As she had an early morning appointment with a potential rental client scheduled for the next day, Sheila Jenkins decided to leave Kim’s bachelorette party at La Porte Bleue earlier than the rest of the ladies. Truth be told, in the short amount of time she’d been in the private party room they’d hired for the occasion, she’d had her fill of fondue and wine. She couldn’t recall if her headache had been simmering earlier in the day or if the revelry had triggered it, but she was no longer having fun. She felt guilty for cutting out early, but if she stayed, she feared she’d become a wet blanket on the festivities. Besides, she barely knew the other women—all close friends of the bride-to-be—with the exception of Kim’s older sister, Lisa.
They had graduated high school together, followed by a two-year encore as BFFs at Mount Hood Community College before going their separate ways. For Lisa, that had meant a business degree, a husband and two children—a boy and a girl, naturally; for Sheila, the intervening years featured a real estate license and an ill-advised marriage, followed by a why-the-hell-did-she-wait-so-long divorce.
Although Sheila had no issues with Kim—their interactions were pleasant and polite rather than chummy—she felt she was really there to catch up with Lisa rather than celebrate the upcoming nuptials. But, as host of the party, Lisa had little time to spare for Sheila, and before long, Sheila felt she had become conspicuous by her outsider status. The others sent her furtive glances, then she overheard whispered questions, all amounting to the same thing: “Who is she again?” “Oh, right, the sister’s friend.”
When Lisa informed Sheila it was a little black dress party, where only the bride wore another color—Kim chose an electric fuchsia—Sheila had thought she might blend in, another face in the crowd. But she had little in common with the other women, coworkers or long-time friends with shared jobs and clubs and routines, with their own private little verbal shorthand, honed over the years. On another night, without commitments hanging over her head, Sheila might have made the effort to crack the code, but she chose the path of least resistance instead.
With the legitimate excuse of a budding headache and an early morning appointment, she tapped Lisa on the shoulder and whispered her intention to leave. Lisa flashed her a sympathetic face, but the gesture was fleeting, almost perfunctory, and the offer to walk her out of the restaurant vanished without a trace as another moment of head-pounding hilarity erupted around the table. So Sheila slipped out, depressingly certain that no one would miss her.
She picked up her linen jacket on the way out, crossed the street and tried to remember where she’d parked her five-year-old silver Camry. Parking had been at a premium when she arrived and she’d managed to find a spot on a side street a few blocks away from La Porte Bleue. As she walked on her two-inch heels along the uneven asphalt, she felt a little wobbly.
Should’ve had more fondue, she thought, and less wine.
Lightheadedness on top of the building headache lent the streets around her a surreal quality, as if she’d stepped out of one world into another. A shroud of mist caused surrounding streetlights to glow eerily. A chill in the air made her shudder. Then she wondered if the chill had been responsible, or her sudden isolation. Reaching into her clutch purse, she pulled out her keys.
Down a narrow side street, she spotted her Camry in front of a white Ford Econoline van with a THOMAS ELECTRIC sign on the side, the lower case L taking the form of a stylized lightning bolt. As she passed the van, she glanced through the driver’s side window, a quick peek, not wanting to attract a stranger’s attention when she felt a little tipsy and vulnerable. Not when the world seemed to have skipped off its track. But nobody sat in the van.
She exhaled suddenly, unaware until that moment that she’d been holding her breath as she approached the van.
With the tension gone, she mentally kicked herself for not switching on her business persona at the party. She should have passed out her Forrester Cade Realty business cards, asking for referrals, mentioning available properties. But even as she entertained the idea, envisioning that alternate reality where she shamelessly promoted the business—which had seen better days—she rejected the notion. She couldn’t be that person, making the event all about her, grabbing the bride’s spotlight and shining it on herself. Of course, that kind of behavior would ensure she’d never receive invitations to any social gatherings ever again.
So there’s a positive, she thought, laughing at her self-pitying, misanthropic mood—and promptly dropped her keys.
Crouching down to scoop up the plastic key fob, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. A car door squeaked behind her. She stood up straight—without her keys—and backed away as a dark shape rushed her from the van.
She squealed in fright, as if jolted with electricity.
The driver must have been hiding below the window line of the van, waiting for her to pass before jumping out. He pointed down to her keys.
“Let me help you with that.”
“No! I don’t need any—”
Instead of reaching for the keys, his gloved hands came at her face.
His own face began to transform into something hideous, as if he were becoming evil incarnate. Too startled to scream, unable to find her voice, she stared in horror. An instant later, strong hands wrapped around her neck and clutched her jaw, twisting violently. Something snapped, a sharp spike of pain overwhelmed her, and then nothing—
* * *
With practiced efficiency, he carried the woman’s body back to the van, slid the unlocked side door open, tossed her in, and slammed the door shut. Five seconds from start to finish. He fetched her car keys, stuffed them in his trouser pocket and returned to the van.
After starting the engine, he swung the van around her Camry and drove down the side street, unnoticed. Later, he’d remove the large magnetic Thomas Electric signs he’d slapped on each side panel of the van and replace them with one of the other half-dozen signs he carried in order to confuse witness descriptions of his vehicle. And, later still, he’d come back and dispose of the car to muddle the trail for the police. But first he needed to dump the body. The car could wait.
In a few days, none of it would matter anyway.