No Gun Intended (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-six

Nancy Bigelow was not a big woman. Not as tall as me and too thin, in my opinion. She's what I call rich thin. The rich thin choose to skip meals and eat salads with no dressing and drink chenin blanc because it has fewer calories. Well, Nancy drank more than that, but still. The rich thin have personal trainers and they've never worn a dress size bigger than four. Their favorite exercise is tennis because they get to wear little skirts to show off their legs. They aren't powerful servers, but they're good at the net. When they throw parties, they have them catered, even dinner for six. And they're eternally disappointed in their daughters, who are not athletic, prefer meatloaf over salmon, and have meaty calves that make knee boots a tight fit.

We stopped on the stairs, facing each other, me coming down, she coming up, and I thought,
I can take her. She's rich thin.

But we didn't move. She was clearly surprised to see me, given the widening diameter of her eyes, and I was, at the very least, not happy to see her. I didn't know whether to chase her down the stairs, or let her pass and trip her when she did, or turn and run upstairs, leading her to my
compadres
.

I did none of these things.

I sat down, pulled out my phone, and speed-dialed Mickey.

“She's here,” I said, when he picked up. “On the stairs.”

I dropped the phone back in my purse and smiled at Nancy. “We got you.”

And then, swear to God, she did the impossible.

She pulled out a gun.

Number three, by my count.

She pointed it at me and said, “Stand up.”

I didn't. “What is
that
one called, a Panther?” It was black and sleek.

“Stand up.”

I stayed seated. “Where in the world did you get another gun, Nancy?”

“That would be from me,” answered a voice from further down the stairwell. Approaching footsteps brought another woman into my view.

It was Greta.

How in the hell did Nancy and Greta know each other?

“Wow. Greta.” I managed to look cool, or at least, I hoped I did. “Great to see you again, and did you know your name is an anagram for ‘great'? I mean, that's truly great.” My knees were starting to knock, and I was ready to let my bladder loose.

“She called Mickey, her boyfriend,” Nancy informed Greta.

“Fiancé.” I corrected her. “You're the first to know.”

“Shut up. Get up. And come with us.” Greta walked up to me and grabbed my T-shirt, pulling it toward her. I resisted, but Nancy got closer with the Panther. So I stood up.

“Where to?”

“This level.” They shoved me out onto the fourth floor of the parking garage.

“I have to pee.”

“Too bad,” they replied in unison.

“Mickey's on his way with a zillion cops.”

“So what.” They were sounding like a Greek chorus.

“He'll find us on level four.” My phone was still on. I hoped Mickey was listening and that he could hear me.

Then I saw the skybridge. The walkway over the roadway that leads into the terminal. And I thought,
Nancy isn't going to shoot me. Not in this garage, with people nearby. She's smarter than that.

But then I thought,
Greta is bad ass.

Nancy had the gun in my back. Greta had her arm looped through mine, like we were in love, or sisters, or both. With Greta, anything was possible.

“Skybridge?” I asked, loudly.

They walked me over to it and just as we entered, a group of high-schoolers was exiting, taking up a lot of room as groups of high-schoolers will do, which made the three of us have to shift position. Greta turned so that our backs were against the railing. Nancy put her gun inside her jacket so it wouldn't be noticeable.

I saw my opportunity.

“Hey! Anyone know where the closest ladies room is?” I yelled.

The kids giggled and one pointed toward the terminal “You'll see signs, up ahead, take the escalator…”

I didn't hear the rest. I had brought attention to us, and that's all I needed to twist myself out of Greta's hold and slap her across the face.

“Whoa, lady! WTF?” a boy in an Oregon Ducks cap shouted, but the kids just stood there.

I ran.

Greta ran after me, followed by Nancy, I assumed.

Like I said before, I can run, but it was a shame that Greta could, too.

She caught up and tackled me, and we both fell to the floor. My purse went flying and I saw my cell phone skitter away. Nancy rushed to us while Greta was getting to her feet.

I grabbed Nancy's ankle, and she fell, the gun following the path of my phone.

Nancy screamed, and I scrambled to my feet, only to see Greta coming at me.

I was leaning against the railing, and at the last minute I dodged her. The railing hit her hard in her solar plexus.

It knocked the wind out of her, I guess, because she gasped for breath.

Then she pulled out a knife.

There was nothing I could do but save myself.

I ducked, took hold of her legs, and tossed her over the side of the skybridge.

Greta wasn't rich thin. She landed hard, right on top of a bright yellow Fiat 500. I always liked those cars, but I'll never get one after watching Greta's torso land splat on the roof, her head falling over the windshield like she had just dropped in to say hello. The car screeched to a halt and a young couple jumped out, screaming.

I heard other screams behind me, and people running.

I turned around to find Nancy.

She was gone.

Most of the teenagers were still standing there, gaping at me. “I called 911,” said the Ducks cap kid.

