Murder Follows Money (12 page)

“I do?” I followed her gaze to the shabby morris chair across from my equally shabby sofa. I usually sat in the other chair, an undistinguished overstuffed armchair with plenty of room for me, my feet, and my book.

“Yes, with the original finish, it looks like. You could get a nice little sum for that.”

“What’s ‘a nice little sum’? Five hundred dollars?”

She looked at me with pity. “You should read more broadly, Liz. A signed Stickley”—she walked over and peered at the lower edge of the chair, then pointed out the signature to me—”goes for anywhere in the neighborhood of one thousand to five thousand dollars, depending on the finish. This one’s in pretty good condition.” She squeezed the top cushion experimentally. “And what feels like the original cushions and upholstery. Closer to the upper end, I’d say.”

“Goodness.” Right there in my house, I had the means to pay my property taxes. Of course, I’d have to find someone who agreed with Hannah about the value of my chair, and who would give me major bucks for it. That’s always the sticking point with these collectible things. People will say how much they’re worth, but no one steps up to hand over the money. “Do you want to buy it?”

“I’m not doing Arts and Crafts anymore,” she said. “But I do know some dealers who might be interested.”

I imagined her getting in touch with dealers from her prison cell, ordering them to check out my morris chair. It would never happen.

“Certainly you do a good evocation of shabby chic.” Hannah looked at the couch, over which I’d thrown an old quilt to disguise upholstery flaws. I had inherited all the furniture when the two houses had come into my possession, and since it was all still usable, had seen no reason to spend my scanty resources on anything new. The friend who’d been the previous owner had taken good care of her things. Some of them, like the morris chair, must have come from her parents.

“I don’t evoke shabby chic. I’m poor, and I have the furniture of a poor person. We do exist, you know.”

She drew herself up. “Of course I know. I certainly wasn’t born into a fortune. Everything I have, I’ve earned. That’s why I’m not willing to let it all go up in smoke because Naomi”—she blinked and turned her head away— “because Naomi decided to take the coward’s way.” Her last words were muffled. She groped for her crumpled hankie, looked at it, and put it away.

I handed her my clean one. She snuffled into it, then looked at the monogram. “So what is your last name? This is an M.”

“My last name is Sullivan. I get my hankies at the thrift store, with the rest of my linens.” I grinned at her, trying to lighten the moment. “It’s very exclusive.”

She ignored the attempt at humor. “Can I have a glass of water?”

“Of course.” I went into the kitchen and, for a special touch, put ice in a tall glass, which had also come from the thrift store. She followed me, sitting at the table. Her mental calculator was still running.

“This kind of table is collectible now,” she said, examining the cherry-red top, the chrome legs. She pulled out one of the end leaves. “You’ve been using all this furniture? It’s in such good shape.”

“The woman who left it to me had only one child, no grandchildren.” I spared a thought for Vivian, the sweet lady. Every day I blessed her. My cottage may not seem like much, but before it I was living in Babe, and indoor plumbing is the greatest advance civilization has made, in my opinion. I felt lucky to be under my own roof, most of the time. I did not feel lucky to have Hannah and her gun with me.

“That’s a clever idea.” Hannah nodded at my kitchen curtains. “Those old tablecloths are—”

“Collectible, I guess.”

“Actually, they are, but you’ve cut them up, and the sun’s probably faded them, so they’re no longer desirable as tablecloths.” Hannah drank some of her water. She didn’t say anything about it being tap water, no lime, no fizz, but her face was expressive of her feelings. “They make nice curtains, though. Bright.”

“I like them.” I had a stack of Vivian’s tablecloths, which I used on occasion for their rightful function, but their exuberant forties patterns of red apples, yellow bananas, and purple grapes seemed fitting for kitchen curtains at a time of low cash reserves. “You know, this collectible thing is like a made-up value. People see in your magazine and on your TV show that they’ve got something collectible, but nine times out of ten no one will give them anywhere near the money you’re talking about. Don’t you think that’s a disservice?”

