Hex on the Ex (30 page)

“Gretchen goes by her maiden name now. What happened to her marriage?” I said.

“Randy left her for another woman last November,” Marion said. “We never tell Jarret anything about her. That first weekend he brought you home from college to meet us, Gretchen sat in her car in front of our house. Bud finally went out and told her to leave. After she married Randy, we thought her obsession with Jarret would be over, but she sent Jarret letters and birthday cards at our address for years. I threw everything away, unopened. It wasn’t easy to avoid her—Bull Valley is only a few miles away.”

“What about her family?” I said.

“The father died before they moved here,” Marion said.
Schelz is in prison for life. Close enough.
“She had an older sister and a much younger brother.”
Three children—same as the Schelz family.

“Had?” I said.

“About a year after Gretchen married Randy, her mother, sister, and little brother died in a horrible house fire,” she said. “There were rumors about arson but no arrests.”

I had heard three stories about fires within twenty-four hours: The address Margaret Smith gave the prison burned last December, a month after Gretchen’s husband left her; Gretchen’s family died in a fire; and someone torched my former townhouse last night. Coincidence or connected? As I edged closer to Jarret’s neighborhood, I ticked off a list of Gretchen’s lies—her name, her marriage, her lack of siblings, her relationship with Jarret’s parents, and the timing of her mother’s death.

“Did Gretchen know your garage door code?”

“All of Jarret’s friends did,” she said.

“One last question. Did you ever hear Gretchen talk about devil worship?”

“I would have barred her from my house if she did. Liz, you’re worrying me. Was Gretchen the woman who died at Jarret’s house?”

“No, Marion. The victim was Laycee Huber, a woman Jarret and I knew in Atlanta. Jarret told me a little about Gretchen last night. Margaret Smith’s name came up during the investigation. I didn’t know Gretchen and Margaret were the same person until you told me. She moved to Los Angeles a few months ago using her maiden name.”

Her voice sank. “Jarret didn’t tell us. I pray he’s not involved with her again. That woman is disturbed.”

I
passed the entrance to the 405 on Sepulveda and as I drove under the freeway bridge marking the end of the business district and the beginning of the upscale residential section, the driver behind me tooted his horn. I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw a familiar red sports car with the convertible top down. Jarret tipped his Ray-Ban Aviators and, oozing charm, flashed his celebrity smile—the wide, cocky grin he broke out in public. A heart-melting, bad-boy expression a girl could and would fall for. I did, a long time ago. So had Gretchen.

He maintained a car length’s distance behind me until the turn on Royal Oak Road, then he playfully tailgated me on the slow wind through the sunlit arc of lush green trees leading up the hill. Two blocks from his street, he eased back. In the rearview mirror I saw him talking on his headset. Definitely not smiling. I swung my car up his asphalt driveway
and stopped at the apron of pavement in front of his garage. Jarret parked next to me, still deep in conversation. I heard him before I got out of my car, his voice resonating loud through the quiet of the sheltered neighborhood.

“For God’s sake, Ma, I saw Gretchen once and only because she begged me. I wouldn’t be seen in public with her, much less date her. There’s nothing going on between us. There never will be. I dumped her years ago—why would I care about her now?” From the agitated twist on his face, I assumed Marion Cooper had hung up from me, made a pot of coffee, lit a cigarette, and called her son to offer an opinion on his renewed contact with Gretchen.

I stood away from his car to give him privacy although he spoke loud enough for anyone within driving distance to hear the contemptuous description of what he called a one-time pity dinner with Gretchen. While I waited for him to finish, I gazed at the house with a tinge of melancholy. The front door stood centered between bushes lining the windows to a gourmet kitchen suitable for a master chef, and the sliding glass doors to the bedrooms we had planned as guest rooms or offices. The living room, great room, and master suite created an
L
across the back of the house, facing the pool, custom brick outdoor kitchen, and the landscaped yard.

After Jarret bid his mother good-bye, I turned, bracing for the backlash.

He got out of his car, his tan barely masking his red-faced anger. “You riled my mother over a pathetic case like Gretchen? Are you
serious
?”

“Very serious, and stop shouting.” I walked ahead of him to the front door stoop then turned. “You must realize
Gretchen is infatuated with you again. There are a few things we have to talk about before you see her tonight.”

“See Gretchen? What makes you think I’m seeing her tonight?”

“This morning at the gym she told me the two of you are having dinner together,” I said.

“That’s crazy. I’m staying home, alone. Why are you talking to Gretchen and why the hell did you call my mother about her?”

“Please listen to me, Jarret. Gretchen’s been lying to you.”

He folded his arms. “About what?”

“Do you know who Margaret Smith is?”

“No. And why should I give a damn?”

“She’s the daughter of Herrick Schelz, a devil worshiper serving life for murder in the Indiana State Penitentiary. I saw the symbol the killer left on Laycee in a pamphlet Schelz wrote, and a copy of that pamphlet surfaced recently at a liquor store in Sherman Oaks. Dave traced Margaret Smith to an address in Bull Valley. I called your mother to ask if she knew her.”

“What the hell does all of this have to do with Gretchen?”

“Gretchen
is
Margaret Smith, Jarret. She’s known the symbol since childhood. Your mother confirmed Gretchen knows your garage code. I think Gretchen came here that morning to surprise you, saw Laycee in your bed, and killed her out of jealousy.”

He staggered back a step, wide-eyed. “Pratt asked me about women I’m dating. I didn’t even think to mention Gretchen. What a freak. Are you sure?”

“Sure enough to take this information to the police. I’m worried Gretch—” The front door flew open behind me.