“Good. Thanks. Look, when they get here, tell them I'm in the ladies room, okay? Just sit tight. I'll be right back.”

And with that, I stumbled my way into the terminal and saw two things that made me feel a lot better.

One was Mickey, who was holding a gun on Nancy Bigelow, who was sitting on the floor, her hands behind her head. A crowd had gathered, and security guards were approaching.

The other was a sign for the restrooms.

Mickey saw me. “Annabelle,” he called to me. “Sweetheart, are you all right?”

I thought I was, really. I thought I was. But the adrenalin rush that gave me the power to flip Greta over the handrail had abandoned me faster than a politician's promise, as soon as Mickey called me “sweetheart.” I looked at him holding the gun on Nancy, and that coupled with the vision of Greta splayed on top of that cute little Fiat made my knees give way to the floor.

“Babe!”

I gave a weak wave, and then damn it all, if I didn't pee, right then and there.

Chapter Thirty-seven

There are worse things than peeing in your pants in a busy airport terminal with your boyfriend—I mean, fiancé—holding a gun on a woman and watching you. I mean, we were alive and safe and we got the bad guys. Um, girls. Whatever.

Mickey got to me quickly and figured out what had happened right away, when I said, “I haven't done that since preschool.”

“Hey, it's okay. Don't even think about it. No one can see. You've got your blue jeans on. Here.” He took off his sports jacket which came down far enough to cover my crotch, when I stood. “You're okay. Holy shit, Annabelle, you're not okay. You're unbelievable. I saw you flip Greta over the rail.” He put his arms around me and we stood there for a while, until Luis and Monroe joined us.

“I need to get cleaned up,” I murmured.

Mickey said something to the guys, and then walked me to the ladies room. “I'm going to stand right by the door. You take as much time as you need.” He kissed my cheek.

I went in the stall for handicapped women, which has its own private sink. I took off my pants and undies and rinsed them both, tidied myself up the best I could, and dried everything at least a little with paper towels. I got dressed in my damp clothes and flashed on the beginning of my trip christened by Scranton's wine. Must have been an omen.

I met Mickey outside.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yes.” I buttoned his jacket. “Police station?”

“Our home away from home, these days. Monroe's going to take us.”

We returned to the skybridge, where I saw that Nancy was in cuffs and being led away by uniforms. “Mickey, do we even know what the hell she was doing?”

“Most of it. I'll fill you in on the ride downtown. Phillip started talking, and I bet Nancy will spill her guts.”

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Do I smell like a homeless person?”

He inhaled an exaggerated sniff. “No, you smell like someone who lives with a man who adores you.”

“Hmm. What does that smell like, exactly? Coconut? Lemon? Scotch?”

Mickey stopped and took me in his arms. “Passion fruit.”

“Does that even have a scent?”

He kissed me. “Oh, yes, indeed. It has an intoxicating aroma, and I'm surprised that men don't follow you everywhere, sniffing.”

I rolled my eyes. “Mickey, you don't know crap about botany or fruits or trees or any of it. You're making this up.”

He smiled. “Maybe, maybe not. Look it up. Either way, I know that I'd like to smell you for the rest of my life.”

“For that, I am eternally grateful.”

***

This is what I learned in the car going back to the station, and later on that day.

Claudia was going to recover. She was suffering from exposure, but her vitals were good.

Phillip told the police that Claudia was his daughter, but not Nancy's. He had an affair years back, and talked his wife into taking the baby when his mistress said she was going to put her up for adoption. Ever since, Nancy has had it out for Claudia.

“But he said he didn't realize how much,” added Monroe.

Phillip was holding back information all along in a misguided effort to help Claudia. He found out that she was planning on picking up the gun at the airport because she actually told him.

“Why didn't he tell the police?”

“Fathers think they can protect their daughters. He called on Scranton instead, fixing it for him to land at PDX at about the same time as the drop.” Monroe was driving the speed limit, with no lights and no sirens, which was a welcome relief.

Scranton didn't get the backpack, because I got it. He figured I did, which was why he was stalking us.

More misguided efforts.

Nancy was trying to prove that Claudia was psychotic. She had been pretty good at convincing Claudia of the same thing, setting up situations that made Claudia feel crazy, like moving furniture around in the house, and making phone calls but insisting they weren't made. Stuff like that.

Wesley was the one who helped Claudia see the light. Turns out he was a caring boyfriend. He didn't hit her, ever. Nancy made that up.

Nancy not only resented Claudia because of Phillip's affair, she didn't want Claudia to have access to the trust fund that Phillip set up for her, managed by Scranton. She didn't want Claudia to have anything.

Not even a mother.

Those pills I found? Nancy told Claudia in the suite that she had to start taking them. They weren't a real prescription. Greta got them for Nancy and faked the label. Claudia refused the pills and got into it heavy with her mother, so heavy that Phillip was alarmed. He was starting doubt Nancy's insistence that Claudia was crazy. So he got her out of the suite and took her to the movies, to try to calm her down and get her away from Nancy for a while.

