Kill the Competition (47 page)

Hank Baxter stood on her doorstep, grinning and holding the envelope of Payton contracts.

Belinda squealed with delight. "Thank you, Hank! But you didn't have to drive all the way out here."

"I was scheduled to be in this area already," he said, "and I thought you'd want them right away."

She grinned back. "You're right. You made my day."

"I'm glad."

She held up a finger. "In fact, hang on—lunch is on me."

He waved. "That's not necessary."

"Yes, it is. Come on in. I'll be right back." She laid the envelope on the stairs, then walked upstairs to get her purse, unable to believe her good luck. Mr. Archer would be relieved. They could start all over with Payton. She stepped into her pumps and stole a few seconds to put on her mascara. On the way back downstairs, she rifled through her wallet, withdrawing a twenty-dollar bill. It was the least she could do for badgering the poor man for the past week.

"Here you go," she said at the bottom of the stairs, then stopped.

Hank was in her living room, trying to fold the mattress of the shredded sofa bed back into place. The leather seat cushions were at his feet.

Alarm boomeranged through Belinda. "What are you doing?"

He looked up, then his handsome face rearranged into a scowl. "Dammit, Belinda, couldn't you have stayed upstairs another twenty seconds?"

"What are you talking about?" Then her gaze landed on a glove dangling from his large hand. A padded glove with the APS logo. Stained with the godawful black cherry lipstick that Margo used to wear.

Terror paralyzed her. "Y-you killed her?"

He pulled his hand down his face, then he sighed. "Yeah, but the bitch had it coming." He put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "She killed Jeanie Lawford, you know. I saw her."

"You s-saw her?"

"Yeah. It was late and I had a—" He laughed and put his hand over his chest. "Shall we say a
special
delivery for Margo? I came out of the stairwell just as she shoved Jeanie down the elevator shaft."

Belinda's throat convulsed. "But why would she... do that?"

"Margo said the company would be able to collect 'key executive' insurance on Jeanie—two million bucks. She promised to make me a rich man if I kept my mouth shut, but she didn't pay me enough, thought she could keep me quiet with sex."

Belinda's stomach rolled.
Run,
her mind screamed, but her feet were rooted to the floor.

"I wanted to go with her to Hawaii," he said, walking closer. He laughed. "Can you believe she said no? I called her that night before she was supposed to leave, and she said she'd meet me in the boardroom for a quickie." He gestured to the couch. "These couches were a godsend. We got it on in there all the time." He shrugged. "I didn't mean to kill her, but when I told her I needed more money, she laughed at me, called me a 'delivery boy.' I showed her."

Keep him talking. The girls were on their way. They would see his delivery truck and hopefully they'd know something was wrong. "But how... why did you put the body in the trunk of my car?"

He made a rueful noise. "I'm real sorry about that. But when I carried her down the back stairs, your car was sitting right there. I remembered the trunk latch was broken because I helped you carry that crate of books to your office."

A bell rung in her memory. Of course.

"Seemed like the best thing to do under the circumstances. I hope you understand."

She nodded as if she meant it. "The glove."

"Hm? Oh, yeah, well, later I realized I'd lost my glove in the couch. I found out the couches were sold to employees, but I couldn't find out who had which one."

Monica Tanner, Libby's friend, Rosemary—the phantom break-ins.

"I finally narrowed it down to you, but your place was like some kind of freaking fortress with an alarm system and reporters and that cop friend and that neighbor who looks like Charles Manson."

Her phone rang and Belinda lunged for it. Hank beat her to it and ripped the phone cord out of the wall. The phone upstairs kept ringing. His face was blood red. "No one else had to get hurt, if only you'd stayed upstairs another
lousy twenty seconds."

She started backing up. "You'll never get away with this."

"Oh, yes, I will." He pulled a box cutter from his gear belt. "You're going to write a nice little letter about how you killed Margo and just couldn't live with the guilt anymore."

She shook her head. "Why would I do that?"

"To live a few minutes longer." He smiled. "I might even let you call your folks—do you have folks back wherever you came from?"

She nodded and blinked back tears. Her parents were probably astride burros, lurching their way down into the Grand Canyon.

"Okay, then—where's a sheet of paper?"

"In the kitchen."

"Let's go together."

He grabbed her upper arm with the strength of a vise, then shepherded her to the drawer she indicated. Her mind raced, trying to think of anything she could use as a weapon on his muscular frame. Big Daddy would come in handy right about now.

"Write it," he commanded. "Write 'I killed Margo Campbell and I can't live with myself anymore.'"

She put the paper on the counter and wrote as slowly as she could. Suddenly her doorbell rang, and her spirits soared. But when she moved in that direction, he yanked her back. "Write it now, write it fast. I guess I'll have to say I found you."

Damn the sheet she'd hung over the window—without it, someone would be able to see through the living room and the hallway to where they were standing. She bore down on the pencil as hard as she could, snapping the lead.

Someone was pounding on the door. "Belinda," Carole yelled. "Are you in there? We're late!"

"Dammit," he yelled in her ear. "Get an ink pen and write
fast."
He leaned down and came up with Downey by the scruff of her neck. The cat cried in pain and clawed at the air.

Belinda's heart twisted.

"Do it, or I'll slit your cat's throat right now."

