The Chocolate Cupid Killings (24 page)

“Without his truck? I guess he hasn't gone far.”

Pamela—I tried to make myself think of her as Pamela—smirked. It was the same expression she'd had three days earlier when I told her Derrick Valentine had showed me a picture of her.

That smirk infuriated me. She'd been laughing at me three days earlier—laughing because I'd been so sure the picture was of her, when in truth it was a picture of a completely different person. Now she was laughing at me because Joe wasn't there, and his truck was, and she thought I was so dumb I'd believe she hadn't done anything to him.

Where was Joe? Had she killed him the way she must have killed Myrl? The cold of fear overcame the heat of anger, but I did my best to keep my usual dumb expression. Maybe I should even play hostess.

“Can I make you a cup of coffee?”

“No.”

We looked at each other. I don't think either of us knew what to say next.

Finally I spoke. “I'd feel better if you'd put that pistol down, Pamela. I know you're in danger, but I'm not going to hurt you.”

I was surprised when Patricia—I mean, Pamela—did lower the pistol, pointing it toward the floor. At least it wasn't aimed at me.

“Let's sit down,” I said.

Joe and I had arranged our couch and an easy chair at right angles to each other, in front of the fireplace. I walked three steps and sat down in the easy chair, so stiff that I merely perched on the edge of the cushion. Pamela sat down at the opposite end of the couch. She was wearing tight jeans, and when she sat down, she took one of those dadgum tubes of M&Ms out of her pocket. It still annoyed me.

We stared at each other. I tried to think of what I would say if Patricia were really Pamela.

“Listen,” I said, “Warner Pier may be a bad place for you right now. Harold Belcher is hanging around town.”

That drew another smirk. “I'm not worried about Harold Belcher.”

“Have you been in touch with Sarajane?”

“No.”

“She's been concerned about you and Myrl.” I looked around the room. How could I get her to put that gun away? Or how could I take it away from her? What could distract her?

My eye rested on the fireplace. “Great! Joe laid a fire. I'll touch a match to it.”

I moved fast, dropping to my knees on the hearth rug. We had a wrought-iron fire screen, the kind that's separate from the fireplace, not the built-in sort. I moved it aside, pulled a match from the box of extra-long matches in the wood basket, and struck a light.

“My great-grandfather built this fireplace, Patricia,” I said as I touched the flame to the kindling under the logs. “The family is proud of it. It draws great.”

The kindling caught, and I put the big matchbox back in the wood basket. Then I grabbed either side of the fire screen and picked it up, trying to look as if I wanted to replace it in front of the fireplace.

Instead I swung it toward Pamela as hard as I could, and it hit her with a horrible, eardrum-splitting explosion.

At least that was my impression at that moment. I was astonished by the noise the fire screen had made. And I was even more astonished when it fell to the floor and I saw that it had a hole in it.

And Patricia was pointing her pistol at me again.

“You called me Patricia,” she said coldly.

In another second I had sorted the whole thing out. My tangled tongue had tripped me up. I had called Patricia by her right name—not by her fake one, Pamela. That had alerted her, and she had raised the pistol again. Kneeling on the hearth rug with my back to her, I hadn't realized that. She had already aimed the pistol when I had picked up the fire screen and swung it at her.

I don't yet know if swinging the fire screen saved my life or made her fire. She may not have known herself. All I knew at that moment was that Patricia—forget Pamela—was shoving the fire screen into the floor with one hand, and in the other she held Sarajane's little silver automatic.

And she was pointing the pistol at me again. Her finger was on the trigger.

“Nice try,” she said. She was still smirking. “I think I'd better put you away, Mrs. Woodyard.”

I closed my eyes and thought of my Texas grandmother. She had died when I was fifteen. Would I be seeing her in a moment? But Grandma wouldn't want me to die tamely. If Patricia was going to kill me anyway, I might as well go out fighting.

I tensed my muscles and opened my eyes. And that pistol was right in front of the left one. I was looking down the barrel.