Phillip, by the way, never did anything sick to his daughter. He was simply a clueless, absent father who was severely delusional in his estimation of his own sex appeal.

Greta wasn't dead, but she was as good as dead. Once her broken bones and fractured skull healed, she'd spend the rest of her crummy life in jail.

Oh yeah, Nancy and Greta? When Nancy heard about the Uptown Billiards Club and Greta and the gun—from little ole big-mouth me—she went there to track down Greta, who just happened to be grabbing some merchandise from the cellar when Nancy got there. Nancy wanted a getaway plan, in case her scheme to portray Claudia as a nutcase was revealed. She promised Greta a ride out of town. Greta had a burner phone. That's how Nancy got in touch with her before heading to the airport.

As for Claudia, was she going to kill her mother? Or, even worse, did she feel so crazy that she was considering suicide?

I didn't know, but I wanted to find out.

Monroe and Dawson thanked Mickey, Luis, and me for our help. As we were leaving the station, Monroe stopped me.

“Annabelle.”

“Yes?”

“Nice work. You ever think about joining the force?”

I smiled. “What, and leave these two hunkadorises for the likes of you? No way. Besides, I hate guns.”

He gave me a nod and turned away.

“Monroe.”

“Yeah?” He turned back.

“Watch out for those Cheese Doodles.”

Reflexively, he touched his lip, but it was clean.

***

Mom and I went to see Claudia the next morning. She was sitting up in bed and looking the best I had seen her. She even smiled at us.

“Hi.”

Mom took her hand. “Claudia, how are you feeling?”

“Better. Much better.”

I took her other hand. “We know everything now, about your mother.”

“I'll be all right. Wesley will take care of me. I'll be all right.” She was repeating it, like she needed to convince herself.

“Claudia, maybe you've already told the police, but why did you want that gun?”

“I was so scared, of my mother, of myself. I told myself that I needed it for protection. But when I realized I didn't have it, I didn't want it anymore. It was the craziest thing I had ever done, and it was the final thing that convinced me my mother was screwing with my head.”

“So, why did you take me out to Blue Lake, pointing that gun at me? You still might be charged with kidnapping, you know.” I didn't know this, but it sounded reasonable.

“I'm sorry about that. I wanted to make my mother confess what she was up to, if in fact, she was doing everything that I thought she was doing. I wanted you to be a witness. And I really did think I might shoot her, which is why I picked Blue Lake Park, but I also thought that if I did, I'd want you to either arrest me or stop me.”

I frowned. “Arrest you? Claudia, I'm not a cop. I'm not even a detective. You could have just asked me to go with you.”

She shook her head. “Mom wouldn't have gone along with it unless I acted mental, which is what she wanted you and everyone else to think.”

“So, now it seems that Nancy shot Loren Scranton?”

“Yeah. When you ran, Mother got the gun away from me. She shot Scranton, then she shoved me under that paddle boat, since I was a witness. She told me Scranton would die and so would I, and she'd fix it so that Dad would get blamed, it being his gun. I couldn't get out. I tried digging under the boat, but the ground was too hard. I wore myself out until I passed out.”

“How did Nancy lift the paddle boat, to shove you under? The thing must weigh a hundred pounds!”

Claudia's eyes teared up. “It was tilted, with one edge on a boulder. She made me crawl under it, and then she rocked the boat little by little until it slammed down on the ground. She's stronger than you think.”

Rich strong,
I thought.

Mom reached over and grabbed a tissue for Claudia and handed it to her. “Lucky you were positioned in the right place, or it could have done some real damage.”

Claudia blew her nose. “Yeah. I'm going to be in the hospital for a couple of days, the doctor said. They want to run more tests, said I was probably still recovering from being attacked in the garden.”

“It did seem like they released you from the other hospital awfully soon after waking up from that coma.” Mom fluffed up her pillows.

“Mother insisted.”

I traded looks with Mom. I guessed she was thinking the same thing I was.
What a fucking psycho freakass sicko shitwad mother.
Or words to that effect.

I unclenched my jaw. “Just one more question, and then we'll leave you alone. How did you get your father's gun?”

“Mother had it. She brought it from Seattle. I found it at the hotel suite.”

“I think your father might be around more than usual, to look out for you,” Mom said.

“Maybe. He wasn't sure if I was crazy or not.” She paused. “He's gone most of the time.”

I squeezed her hand. “He doesn't know much about being a father, I'm afraid. Look, stay away from guns, okay? And go back to school. I think the law will go easy on you. Now you know you're not crazy. Just ended up with a bad mother.”

She thanked us for coming, and we left.

Outside of the hospital I stopped and hugged Mom. “I love you.”

She hugged me back. “Oh, for fuck's sake, Bea, of course you do.”