“Not at all.” She sipped her water genteelly. Since it looked like she wasn’t going to put a bullet through me anytime soon, I busied myself setting out food; I had gotten up very early that morning, and I was hungry. There wasn’t much to eat, and I didn’t feel like undergoing Hannah’s scrutiny on anything I cooked. I’m not much of a cook, though I can get along okay. But anyone can make a peanut butter and jam sandwich, and when the jam comes from my friend Bridget’s secret blackberry patch, it’s fit for any number of media queens. As a sop to Her Highness, I trimmed the crusts off the bread and cut the sandwiches into fingers. Bridget actually did that to appease her horde of young children, but Hannah was pretty childish in some ways, so I figured it was worth a try.

She sniffed when I put the plate on the table, but I noticed she ate the fingers anyway. “I suppose that stove came with the house?” She pointed to my vintage Wedgewood, which I loved for its glistening white enamel finish and black accents, not to mention the chrome stovetop with built-in griddle.

“Actually, the stove came from the front house. The stove in this house had a bad gas leak, and my neighbor wanted to get one of those big fancy ranges, so he offered me this stove. It’s been very nice. My neighbor,” I added deliberately, “is a policeman. He’ll be home for lunch, and when he sees my van, he’ll be right over.”

“Is he married?” Hannah appeared unconcerned. She helped herself to another finger sandwich.

"No."

She snorted. “You’re just trying to frighten me, Liz. As if any single policeman would paint his house with peach trim.” She glanced out the kitchen window, which showed the back of Drake’s house. “Is he gay?”

I hoped she didn’t notice my blushing. “No.” During the past couple of months, I had had ample proof that Drake was vigorously heterosexual.

“You must think I’m an idiot.”

I didn’t answer that. I had warned her. If she chose to ignore my warning, it would be the worse for her. I just hoped no guns would come into play when Drake found us there.

Hannah used a paper napkin to clean off peanut butter crumbs. “Where did you say the phone was?”

“I said I didn’t have one. I don’t.”

She looked incredulously at the kitchen walls and counters, as if a phone would materialize. “You really don’t have a telephone? But—but how do you call people?”

“I use my policeman friend’s phone. Or I go to a pay phone.”

She considered. “I don’t believe he’s a policeman. I want to use his phone too.

I shrugged, took Drake’s keys off the hook by the front door, and led the way down the walk and across the gravel parking area. The sun struggled feebly to break through the shrouding clouds. My roses looked menacing with their leaves stripped off, pruned into a two-foot-tall, thorn-studded hedge. I visualized shoving Hannah so she was impaled on them. She’d likely just get mad and shoot me, and it’s not in my nature to cause anyone so much pain. Instead, I thought about spring arriving. Assuming I lived to see another spring.

Drake’s kitchen was in good shape. He’d always kept it pretty clean, but the rest of the house had been a different story. Lately I’d been tidying the living room and bedroom, so all the mess had moved back into the spare bedroom. He didn’t like for me to clean his house, but I couldn’t help myself. Order is ingrained in me; it comes from living in confined spaces where if things aren’t put away, there’s no room to move.

The message light was blinking on his answering machine. I didn’t bother to get the messages. One would be for me, from him, ordering me to stay put if I got there, and call him immediately. It was his response anytime trouble found me. I knew the drill. I just couldn’t perform it.

Hannah nodded approval at the big commercial range, the gleaming appliances, the cork flooring and copper utensils. “He likes to cook, obviously.”

“He’s a foodie.” When we cooked together, I was in charge of vegetables. I was good with veggies. Drake handled the complicated main courses he loved to put together. “The phone’s there.”

Hannah dialed, and gestured to me to sit at the table a few feet away. Her hand was on the gun in her pocket again. I did as she asked, though I figured she would hardly shoot me when she was on the phone. I could dash out the front door and run to Bridget’s house. Hannah was in good shape for a woman pushing sixty, but I doubted she could run faster than I could.

“David, this is Hannah. I am at—” She looked at the phone and then at me. I told her the number. The sooner David, whoever he was, called her back, the sooner I could put my plan into action. She gave David’s voice mail the phone number, then hung up to wait.

“I want to hear the news,” she announced. “Does your friend have CNN?”

“No idea. I don’t watch much TV.”

“What’s the matter with you?” She seemed genuinely puzzled. “No phone, no TV. Are you a member of some kind of sect?”

“The Luddite sect? Not really. I just don’t have time for it. I like to read.”