I might still have tried to attack Patricia, but she spoke before I could move. “I'm not going to kill you, Lee! I just can't let you call the cops.”

Now the pistol was touching my forehead.

“You'll be okay. You and your husband both. But don't try another stupid stunt!”

I didn't answer, but I didn't move. Joe. She had said Joe would be all right if I didn't act “stupid.” Hope flickered.

“Okay,” Patricia said. “I'm going to stand up. You're not going to move. Got it?”

I didn't respond, so she poked me with the gun. “Say yes!”

“Yes.” My voice was a whisper. I was afraid to nod.

Patricia stood up, and she moved until the couch was between us. “Now you stand up. Slowly.”

I obeyed.

“Good. Now, turn around.”

“Can I put the fire screen up?”

Patricia gave a harsh laugh. “Sure. We don't want the house to burn down, do we?”

She backed up, farther out of my reach, and motioned with the pistol. I propped the fire screen in front of the fireplace. Joe built great fires. His kindling was crackling away, and I could see a log beginning to catch.

When I stood up, Patricia spoke. “Now, walk into the kitchen. Slowly.”

The kitchen? That seemed odd, but I did it.

“Go out in that back hall. Don't do anything sudden. Just walk out there and face the basement door.”

Our house is just over a hundred years old, and it has an architectural feature I never saw in Texas. It's known as a Michigan basement.

A Michigan basement has walls of cement or stone, but the floor is sand. It's been dug deep enough that the floor lies below the freeze line, so it would have been ideal for storing potatoes, in the days when people bought the winter's supply of potatoes. It isn't much use as a game room and even requires remodeling if the homeowner wants to put a washing machine down there.

Our particular Michigan basement also features a large, heavy-duty bolt on the outside of the door.

I didn't understand why Patricia wanted me to face the basement door. But I obeyed. Then I saw that the bolt on the basement door had been thrown. The door was bolted shut.

She must have locked Joe in the basement.

Just as I realized that, Patricia yelled, right in my ear, “Woodyard! You'd better not be near that door!”

I heard another roar. And I screamed. A hole appeared in the lower half of the basement door.

Patricia had fired a bullet right through it. I could only hope Joe hadn't been in the line of fire.

“Now, Lee,” she said. “Open the door.”

I pushed the bolt back and pushed the door open.

The light from the hall fell down the stairs, and Joe lay at the bottom. He wasn't moving.

“Joe!” I didn't wait for Patricia to tell me to join him.

I clattered down the bare, wooden stairs. I think I only touched every other step. Joe was hurt. He was just lying there, injured. Had she shot him? Oh, God! Please don't let him be dead!

Just as I got to the bottom of the stairs, I heard the basement door slam, and the room became pitch-dark.

I had been in the process of falling to my knees. Now I had to stop, feel around, and make sure I wasn't jamming those knees into Joe's rib cage.

“Joe? Joe?”

Then a hand ran up my arm. I screamed. It tightened on my left biceps. A different hand covered my mouth.

“Quiet!” It was Joe's voice. “Hush up! I want her to think she's knocked me out.”

I began to cry. Joe was trying to sit up, and I was trying to hug his neck, and neither of us could see the other, and we probably looked like snakes wrestling. But no one could have seen us, of course, because it was dark.

Joe finally decided I understood about keeping quiet, and took his hand off my mouth. I finally got a satisfactory grip on him. Talk about a clinch. I grabbed him so hard he could hardly breathe.

In a moment I whispered in his ear, “I was so frightened.”

Joe whispered back, “How do you think I felt when I heard that gunshot?”

After that we just held each other for a few moments. Then Joe whispered again. “What say we turn on the light?”

We fumbled until I convinced Joe I should be the one to get to my feet and find the light switch. Our house may be old, but it does have a light switch at both the top and the bottom of the basement stairs.

When the bare bulb in the center of the basement went on, it looked as cheerful as a sunrise. Joe was getting to his feet, and his right pant leg had a bloodstain four or five inches across.

