Kill the Competition (28 page)

Opening the second box required more fortitude—it contained all the leftovers from her defunct wedding day, packed by her mother and given to her the day she left Cincy. The simple white gown she'd loved wearing, the short veil, the satiny shoes. A pale blue garter, a dried white lily from her bouquet, a tiny satin sack of birdseed.

A lump lodged in her throat when she remembered how happy she'd been that day, so happy that she hadn't realized how preoccupied Vince had been. He had repeated his husbandly vows convincingly enough. If anyone—the groomsmen, Vince's parents, the minister—had known that something was amiss, no one had let on. Indeed, when the day was over and she was still single, everyone had seemed as equally shocked as she.

And if the episode itself hadn't been traumatic enough, the fact that Vince had declined to offer an explanation for his behavior had left her emotionally and physically inert, something she hated herself for even now. Oh, she'd wanted to wail and flail and demand that he account for himself, but since she'd had a good idea that his change of heart had had something to do with their uninspiring consummation, she had swallowed her indignation. And kept the accoutrements of the non-wedding because deep down she'd believed he would reconsider.

In hindsight, perhaps he'd been testing her, to see if she would fight for their relationship, if she would relinquish some of that "arrogant independence" he had accused her of possessing. But if Vince was willing to go to such lengths, to humiliate her to prove a point, then her love was wasted on him.

In truth? She suspected he'd been having second thoughts all along and had forced the issue of sex to either rationalize or allay those fears.

But regardless of Vince's motivation for canceling their life together, she wasn't obligated to preserve the reminders of that ghastly day—or of him at all. She took a deep breath and dumped all the wedding memorabilia back into the box, along with the stuffed animals and other bric-a-brac from the first box that someone, somewhere might find a use for. The photos, cards, and ticket stubs went into the trash. Then she collected empty boxes from her garage and went all around the town house gathering other items Vince had given her: clothing, books, CDs. All of it was going to Goodwill.

She hadn't felt this good since... since Vince.

She was finally putting him and her life in Cincy behind her. Moving to Atlanta was the best thing she'd ever done for herself. She carried the first box outside and filled her lungs with fresh suburban Atlanta air. Gratifying, liberating, invigorating. She was going to live a good life here.

She set down the box, ran the fingers of her right hand along the crooked seam of the trunk and tugged. She had a good job, and she was making good friends. Men did not seem to be repulsed by her. She tugged harder, thinking she might need to get her keys or a screwdriver to compensate for her one-handedness.

She, Belinda Hennessey, had done a very good job of not only getting her life back on track, but was on her way to making a name for herself.

The trunk popped open with enough force to send Belinda stumbling back. Good thing, too, since it put a tad more distance between her and the load that filled her trunk to capacity.

Margo.

Dead.

Belinda opened her mouth to scream, but she couldn't draw enough air into her lungs to make noise. Gasping, she acted out of sheer impulse to erase the unbelievable scene in front of her and slammed down the trunk lid. She sobbed into her hand, then wildly looked around to see if anyone had witnessed the fact that she'd found her boss's body in the trunk of her car.

But no, it was a lovely, quiet day in the Atlanta suburbs—birds sang and flowers bloomed. In a yard across the street and up a gentle rise, children jumped on a trampoline and screamed with laughter. She looked toward Perry's place, but the one time she might have called on the man, his truck was gone. He was at work, of course, like most everyone. And what could he do anyway?

What could anyone do? Blood rushed to her head, and she felt a faint coming on. She couldn't faint, she told herself—she had to summon help. She bent at the waist until the tingling in her brain subsided enough to stand.
 

Walk… run. To her house.
 

Margo was dead. And in her trunk.

How?

She skidded into the foyer. Hysteria pulled at her, and she pressed her fists against her eyes. This could not be happening. She was in the Twilight Zone. What to do first? Her mind raced, the people she knew spinning like a roulette wheel. Who to call?

The wheel slowed, and the ball settled on Wade Alexander. He would know what to do.

She frantically dumped the contents from her purse to find her organizer. The few seconds it took for her to call up his cell phone number seemed like an eternity. Her hands shook as she punched in his number, and she gulped for air. The phone rang once, twice. Her heart pounded in her ears.

"Alexander."

"Wade, this is Belinda Hennessey." She shook uncontrollably.

"What's wrong?"

"You t-told me to call you if anything unusual happened."

"Right."

"S-something unusual happened."

Chapter 20

"Belinda," Wade said, his voice fortified with concern. "Talk to me."

She gulped air, searching for appropriate words. Finding none, she blurted, "My b-boss is in the trunk of my car, dead."

Silence. Then,
"What?
Slow down, and say that again."

Belinda clung to the kitchen counter for support. "My boss, Margo Campbell. I just found her in the t-trunk of my car. She's dead. I d-don't know how she got there, and I'm on the v-verge of completely freaking out."

"Take a deep breath," he said in a soothing tone. "Are you at work?"

"No, I'm at home."

"You're at
home
? Where's your car?"

"Parked in my driveway."

"Are you sure you saw what you think you saw?"

"Yes."

"And how do you know she's dead?"

Belinda started bawling, and she never bawled. "The woman is crammed into my trunk—believe me, she's dead!"

