearby table. Could I run into the bathroom before he could get the gun back out of his waistband? I might have time to dial 911.
And then I thought about his threat to kill one of my friends. He just might do that to control me. Was I selfish enough to sacrifice three others just to stay alive?
Tom appeared to know what I was thinking, because he said, “I will hurt them.”
Logic said he would kill us all anyway, but if there was a chance, any chance, I wanted us all alive to take it.
He roughly grabbed my hands, pulled them behind me, and went round them once with tape. He shoved me onto the desk chair and began binding my feet together. I kicked and he ducked, but not before I got off a good foot to his lip. He pulled the gun from his waist and pointed it at Brittany’s temple. She was visibly shaking as she closed her eyes, and tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Okay, I’ll cooperate,” I said.
“Good,” he said, and laid the gun down next to him as he started to tape my ankles, but the tape ran out before he could get more than one wrap.
“Marietta,” he called out, and just at that moment the doorbell rang. Commotion, dog howls, and puppy barks followed.
Tom cursed and said to me, “If you call out, I will kill whoever’s there—and the dogs.”
He ran through the Jack and Jill and paused in front of the mirror to check his lip. And then he was gone.
I immediately got to my feet and hopped over to Kip. I could see that he had been working the tape on his mouth and a small edge at the corner had come undone. I slid onto his lap and said, “This is going to hurt.”
I leaned my mouth over his, grabbed the end of the tape with my teeth, and began to pull. This was definitely not the way I had hoped our first kiss might happen.
The tape slipped out of my teeth several times. Kip moved his head in the opposite direction, and I was finally able to rip it off. I then stood up and turned my back so he could reach my hands with his mouth. It wasn’t easy, because Kip was so secured to the chair that he didn’t have much flexibility. My arms throbbed, bringing tears to my eyes as I tried to keep them within the reach of his teeth.
Tom had done a lousy job of wrapping me, because he had been trying to contain me only while he waited for more tape. Kip was able to bite through and tear enough for me to free one of my hands.
“Lock the doors,” he ordered when my hands came free.
I hopped over to the door, not bothering to take the time to undo my feet. Once they were locked, I hopped into the Jack and Jill and did the same with the two outer doors and then unwrapped the tape on my ankles. I pulled the cell from my jeans and raced back into the room.
“Nine-one-one?” I asked as I pulled open the desk drawer to find scissors.
“No, Tom has my radio,” he said, and instead recited another number, which I plugged in. I held the cell in one hand toward him to speak while I worked the scissors with the other.
The dogs were making quite a ruckus, and I was relieved that Horace, Richard, Max, and Diva were enough of a distraction to allow Kip to complete his call to his captain at the precinct.
When he was done, he said, “Undo Scoop first. He and Brittany aren’t bound as tight.”
The scissors were sharp, and Scoop was free in no time. He scrunched his face in pain as he pulled the tape off his own mouth and then went straight toward a bronze statue of a golfer, grabbed it, and positioned himself near the door. I gathered he’d had a lot of time to think about weapons.
The moment Brittany was free, she ran for a lamp. She too had been thinking of self-defense.
All the while, Kip had been calmly giving instructions: The door was locked, but Tom might shoot the gun through it, so steer clear. Cut through the tape on his right side so he could use at least one hand if they returned before he was completely free. Hand him Burton’s cane. I was to use the scissors as my weapon, and even if someone was shot, I was to ignore the distraction and drive the blades into Tom.
“The same goes for everyone else,” he said. “All we’re doing is buying time. The police are on their way.”
I got through the tape binding Kip’s right side and his feet before I heard the dogs retreating. There were greater gaps between barks until finally there were none. By then, Kip was out of his tape prison, and by the time we heard someone approaching, we were positioned. The doorknob turned, followed by a pounding sound, as if someone was throwing themselves against the door. We heard the same sound against the Jack and Jill.
And then there was silence as whoever it was, presumably Tom, retreated.
I hurried to the window and opened the curtain. It was the window I had assumed gave Burton the outstanding view of the landscape beyond, and I hoped we could escape that way. Better to exit into the yard, where we could spread out and diminish the effectiveness of the gun Tom wielded.
As predicted, the view from the window was spectacular, with distant rolling hills and a lake beyond. The late afternoon brought a halo of light over the valleys. Unfortunately, the windows had decorative bars—the kind designed to look nice but also to protect from unwanted ground-floor entry. The windows essentially imprisoned us.
And suddenly I knew why they had chosen Burton’s room to secure us. If we got free, we would still be jailed. I got a glimpse of Burton’s life with Marietta. If she had chosen fire like her mother instead of withholding Burton’s pills, the poor man would have been trapped.
And then, as if the fog in my brain had finally lifted, I knew Marietta’s plan.
“Let’s go,” I screeched. When the three of them looked at me in confusion, I added, “They’re going to trap us with fire.”
That got Kip moving, and he led us through the Jack and Jill bathroom, giving us the shhh sign as he leaned his head against the door and listened.
“Is everything in the car?” yelled Tom to Marietta.
I didn’t hear her reply, but Tom must have been okay with it, because we heard him hurry past the Jack and Jill door toward the bedroom.
Kip didn’t waste a second thinking things through. He threw the bathroom door open and raced behind Tom with the cane. Tom swung the gasoline can he held toward Kip and caught him in the side of the head. Gasoline sprayed everywhere, including on Kip, who stood in stunned silence as a gash on the side of his head gushed.
Tom yelled to Marietta for help. Scoop jumped in and came down hard with the statue. As Tom crumbled, we heard a door slamming. A moment later, a car peeled from the driveway.
I heard Brittany weeping behind me, though she clung to her lamp in the ready-to-swing position. Kip, now holding his head and still dazed, reached for the wall to steady himself. He was wobbly and made no move to take control. In spite of his gushing head wound, Tom was getting up from the floor while gasoline still flowed from the overturned can.
Tom stared at me for a moment, sadly, I thought, and then he looked so resigned that I knew we were in trouble. He reached his hand into his pocket, pulled a lighter, and tried to flick. The flame didn’t respond. He was about to try again when I yelled at the top of my lungs, “Fire,” and then leaped at him, slamming the scissors down on his hand as hard as I could.