Kill the Competition (45 page)

She pulled back and stared at the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Um, sorry, Perry, I'm just surprised to hear from you. Is something wrong?"

"I thought you'd want to know that when I came home, I saw somebody sneaking around your place."

She swallowed hard. "Was it a man?"

"I guess so—now that you mention it, I'm not sure. By the time I parked my truck, they'd run off."

"They were on foot?"

He hesitated, and she pictured him scratching. "I didn't see a car, but it might have been parked on another street. I figured it was some kind of reporter, and in case they left handprints on your window, I didn't want you to think I'd been peekin'."

"Thanks, Perry. You were right to call me."

"Well," his voice swelled with pride, "I figured you must be spooked, since that cop kept watch all night."

She squinted. "What cop?"

"That big fellow who came around asking me questions. He sat in a cruiser in your driveway all night. "

A warm tingle found its way through the nice, hazy buffer.
Wade.
He must have driven up after his shift to keep an eye on things after he found out she wasn't staying with a friend. She frowned—why hadn't he rung her doorbell?

Because he was afraid he would wind up ringing her doorbell?

Or because he already knew what the detectives had just revealed?

A pecking noise sounded in her ear. "Belinda? Are you there?"

"I'm here. Perry. Thanks for calling. If you see anyone else snooping around, call the police and ask for Lt. Alexander."

"Sure thing. This is some kind of exciting."

She murmured something appropriate and hung up slowly, thinking it was highly unlikely that Julian would be looking for her at the townhouse during the day—unless he'd lost his grip on reality. More likely, it was a reporter poking around. Or maybe the creeper who'd supposedly been breaking into employees' homes?

On a hunch, she walked around the corner and down to Libby's cubicle. She found the woman staring into space with a private little smile on her face. "Libby?"

Libby blinked and looked up. "Yes?"

"I'm glad to see someone smiling. Would you like to share?"

"Not yet... but soon. How'd it go with Mr. Archer?"

"I'll tell you about it later. Would you do me a favor?"

"If I can."

"Would you call your friend in HR and ask her if anyone in the office is out sick today?"

Libby dialed the number, had a brief conversation with her friend, then hung up. "Tal Archer called in sick, but my friend said that was nothing new. Diane Bailey in IT is having knee surgery today. And Clancy called in sick."

"Clancy?"

"Said he has a stomach virus."

Belinda nodded slowly.

"Is there a problem?"

"Too many to count, but thanks for the info." She walked back to her desk, mulling Clancy's possible involvement, or even Tal's, although the Archer heir seemed so uncomfortable with his role since Margo had died that she couldn't imagine him getting rid of the woman who had made his life easier. And the man's sexual orientation contradicted a scorned lover/stalker theory. Clancy's too.

And why either man would be breaking into Archer employees' homes for no apparent reason, she couldn't fathom.

Her phone was ringing when she walked back into her cubicle. At the sound of Hank Baxter's cheerful voice, her hopes rose.

"Ms. Hennessey, I just got a call that a package matching the description of yours has been located."

Her shoulders fell in relief. "Thank God. Where is it?"

"Tulsa."

"Oklahoma?"

He laughed. "Yeah. But I'm having it overnighted to me, so hopefully, it's the one we're looking for."

Hopefully—the catchphrase of her life.
Here lies Belinda Hennessey. Hopefully.

"Thank you, Hank, for all your trouble. Keep me posted."

"Will do."

She hung up and considered calling Wade. She even picked up the receiver, but she changed her mind. What would she say—I'm not a bad person, I just did a bad thing? Was there really a difference once a person passed their tenth birthday?

Right now, she wanted to push thoughts of the investigation as far from her mind as possible. Armed with a legal pad and two pens, she headed toward Brita's work area to begin portioning out Margo's mail and reports. She took a shortcut through the hall in front of the elevators and passed Martin Derlinger as he alighted. He was an oddly shaped person who wore cartoon ties to work and colored Puma tennis shoes. And he was sweating profusely, as if he'd just come in from the outside temperatures. He made brief eye contact, then looked down and headed toward his copy room cubbyhole and his menagerie of tiny stuffed animals. Wade was right—Archer was populated by a fairly exotic group of individuals.

She and Brita were awkward together at first, both skittish in view of the No Entry—APD Crime Scene sticker on Margo's office door, but soon the projects and memos engrossed them past the point of unease. Brita, Belinda discovered, was clever and organized, which, in hindsight, made perfect sense; if nothing else, Margo had been a perfectionist. Belinda was glad for the distraction from the investigation, which hung over her like a black cloud. And for some relief from her guilt over abusing Mr. Archer's trust, when he'd agreed to hire her.

She sent Brita home at 5:30 and carried a stack of memos on a new consumer financing plan back to her cubicle for take-home reading. She needed to stay late but conceded that she didn't want to hang around after hours in a place where dead bodies tended to turn up, armed guard or no. Being a suspect was still significantly better than being a victim. She waved at Libby on the way out, but the woman seemed to be in a fog, albeit a happy fog.

"What's up with Libby?" she asked Rosemary as they headed toward the exit.

Rosemary shook her head. "Maybe the hairspray has finally killed one too many brain cells. If she's still like that when she picks me up in the morning, I won't let her drive." She touched Belinda's arm. "Do you want to stay at my place tonight? I have a sleeper sofa now."

A surge of warmth filled Belinda's chest, but she shook her head. "Thanks, but I have a cat to look after, and I'm fine."

"Okay. See you in the morning."