"You'll m-mess it up for yourself," she stammered. "People would know I'd never kill my cat."

He sneered. "Maybe people don't know you as well as they thought."

True enough, she thought sadly. She hadn't let them.

More pounding on the door sounded. "Belinda, are you in there?"

She opened her mouth to scream, but he clamped his hand over her mouth. Except to do that, he had to let go of Downey. The cat landed on the counter, then sank her teeth into Hank's arm. He screamed with pain, and Downey went flying. Belinda wrenched away and ran through the hallway. "Help! Help me!" she screamed at the top of her lungs. "Please, help me!" But before she could get to the door, he tackled her from behind.

They both went down in the hallway, with his crushing weight landing on top of her. Her forehead bounced twice against the parquet floor. Hank rolled off, then dragged her to her feet. Through a haze of semiconsciousness, she realized the pounding on the door had stopped. The carpool had left without her. She was a goner.

Then a horrific crash rent the air, shaking the townhouse on its foundation. Hank fell to the ground and covered his head. The wail of an approaching siren registered in Belinda's mind as she sank to her knees against the stairway. She opened her eyes and stared into the living room at a glorious sight: The front end of Libby's SUV sitting where the bay window used to be. And Libby, pink rollers and all, climbing over the hood of the SUV, heedless of the glass and falling debris. She hefted a tire iron and glared at Hank. "Stay on the floor, you sonofabitch, or I'll spill your brains."

They were the sweetest words Belinda had ever heard.

Chapter 32

The details that Belinda couldn't remember immediately after the crash, the girls gave her while she recuperated in a hospital bed—a one-night's stay for observation, she was informed, in case she had a concussion. Because being observed meant lying in a bed surrounded by flowers from coworkers and having food carried to her on a tray, she went along.

"We brought you the newspaper," Carole said, spreading the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
on the bed. "I'll bet it would have made the front page if that commuter plane hadn't landed on Interstate 75 and backed up traffic to Chattanooga."

Perfect—upstaged by traffic.

"Isn't it a great picture?" Libby asked, preening. "I'm a mini-celebrity in my neighborhood."

Belinda stared at the picture taken from the foyer of her townhouse, showing the nose of the white SUV sitting in her living room. It still gave her chills.
Sometimes, friendships get messy,
Libby had once said. Belinda was incredulous and humbled at the risk the woman had taken. "You're my savior, Libby. What made you think of it?"

"Well, we had to get in there some way. When you didn't answer the doorbell or the phone, we thought you'd driven on by yourself. We circled around and saw the APS truck on the next street. Carole knew it was Hank's truck from the number, then she remembered hearing you say that Hank had helped you carry something up from your car, so we thought he might have known about the latch on your trunk. We got suspicious and came back. That time Carole heard you inside yelling. I called Lieutenant Goodbody, but I was afraid he wasn't going to get there fast enough." She shrugged. "The window was the only way in."

Carole made a rueful noise. "Who would have thought someone who looked as good as Hank could be so evil?"

"Did you know he told the police that he saw Margo push Jeanie down the elevator shaft?" Libby asked.

Belinda nodded sadly. "He told me, too. I'm sorry, girls."

"At least now her family knows the truth. And Margo got hers." Libby sighed and turned in her chair. "I wonder what happened to Rosemary? She was right behind us."

The door opened, and Rosemary tiptoed in, carrying a large canvas bag. She smiled at Belinda. "I thought you could use a pick-me-up." She set the bag on the bed, and a black head emerged.

"Downey!"

"Shh, the nurses will have my hide if they see her in here."

Belinda snuggled the cat to her face and received a good licking in return. "I hope she isn't being too much trouble."

"Not at all," Rosemary said. "I like the company. Libby, did you tell Belinda your news?"

Libby grinned. "Not yet."

"What? Tell me."

"We won the Southern Lotto!"

"You and Glen won the lottery?"

"Not me and Glen—everyone who works for Archer."

"Huh?"

Libby squirmed. "Well, everyone else knows, so I might as well tell you." She winced. "I found the money that Hank stole from Clancy's desk—he dropped it in the parking lot. I know I should have turned it in, but with the number of people in and out of that parking lot, well, how could I even be sure it would get back to the rightful owner?"

"You still should've turned it in," Rosemary chided.

"All right, I should have. But when I found out the next day that the money was stolen from Clancy's desk, I'd already bought lottery tickets for Saturday's drawing."

Belinda gaped. "You bought over five-thousand dollars' worth of lottery tickets?"

"Yeah. But I decided that if I won, I'd share it with everyone in the office."

"And if you didn't?" Rosemary asked.

"I was going to cross that bridge when I got there," Libby huffed. "Why are you complaining? It's going to good use."

Rosemary smiled. "I know."

"What was the jackpot?" Belinda asked.

"Four million, give or take a couple hundred thousand."

Belinda inhaled sharply. "Oh my God."

"I know, I was ready to
pop
not telling you all yesterday at work, but I had to wait for confirmation before I could say anything. I took the cash option on all the tickets, so it's more like two and a half million. But since Mr. Archer is going to pay back the two million in insurance proceeds from Jeanie's death, we all decided to take it out of the lottery money. That leaves us five hundred thousand divided by forty-eight employees, and that's about ten thousand bucks each."