Deadly Intent (5 page)

She had to admit, it was a good act, but not good enough. “Sorry, Ian,” she said with a smile she hoped looked as condescending as she intended it to be. ‘ ‘I may have been gullible as a child, but I’m all grown up now and I’m not buying your pathetic tale. If you were as smart as you think you are, you would have realized that before you came here and made a fool of yourself.”

This time, her words seemed to strike a chord. His mouth compressed to a thin line and his eyes went flat. “Oh, I’m smart all right,” he said harshly. “Smart enough to know that if I went to the Palo Alto police with my story, as pathetic as it sounds, they’d listen. And what do you think they’d do next?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. “They’d go and question Earl, and then they’d come and question Irene. No matter how much she denied Kramer’s accusations, they’d dig into her past, and her relationship with my father. That wouldn’t be too good, would it, Abbie?” He looked smug again. “From what I remember, those two were fighting all the time—loud, nasty rows that could be heard all over the neighborhood. Irene even threatened to leave my father once and that sent him into a rage. You remember that night, don’t you, sis? Sure you do. You ran into your room in tears. Oh, yeah, the cops are going to love hearing all that dirt. And since there’s no statute of limitations on mur

der, my guess is that Mommy Dearest is going to find herself in deep shit.”

Abbie fought back the panic that threatened to shatter her composure. Whether or not Ian was lying, he was right about one thing. If Earl had even one ounce of credibility, the police would have no choice but to check out his story. And turn her mother’s quiet life into a living hell.

“The way I see it, sis,” Ian continued, “I’m entitled to some kind of compensation for losing my father, for Irene leaving me with an aunt who only wanted our inheritance, for my life turning shitty when yours turned out so right. I would have gone to Irene for the money, but from the look of her place, she doesn’t seem to have much. You, on the other hand, seem to have a lot—probably more than you need.”

The realization he had gone to her mother’s house made her angry enough to shout. “You stay away from my mother, Ian, do you hear me?”

“The whole world can hear you, sis.”

“And stop calling me sis.” She looked around her, annoyed that she had allowed him to get to her, and took a deep calming breath. “Let go of the door,” she said between clenched teeth, “or I swear I’ll—“

“A hundred thousand dollars, Abbie.” He was dead serious now. “That’s what I want for my silence. I’ll give you time to think about it, and while you do, take a look at this.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. “It’s just a copy, so don’t think tearing it to pieces is going to do you any good.”

It was a letter, written a week or so before the Palo Alto fire. It was addressed to her grandfather and signed by her mother. In the letter, Irene told her father how badly Patrick was treating her. “I hate him so much, Daddy,” she had

written at the end, “there are times I look at him when he’s sleeping and all I want to do is kill him.”

“Where did you get that?” Abbie asked in a shaky, voice.

Ian’s smug expression had returned. “From the kitchen table where Irene left it for a minute, not knowing I was there. She had threatened to tell my father about the pot she had found in my room, see, so I took the letter and made your mother a deal. I wouldn’t show my dad the letter if she kept quiet about the pot.”

“And she agreed?”

He laughed. “Of course she agreed. She knew damn well what my father would do to her once he saw that letter.”

‘ ‘How did one sheet of paper survive the fire when everything else in the house burned to the ground?”

“I buried it in the backyard, along with some of my other stuff. After the fire, I went back and dug it out. I don’t know why I hung on to that letter all those years. With my dad dead, it had become useless, but for some reason I kept it. Then a couple of weeks ago, out of the blue, my good buddy Earl Kramer calls, and I knew that letter would come in handy.”

Abbie’s tone turned skeptical. “You had it with you, in prison, all this time?”

“No. It was in a suitcase I left with a friend. When I got out, I went to claim my things and there it was, exactly where I had left it, tucked in a book.”

“This proves nothing,” Abbie said, shaking the letter and hoping she sounded more convincing than she felt. “People make threats all the time.”

“Yes, but how many carry them out?”

“I’ve already told you, my mother did nothing wrong! She risked her life to—“

“Tell it to a jury.”

He let go of the door and Abbie slammed it shut, afraid of what she might do to him if she listened to one more word. She tried to insert the key into the ignition, but her hand shook so badly, she had to try three times before she finally made the connection. Then the powerful engine came to life and she tore out of the parking lot.

Five

Her white-knuckled fingers gripping the steering wheel, Abbie drove down the familiar route home on auto mode, unable to stop thinking about Ian’s ridiculous demands. A hundred thousand dollars. Was he out of his mind? She didn’t have that kind of money. Except for thirty thousand dollars in zero coupons she had earmarked for her son’s education, and her prize money from the Bocuse—thirteen thousand dollars she had invested in a bank CD—she had nothing. Not even an IRA.

A cold fear settled in the pit of her stomach. Whether or not Ian’s accusations were true, and she was certain they weren’t, he had the upper hand and he knew it. Just as she knew that he would have no qualms about carrying out his threats. The man had no conscience. The question was, would the police believe Earl Kramer? A man on death row? They might if they started questioning the McGregors’ neighbors, provided they were still around, and found out about Irene’s unhappy marriage, the countless arguments they had heard over those two years.

But why should that matter? Abbie reasoned as she turned onto Elm Road. All married couples fought. She and Jack had had their share of bitter arguments during their stormy, five-year marriage. But she hadn’t killed him, just as Irene hadn’t killed Patrick McGregor. How could she? Abbie’s mother was the most gentle soul she knew. She

was kind, considerate and caring. And she had loved Abbie with all her heart. Why would she risk her little girl’s life in a blazing fire just to get rid of her husband? It didn’t make sense.