That evening's commute was pure torture. The traffic was no worse than normal, but without Julian's friendly voice in the sky, or companionship to pass the time, Belinda felt as if she'd aged a year by the time she steered the little yellow Ford into her garage. She expected Perry to be waiting for her, but thank goodness, his truck was gone and there were no reporters in sight. She checked her mailbox, and at the sight of an envelope from the Atlanta Police Department, her heart tripped double-time. When she tore it open, though, she frowned wryly—notice of a court date to pay her fines and/or produce proof of a valid Georgia driver's license. She was a murderer
and
a bad driver.

She walked to the bay window to check the effectiveness of the sheet she'd hung—not bad. The only thing a Peeping Tom would see was the brand of bed linens she preferred. But at the sight of more smudged palm and fingerprints—large ones—she froze. The same person who'd left them before? The person Perry had seen skulking around today? It seemed likely. She swallowed hard and unlocked the front door, carefully turning the dead bolt behind her.

"Downey, I'm home."

Nothing.

She looked to the left into the living room and knew instantly why the cat was in hiding—because she knew one of her nine lives was about to expire.

Torn sheets of aluminum foil were scattered about the living room, the apparent casualties of a war declared by Downey when she'd found her new favorite sleeping spot covered with the offensive stuff. And the feline must have worked herself up into a frenzy, because she'd also exorcised her hostilities on the red leather couch.

Belinda stared at the countless claw scratches, rips and tears in the soft leather. Ruined. Destroyed. Non-repairable.

She burst into tears. Her life was a disaster. She stood, leaning on the doorjamb, bawling like a newborn calf. Was this a sign for her to give up? To go back to Cincinnati with her tail tucked between her legs? That is, of course, if she wasn't locked up in a holding cell by the end of the week.

At a brush against her legs, she sucked in enough air to hiccup. Downey looked up at her with big innocent green eyes, then rubbed her head against Belinda's shin and purred like a clothes dryer. Belinda sighed and squatted down to address the cat, puss to puss. "You were very naughty today."

Downey rubbed herself against Belinda's chin like a contrite child, effectively neutralizing her master's anger.

Even more pathetic, Belinda's heart went out to the cat. "I know how you feel," she said, scooping the recalcitrant animal into her arms. "I wanted to tear Vince apart, too. But it's better to let go of the unhealthy people in your life and move on. We're stuck with each other, and we're going to make it."

She carried the cat to the kitchen and held her with one hand while opening a can of cat food with the other hand. Downey seemed content to snuggle, as if she realized they had come to an understanding. Belinda dumped the meaty food onto a saucer, then stuck it in the microwave for a few seconds. She tested it with her linger for appropriate warmness, then set it on the floor for Downey. The cat's tail fairly shuddered with pleasure at the first warm bite.

Now, Belinda realized, they were friends.

But she had one more thing to do. She retrieved Vince's card from the table, now smudged and wallowed, and reeking faintly of fish and French fries. She ran her finger over his name for old time's sake, telling herself she would remember the fond moments together. With a purple felt-tip marker (Vince thought felt-tip markers were the scourge of all writing instruments), she wrote "RETURN TO SENDER" across the envelope in neat capital letters. Then she walked the envelope out to her mailbox, placed it inside, and raised the red metal flag so the mailman would pick it up tomorrow.

She made a mental note to weigh herself soon, because she suddenly felt as if those added pounds had evaporated. Yet she knew the scales wouldn't reflect the fact that she'd shed the old Belinda Hennessey and the old Belinda Hennessey ways of needing for every day, every hour, every minute of her life to be planned. Life was an adventure, and the most she could wish for were that the good days outnumbered the bad. And along the way, hopefully she would meet people who cared about her, and she would be brave enough to let them in.

The warm summer day was passing through dusk on its slide toward night. The smell of freshly cut grass permeated the still air, and crickets chanted their evening song, mocking the idea that anything could be wrong with the world. At the sound of a car behind her, she turned to see a set of headlights heading toward her. Her heart jumped wildly, but her feet wouldn't move. When she recognized a police cruiser, relief flooded her, but her heart continued to do funny things. Wade slowed, pulled into her driveway, and zoomed down the window. His face was alarmingly comforting.

She walked over and leaned down. "I hear you're doubling as a night watchman."

He reached out to finger a hank of hair that had fallen onto her cheek. "You would be safer inside," he said. "What are you doing out here?"

She glanced toward the mailbox, then back. "Doing something I should have done a long time ago."

He stared at her for a few seconds, then smiled. "Always good for the soul." Then he pressed his lips together. "Truett and Salyers were a little hard on you today."

She shook her head. "They were doing their jobs. I'm so ashamed of that deal I made with Margo, it's just a relief for it to be out in the open. Remember what you said about everyone having the capacity to do something terrible?"

He nodded.

"I didn't think I had that capacity. I guess I didn't know myself very well."

"So this secret deal you made with your boss is why you failed the polygraph."

"I suppose."

He gave her a little smile. "You know only a truly
good
person could be such a bad liar."

She smiled back. "Thanks. I don't suppose you've heard anything from Julian?"

"No, but the general consensus is he's still in town somewhere. We'll find him."

"So, in light of my revelation about the Payton deal, has the D.A. dropped the conspiracy theory in favor of me doing away with Margo all by myself?"

He shook his head. "I don't think the D.A. is sure of anything, but I've convinced her to hold off until we find Hardeman." His jaw hardened. "I just hope Hardeman doesn't find you first."

Her gaze locked with his, and she couldn't look away. "You don't have to be my bodyguard, you know."

"I know."

She waved vaguely toward the house. "Why don't you come in?"

He looked away and shifted in his seat. "I don't think that would be a good idea."

Was he remembering their kiss? Or was he thinking of what he'd heard her confess today? She straightened slowly. "Oh. Okay. Well, I appreciate you coming by, but you really don't have to stay."