"Easy now. Have you called 911?"

"N-no, I called you first."

"Give me your street address."

She couldn't remember, so she walked to the table, grabbed Vince's envelope, and read her own address aloud. Then she dropped into a chair, trembling all over. "I'm so scared, I don't know what to do."

"Don't do anything until the police get there. Except... do you have a lawyer?" His voice was erratic, as if he were on the move.

She hiccupped—she didn't even
know
a lawyer. "I have nothing to hide! I'll tell the police anything they want to know." She wet her lips. "Wade... will you come?"

"I'm on my way. Hold tight."

Belinda didn't want to hang up—the man's voice was like a lifeline. But she knew he had to take care of business. She disconnected the call and set down the phone with a hand that still vibrated. She sat frozen in place, trying to make sense of the awful scene she'd just witnessed.

Margo, still wearing her raincoat, curled up as if she were sleeping, although her chalky pallor told a different story. What had happened to her after Belinda had left her office, and how had she gotten into the trunk of the Civic?

Belinda swallowed and gagged—she'd been driving around with a body in the trunk of her car. Another stomach roll sent her running to the bathroom, where she heaved the remnants of the stromboli sandwich into the commode.

Afterward, she splashed cold water on her face until she was somewhat revived, then sank to the floor in the dark and pulled her knees under her quivering chin. Downey, who hadn't seen so much emotion commotion since... since Vince, yowled and rubbed against her legs frantically. Belinda reached out to stroke the cat's fur. It felt good to have another living thing nearby.

She'd never felt so alone in her life. She ached to reach out to someone who could make her feel better, but who would that be? She couldn't deliver a bomb like this to her parents. Sure, they'd cut short their cross-country trip and be here before she could say AARP, but to what end? Her mother was losing sleep over her daughter's unorthodox sofa purchase—a body in the car trunk would send Barbara Hennessey over the edge. And her dad would find a way to blame it on the fact that she drove a foreign car.

Libby was at work, and how traumatized would she be knowing she'd driven home last night with a body in the boot, even if Margo was the woman's nemesis. A crazy notion that Libby could be involved came into Belinda's mind and left just as quickly. Libby wasn't a murderer, but if Belinda called her, the news of Margo's demise would spread through Archer faster than the speed of sound, and that wouldn't help the police.

Vince? He would help her if he could, because he wasn't particularly mean-spirited, just chickenhearted. But she didn't relish the thought of calling to admit that her grand experiment of starting over had failed rather hugely.

Julian... now there was a thought. Since he worked for a news organization, he would probably hear about the incident as soon as it hit the police scanner airwaves. But she might have inadvertently involved him when she'd accepted his offer to drive her home last night—she didn't want to implicate him further by asking him to hold her hand through this unthinkable situation. He had a reputation to protect.

The faces of acquaintances from Cincinnati flashed through her mind. Lunch companions, yes—confidantes, no. Libby was right, she had no true friends of her own.

Because you are arrogantly independent. You've never wanted to need anyone, and now that you do, no one is there for you.

A wave of crushing panic loomed large. She felt herself begin to succumb when the phone rang. Belinda stared at the portable unit, then answered in case it was Lieutenant Alexander. "H-hello?"

"Belinda, it's Libby," the woman whispered loudly. "Girl, the shit has hit the fan here."

Belinda put her fist to her mouth—so they already knew.

"The police are in Margo's office, getting ready to question everyone. It's like a lockdown."

Her stomach dove.

"I bet Margo wishes she'd been here to see this. She'd probably fire anyone she remotely suspected."

Well, if anyone could reach back from death and issue pink slips for her own murder, it would be Margo.

"Personally," Libby whispered. "I think Clancy did it."

Belinda choked. "Clancy?"

"I never trusted that man. I wanted to warn you, because the police will probably want to talk to you since you're indirectly involved."

"Th-thanks."

"But don't worry, you'll still get your couch—the truck was already loaded and on its way before anyone found out."

Couch? Belinda squinted. "Libby... what are you talking about?"

"I didn't
tell
you? When Brita stopped by Clancy's desk to get the couch money to deposit, the bag was empty. Over five thousand bucks in cash,
gone."

Belinda exhaled—no one knew about Margo. Yet.

"Clancy says someone stole it, but everyone thinks he took it and is trying to blame someone else. Brita called the police. You're missing out on all the excitement."

Belinda stood and walked into the living room. "Sounds like it." Stepping around the boxes she'd prepared for Goodwill, she peered out the bay window to the rear of her clover green car, where her boss lay in eternal repose.

"I heard they might strip-search everyone." Libby sighed dreamily. "Where's Officer Goodbody when you need him?"

Belinda was thinking the same thing. Panic licked at her neck. "Listen, Libby. I really need to go. I'm expecting... someone."

"Ooh, sounds mysterious. Well, you can tell me all about it in the morning. Remember, Rosemary's driving the carpool. Don't be late."

"I won't," Belinda murmured absently, then disconnected the call.

A headache had landed behind her eyes, but she wasn't about to tempt her stomach with painkillers. Downey's insistent meowing and figure-eights, however, were dancing on her nerves. Belinda lured her into the bathroom, then closed the door in anticipation of the impending activity. The cat complained loudly.