She snorted. “Well, I bet your ‘policeman’ has a TV."

She prowled into the living room and shot me a triumphant look when she sighted Drake’s set. Although we watched movies on it in the evenings, I didn’t know how to turn it on—he was in charge of complicated equipment. For all I knew he watched the news every morning. Despite our close relationship, I didn’t linger in the mornings. With Barker and my garden to tend, and, when I’m working at a temp job, my wardrobe to worry over, I had developed the habit of jumping up at daybreak to be on my way.

While Hannah searched for the remote control, I looked at the clock. It wasn’t even eleven yet. So much had happened, it should have been midnight.

I took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on my dilemma. I had discarded the idea of trying to get the gun away from Hannah. Guns had a way of going off and causing damage.

Instead, I played through the idea of running away. It was the coward’s way, but cowards are safe. I would run over to Bridget’s, use her phone to call Drake, and tell him where to find Hannah. She would never be able to drive Babe in a million years, so she wouldn’t be able to get far. Then it would all be over, and I could explain to Judi Kershay why everything had turned out so badly. I didn’t relish that task, but I wasn’t coward enough to duck it.

The TV squawked to life. Hannah punched buttons on the remote, looking for news. I inched toward the front door. It would be easier to get out the back door, but she might notice I was gone before I could get down the drive with its crunching gravel. The front door would give me a better start. I didn’t think she would shoot me; that would cause a stir in the neighborhood.

". . . will bring pressure to bear through the International Monetary Fund for the present,” the announcer boomed from the TV.

“Good. Here’s the news.” Hannah settled onto the couch. She pointed the remote at me, as if I too could be commanded by it. “You sit down. Stop hovering near the door. You make me nervous.” She patted her pocket suggestively.

Obedient to the remote, I sank into a chair. At least it was close to the door. I went through it in my mind—the dash over there, the unlocking of Drake’s two locks, getting down the steps and out to the sidewalk and far enough down the sidewalk to be out of her range of fire. The more I thought about it, the less I liked the odds.

“In other news, beloved lifestyle maven Hannah Couch has vanished after the suspicious death of her business partner, Naomi Matthews,” the announcer intoned. A picture of Hannah posing with a bowl of cookie dough, looking much as she had in BigMart, filled the screen. Her motherly smile and apron made her seem like everyone’s favorite grandmother. Looking at the picture, you might not realize what an out-and-out bitch she could be. “Police fear Ms. Couch was abducted by her driver, Elizabeth Sullivan.” Another picture flashed on the screen. I blinked, hardly recognizing the mug shot taken of me nearly ten years previously. “Ms. Sullivan, who has a criminal record for attempted murder, was employed as a temporary driver during Ms. Couch’s publicity tour, which was to continue today in California. Police are investigating both Ms. Matthews’s death and the alleged abduction.”

Hannah pointed with the remote control, and a deep silence filled the room. We looked at each other.

“Attempted murder?” Hannah’s voice was casual, but I saw strain in her eyes. “Did you—are you the person who killed Naomi?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I jumped to my feet. “I barely knew the woman. I went to jail ten years ago for trying to kill my ex-husband before he killed me. That’s why I don’t like guns. I don’t like people who take other people’s lives. And you’ve really messed me up. I depend on temporary work, and who’ll ever hire me now? You have a lot to answer for, Hannah Couch. How dare you ride roughshod over my life?”

She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, the phone rang. I made no move to answer it. After all, it wasn’t my house. Hannah backed away from me, her hand in her pocket, and stood beside the answering machine until it clicked on. After a minute, I heard a man’s impatient voice. “Hannah? Are you there? What’s going on, anyway?”

Hannah snatched up the phone. “David. I—I just heard that I’ve been abducted.”

“You mean you haven’t?” Somehow she’d tripped the speaker phone button, and David’s voiced invaded the room. “Woman, the police are looking everywhere for you. What on earth are you up to?”

“Well, I just had to—you know—get away.” She sounded much less sure when speaking to her attorney. Perhaps he could influence her to stop this ridiculous scene we were involved in, before my last existing shreds of reputation were destroyed.

“Did that woman abduct you? Are you free? Because if you are, you must go immediately to the closest police station and tell them who you are."