Chapter 64
When Annie and Jon walked up to the bed and breakfast, she could have sworn a curtain moved. Probably that nut job of a woman who wanted her phone. Well, she didn’t have it. Even if the woman searched her—and what kind of crazy thought was that?—she wouldn’t find her phone. It was safely in Beatrice’s hands. In any case, she girded her loins in preparation for seeing that woman again.
When Jon and Annie walked in, the door closed and locked behind them. Annie turned quickly and here stood the woman, stone faced, holding Annie’s bag in one hand and a gun in the other. “I knew you’d be back,” she said with a strange, twisted grin.
“Put that thing down!” Jon said with such a thick French accent that Annie wasn’t quite sure that was even what he said.
“Listen, Frenchy, in this country, the person with the gun is the boss. Now both of you head for the dining room,” she said. “And put your hands where I can see them. Not a word from either of you, or I will start shooting.”
No. This could not be happening. Annie raised her hands as her eyes searched for a weapon. There was no way she could get to anything without being shot. Her head was throbbing, pulse racing.
“What do you want?” Annie said.
“I want your phone, then I want you to sit down in that chair. Your French friend there is going to tie you up for me.”
“Absurd. I will do no such thing,” Jon said.
The woman lifted her gun and pointed it at Annie. “I’ll shoot her if you don’t.”
“Do what she says.” A small voice came from behind her. Annie turned her head. “Elsie?” She was tied up, and sitting in the opposite corner. There was a dim light coming in from the kitchen, but the dining room was dark. Annie couldn’t see if there were others behind Elsie. She knew there were other guests. Where were they?
“Where are the other guests, Elsie?” Annie asked.
“Gone Christmas caroling,” the woman said, and shoved Annie in the chair. “Won’t they be surprised when they come back?”
Annie didn’t answer.
“Give me your phone,” the woman demanded.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have it.” She patted the outside of her pockets. “Check if you like.”
She did. Annie was surprised at the strength of her touch. And by the way her body was reacting to it. She shivered from fear and disgust. What was going on here? Is this the woman who tried to kill Sheila? The woman responsible for maybe three deaths? For spreading poison in Sheila’s basement?
“Where is it?” she hissed.
“I left it at Bea’s,” Annie said. Her mouth was dry with fear.
“Tie her up with that rope on the floor there.”
Jon stood and looked at her, as if he didn’t understand. He trembled, scared. Poor old soul.
“Move it!” she ordered.
Jon did as he was told. But he didn’t tie the rope tight enough.
“Tighter!” the woman demanded.
Annie’s arms already ached. Her underarms sweated profusely; she felt the moist heat as air entered the spot between her jacket and her arm. Jon yanked at the rope until her wrists were raw. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Annie nodded. Now that she was tied up, what could she do? What was this woman capable of? Rule one, if you are kidnapped or held against your will, is to talk to the person. Try to reason with her.
“I’m not sure what you want. Maybe we can give that to you,” Annie said, her voice shaking.
“Hmph,” the woman replied. “What I want is gone. Nothing you can do about that. I killed him. Her. Whatever the hell he or she was.”
The woman’s face contorted, horrified. “I thought, finally, that I could be happy.”
“We’ve all been there,” Annie said, each word an effort now. Her body had been taken over with shivers. What did she mean “he or she”? This woman wasn’t making any sense.
The woman was still pointing the gun at Jon. He was so pale that Annie thought he’d pass out any minute.
“But there’s no man worth going to prison for,” Annie said, fighting off a sudden, overpowering sleepy sensation. How could she be so tired? Concentrate.
“Hallelujah!” Elsie shouted from the corner.
“I know that!” the woman said. “I took care of it. Thought it would be all right until you came along, Ms. Reporter.”
“Look,” Annie said, fighting to keep her voice from shaking. “Just let us go and we’ll forget all of this ever happened. Really. Just go back to where you came from, let us go, and we’ll call it even, okay?”
The woman began to sob like a child. “I don’t know, I don’t know . . .” She kept repeating it. She was having a breakdown right before their eyes. But she still held the gun on Jon. “I thought he was so perfect. One cheating husband. Another man who turns out to be a disguised woman!” She held the gun up higher, still pointing it at Jon.
The look on Jon’s face was scary, something between frightened and resolved. He was gathering courage to make a move. Annie hoped she was wrong about that assumption. But his jaw hardened. Annie held her breath.
“I don’t follow,” Annie said.
“Sam! Sam’s real name was Sharon. She used me to get to Sheila’s scrapbooks. And to get into the security office on the ship. Fool! She dressed up as a man to fool me. I’m a fool!” she raged.
“Cumberland Creek Police!” came a voice from outside, toward the front of the house. “Come out with your hands up!”
The woman was shaking now. The gun still pointed at Jon.
“I’ll shoot him!” she yelled. “Don’t come in. I’ll shoot him.”
“The hell you will,” Jon said, and lunged for her. At the same time her weapon fired. Jon fell to the floor with a thud.
“Jon!” Annie screamed, trying to get to him, rocking her chair forward, as the front door came flying open.
Later, Annie wished she had passed out, wished she didn’t remember the sordid details with her trained reporter’s eye. The details that would haunt her forever. She’d never forget the look on Elsie’s face as the woman turned to her and shot her straight in the shoulder, then the sound of the chair and her body falling over. The scent of the discharge. Blood everywhere. And Annie’s hands tied behind her back. She could do nothing.
She watched the police and medics as they swooped in over Jon and Elsie. One of the medics nodded at the other. They were both still breathing. Both still alive.
She watched as the formidable shooter was escorted out of the bed and breakfast, looking sheepish and deflated.
Detective Adam Bryant found Annie in her chair and didn’t say a word. The look on his face spoke volumes. He untied her hands, himself shaking, his jaws taut with emotion held back.
“Christ, Chamovitz,” he finally said. “What am I going to do with you?”
It was then that she reached for him as he lifted her from the chair. She wilted into his arms, right when her half-crazed-with-worry husband walked into the room.