“Joe, you really are hurt!”

Joe shrugged. “I could use a Band-Aid. I don't think anything's broken, because I can move my leg easily. But my knee is swelling up like a watermelon. I don't suppose she tossed an ice pack down with you.”

“How did she get you down here?” Then I realized what a stupid question that was. “Duh. I guess she used that gun.”

“She made me put my hands on top of my head. Then when I got a couple of steps down, she kicked me right in the fanny.” Joe rubbed the spot. “Not a very dignified way to get injured. I had to jump the rest of the way. I fell and landed on my knee.”

“And you had the presence of mind to pretend to be seriously injured.”

Joe nodded. “I don't know if it was presence of mind or terror. I was expecting her to start shooting. This is one time I don't like living in a secluded location.”

I nodded. It was around four in the afternoon. We had few close neighbors, and the ones we did have would be at work. The chances of anyone hearing the gunshots were nil.

I wanted to look at Joe's injury, but he brushed my concerns aside. But he did move the leg carefully as he got up from the floor and sat down on one of the lower steps. “And now I've got a question for you,” he said.

“What?”

“Just why the hell does the TenHuis family home have a bolt on the outside of the basement door? Are you afraid the mice are going to climb upstairs and raid the kitchen?”

The question struck me as funny. I put my hand over my own mouth and began to laugh. I may have rolled on the sandy floor. At least I know that I later discovered I had sand in my hair. Finally I was able to whisper an answer.

“It was Santa Claus's fault,” I said. “And my mom's. She was much younger than Uncle Phil, you know. The story is that when she was about three my grandparents hid the Christmas presents in the basement, where she was forbidden to go. But she got down there and found them. Mom now swears Uncle Phil put her up to it. Anyway, my grandfather put a bolt on the door, up high where she couldn't reach it.

“Uncle Phil told me it took her less than twenty-four hours to figure how to push a chair over there and get in anyway. But she didn't let them catch her again. So you have your mother-in-law to thank for being locked in the Michigan basement.”

“I probably have her to thank for being alive. If that woman—I assume she's Patricia Youngman—hadn't had a place to lock me in, she would probably have killed me.”

“How did you know she's Patricia Youngman?”

“Oh, I have my sources. Now, let's figure a way out of here.”

I looked around the basement. It was almost empty. After Aunt Nettie remarried and moved away, she and I had a giant clean-out of the whole house. The basement tended to collect insects and the mice Joe had referred to. A Michigan basement might be perfect for storing potatoes, but no one would store good wooden furniture down there. Or out-of-season clothes. Or the wedding china and extra blankets. Even plastic storage bins or trunks would be likely to be invaded by the tiny inhabitants.

The hot water heater stood on a slab of concrete in the back corner, and there was a similar slab of concrete at the foot of the stairs. That was probably what had injured Joe's knee. A brick column squarely in the middle of the space supported the fireplace. A set of rough wooden shelves in a corner held a few canning jars and what looked like a cleaning rag.

The only piece of furniture was an old iron bed frame, with white paint scaling off it. It was a recent addition to the basement. Joe had found it in the rafters of the garage when he took a notion to clean out there several months earlier. I'd put it in the pile of junk that we planned to take to the dump, but Aunt Nettie had said she saw one like it in an antique shop. All we'd have to do was sand and paint it, she said. Then we could sell it for—well, maybe as much as twenty-five dollars. Aunt Nettie had talked me into keeping it, and she and I had moved it to the darkest corner of the basement. It was still sitting there, unsanded and unpainted. And useless in the present emergency, as far as I could see.

I gestured toward the shelves. “I guess we could tear a couple of boards off those shelves and start tunneling. We ought to be able to dig under the wall in a couple of months.”

“Yeah, and by then we'll be frozen so stiff we can use our fingers as picks.”

For the first time I realized that Joe didn't have a jacket. I did. I hadn't taken mine off when I came in and confronted Patricia. I'd still been wearing it when she forced me into the basement. I started to pull it off. “We can share this jacket.”