If only there wasn’t that letter. Alone, it wouldn’t be enough to convict Irene, but together with the neighbors’ possible testimony and Earl Kramer’s so-called confession, it spelled disaster.

At last, the two-story farmhouse with its stone facade and sloping roof came into view. The downstairs lights were on, a beacon of reassurance and safety. Tiffany, the baby-sitter, would be watching TV with the sound turned low, while upstairs, Ben would be sound asleep, his beloved bat and glove at the foot of the bed.

Pressing the remote control clipped to her sun visor, Abbie waited for the double doors of the two-car garage to open. Once inside, she stuffed the letter in her purse and took a couple of seconds to collect herself before going into the house.

Tiffany, an avid fan of 1940s films, was in the family room, watching an old black-and-white movie from Abbie’s extensive collection. Always alert, however, she turned her head at the sound of Abbie’s footsteps and stood up. She was a lovely nineteen-year-old college sophomore, with long blond hair parted in the middle, expressive hazel eyes and a quick smile. The older sister of three rambuctious boys, she knew exactly how to handle Ben without him being the least bit suspicious that he was being outsmarted.

“Hi, Ms. DiAngelo.”

“Hello, Tiffany. Sorry I’m so late.” Abbie dropped her purse on a chair. “Everything all right?” She rarely asked that question, but tonight she felt uneasy and needed to be reassured.

“Just fine.” Tiffany laughed as she gathered her schoolbooks from the coffee table. “Ben was so hyped up about his game, he didn’t even balk at the sight of the green beans on his dinner plate.”

Abbie smiled. Ben’s aversion for green vegetables was! legendary; her best friend, Claudia, had once told him, ‘ ‘I ( don’t trust, much less eat, anything that’s green,” and; thanks to her, he now assumed he could do the same.

After Tiffany left, Abbie turned off the lights and went! upstairs for one quick look at her son before going to bed, herself. The night-light was on, casting a soft golden glow, on the room, which she had redone the previous year in a baseball theme. On the walls were posters of Ben’s favorite; big leaguers—Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa, Barry Bonds,! and of course, Scott Rolen, the Philadelphia Phillies’ star: third baseman.

Ben was curled up on his side, his hands tucked under his cheek, his red hair mussed. Abbie was filled with a new fear. If Ian carried out his threat, Ben’s life would be affected, too. This was a small town, and thanks to that award she suddenly wished she had never won, the word would spread quickly. Would she be able to protect her son from the ugly publicity that was bound to erupt once an investigation was launched?

He had gone through so much already, she thought—the constant tension in his parents’ marriage, the eventual divorce, the acrimonious custody battle. How could she stand by and watch him be hurt again, see his happy, orderly life thrown into shambles.

For the first time since divorcing Jack, she wished she had a husband to talk to, someone strong and wise who could not only comfort her, but advise her and help her confront the enemy.

A bitter laugh caught in her throat. That definitely left

out Jack. He had never been the knight-in-shining-armor type. He didn’t even care that much about Ben. The only reason he had threatened to take him from Abbie was to get back at her for leaving him. Now that he had moved his law practice to Edison in northern New Jersey and had a girlfriend, he hardly came down to see Ben, preferring to talk to him on the phone or send him expensive presents.

She could talk to Claudia. Wonderful, dependable Claudia, who had seen her through some tough times. And there was Brady, her perennial problem solver. The temptation to turn to both in this time of need was strong, but she resisted it. This was something she couldn’t afford to share with anyone—not even her two dearest friends.

Come on, DiAngelo. She gave herself a mental shake. Snap out of this funk. You ‘we been in worse situations than this.

Had she? Or was she just kidding herself?

Pulling the bedspread over the sleeping boy, she bent down and kissed his forehead. Then, without a sound, she tiptoed out of the room.

Back in her bedroom, where she had always felt so safe, the uneasy feeling she’d had since Ian had approached her refused to go away. It was as if her stepbrother’s bad karma had followed her home, impregnating the walls and threatening to engulf her.

She took her mother’s letter from her purse and read it again. Irene’s spirits must have been at an all-time low that day, because the letter was raw with despair. “I feel trapped,” she had written. “If I leave Patrick, I’ll be left without a dime. If I stay, I may lose my sanity.” And then that last line. “There are times I look at him when he’s sleeping and all I want to do is kill him.

Slowly, Abbie folded the letter and slid it way back into her nightstand drawer, under a stack of old pictures. Then,

as if to reassure herself that she could protect those she loved, she walked over to the French armoire against the wall and opened it. The left side concealed a hanging rack that was filled with winter clothes, while the right side consisted of six shelves and four upper drawers. Only the top drawer was locked, its key hidden behind a stack of towels Abbie slid her hands into the hiding place, found the key and opened the top drawer. Her hand quickly found the gun.

Even though it was not loaded and the ammunition was hidden under her mattress, the sensation of cold metal against her skin was at once reassuring and revolting. She hated guns. The only reason she had bought one was because Jack had threatened to take Ben from her.

“No damn judge is going to keep me from being with my son,” he had told her outside the courthouse the morning of the court’s ruling on the custody case. “Do you hear me?”

She had not only heard him, she had taken him very seriously. From the courthouse, she had gone straight to the police station and applied for a gun permit. Two weeks later, permit in hand, she had gone to a gun shop and taken a long look at the array of weapons in the display case. Sensing her indecision, the shop owner had recommended a 9 mm Walthers PPK. The German-made pistol was light yet sturdy and fitted her hand perfectly.

Once she felt comfortable holding it, he had showed her how to remove the magazine, how to load it and how to work the slide. Then he had demonstrated how to release the safety so the gun was ready to fire. At that point, he had added, all she had to do was pull the trigger.