“Liz!” Jarret lurched forward, sweeping me to the side with his hand. I stumbled off the stoop into the bushes, stunned, as Gretchen plunged a knife into Jarret’s left shoulder, ripping through his flesh. I scrambled to the pavement on my knees, grabbed at her legs, and jerked her off him. Jarret staggered back. The knife clanged to the pavement.

“Why won’t you die?” Gretchen yanked a fistful of my hair. “I stabbed you in his
bed
. I burned your house. What are you? Why won’t you die?”

I shoved at her chest. She lunged for my throat. Jarret wrapped his right arm around her waist, yanking her off me.

He held her mid-air, blood pouring from the slash on his shoulder. She thrashed, wild-eyed and kicking. His face blanched from pain—I knew he wouldn’t be able to hold her mid-air for long. I bent my knees, loaded my strength, and drove my fist into her stomach. The impact knocked the wind out of her. Jarret let go. Gretchen fell to the pavement, facedown and gasping.

Jarret pinned her down with his knees, blood seeping from the gaping wound on his shoulder. I ran to my car, pulled out my phone, and called 911.

“Let me go, Jarret,” Gretchen pleaded. “You love
me
. You’ve always loved me. I’m not going to let her have you again.”

The operator confirmed an ambulance and squad car on the way as I dashed into the house, phone to my ear. I turned on the kitchen faucet and dampened two hand towels. An unopened bottle of Jarret’s favorite scotch and two raw steaks on a broiler pan sat on the counter next to the sink. A salad bowl filled with lettuce stood beside a sliced tomato
on a chopping block. Gretchen must have let herself in, and was preparing dinner for Jarret when we arrived.

Outside on the driveway, she begged Jarret to let her go, her voice so clear I realized she had heard all of Jarret’s insults and my accusations. I wrung out the towels and rushed back to Jarret.

“Don’t let her touch you. She’s not human,” Gretchen said, struggling to turn beneath the pin of Jarret’s knees as I ripped his shirt away from his wound. “Let me go. We can be together.”

“Shut up, Gretchen,” I said.

“I’ll never shut up. I’ll never stop hating you. I’ll find a way to kill you somehow. You stole my life. I’ll get vengeance. You’ll see.”

Jarret winced in pain as I gently wiped blood off the slash in the muscle curving around the top of his shoulder and arm—his pitching arm. Gretchen spewed a continuous stream of obscenities. But neither Jarret nor I spoke.

Both of us knew the damage to his shoulder would end his season, perhaps his career. I pressed the towel on the open wound to control the bleeding and used the other to wipe the sweat off his forehead. Worried he would pass out or go into shock from the loss of blood, I draped the towel around his neck to keep him cool as sirens blared from down the street.

E
MTs lifted Jarret to a stretcher and took him by ambulance to Encino Medical Center. Gretchen, arrested on the scene for attempted murder, was handcuffed and put
in the back of a squad car for a ride to the Van Nuys jail. I gave the remaining officers a statement and asked them to contact Carla Pratt, and then got in my car to meet Jarret at the hospital.

On my way down the hill I phoned Nick.

“Where are you?” he said. “Did you get my messages? Weisel called from the liquor store. He snapped a cell phone picture of the pamphlet woman. I e-mailed you her photo.”

“Let me guess. Short-haired brunette around my age in a green dress? Bought a bottle of scotch?”

T
wo hours later I waited in the Encino Medical Center Visitor’s Lounge for news on Jarret’s condition with Nick, Dave, Robin, and my parents seated in club chairs around me. Mom, still in the calypso-themed canary yellow pedal pushers and ruffled blouse she wore for Dad’s hastily canceled party, rose every five minutes to inquire at the desk about Jarret. As soon as she heard he saved my life, her attitude toward him shifted from furious back to fond, bordering on doting. His agent, Ira, paced in front of us, fielding calls from the press on his headset.

Robin sat at my side staring at Nick’s phone with Weisel’s photo of Gretchen in the liquor store on the screen. “I can’t believe Gretchen thought it was you when she killed Laycee.”

“After my conversation with Marion, I realized Gretchen resented me all these years for marrying Jarret. Meeting me at the game personified her hatred, and then, when she stole into Jarret’s house the next morning, recognized the shirt I was wearing on his bedroom chair, and saw a naked woman
with my shape and coloring in the bed—she went berserk. Her sheer hatred for me blinded her from seeing Laycee.”

“It takes a cold heart to stop and mark a victim like she did,” Dad said.

“Sealed the vengeance. A message to Liz.” Nick’s words made me shudder. “And Weisel can confirm Gretchen’s connection to the symbol.”

“If the case gets to trial,” Dad said. “She might plead out. Or she could try pleading insanity.”

Dave shook his head. “I doubt if she walked into the bedroom knife in hand. Going back for the knife signals intent.”

“Her indifference to her mistake is stunning. Amoral. She showed no signs of empathy or remorse at the gym on Thursday. Gretchen barely flinched when Tess and I talked about Laycee.” I stiffened. “Oh my God—Tess’s dream.”

Nick looked at me with puzzlement. “What are you talking about?”

“The night after the murder, a woman at the gym had a dream about me, Laycee, and a cheerleader fighting over Charlie Sheen on a lifeboat. I thought Tess was out of her mind, yet Marion Cooper told me Gretchen was on the pep squad in high school. How strange is that?”

“Not strange at all,” Mom said. “Dreams are important. The lifeboat represents uncontrollable emotions.”

“And the Charlie Sheen appearance in the dream is obvious,” Nick said.