The Sitter (16 page)

35

I
’m getting so handy with the knife.

I never knew it was so easy. I guess pure hatred makes a lot of things easy.

Poor kitty cat. Poor Ellie.

Such a lovely old cat. He hardly put up a fuss. Sure, he kicked and hissed a bit when I grabbed his throat. He was used to being treated well. He trusted people.

Foolish creature. Trusting people? Never a good idea.

I trusted people once, a long time ago. I trusted people—and then Ellie came along. And destroyed my trust forever.

But today, I feel so bad for Ellie. To see a loved one murdered in such a cruel, callous way. A beloved old family member. Part of her childhood. Part of her youth, sliced away forever.

Where’s my youth, Ellie?

Where?

I guess the years on the farm toughened me, gave me a more realistic view of animals.

Animals are just animals; that’s what you learn on a farm. Dad killed every pet I ever had. Even Billy, my little goat, my favorite pal.

Well, kitty cat is dead. His head would make a lovely table ornament. If only those eyes weren’t staring so accusingly.

I once read a story in which the murderer’s face was trapped forever in his victim’s eyes. The police gazed into the victim’s eyes and saw the murderer, captured as if on film.

Well, I checked the cat’s eyes. Believe me. I’m not superstitious, but I check everything. Those eyes were as dead as the rest of the carcass, which I carefully buried beneath the rhododendrons.

Is Ellie superstitious? I don’t know.

Is she finally beginning to catch on? Does she realize that she’s next?

I think she does.

Watching her run out of the house, screaming her lungs out, tears running down her little lemon face, made me think that maybe she’s finally catching on.

She’ll want to leave now. She won’t want to stay.

But—no way, Ellie.

I’ve waited so long for this.

Have you heard the phrase, “No more Mr. Nice Guy”?

Well, you’d better believe it.

No more Mr. Nice Guy.

No more fun and games, sweetheart.

Now it gets real.

36

I
still had my bag over my shoulder. Ignoring Chip’s cries, I fumbled for the car keys as I ran down the front yard to the Taurus.

Was he coming after me?

I reached the curb, pulled open the driver’s door. I turned to the house and saw Chip, still at the front door, motioning wildly, shouting for me to come back. The gardeners had all stopped working. They were standing up now, tools at their sides, silently watching the drama.

Chip screamed at me, “Where are you going? Ellie, we have to call the police.”

Those were the last words I heard before I slammed the car door, turned the ignition, and roared off.

Where
was
I going?

Away. That’s all I knew.

Well, I knew a few other things. I knew that Chip had a black SUV, and the front was dented, and the paint in the dents was red.

And he was the only one home when Lucky was murdered.

Chip.

But why?

I struggled to think of a reason why Chip would hate me. Was he just crazy? Did Abby know about him? Would Abby live with someone so crazy?

I was sobbing again, my foot pressed hard on the gas, roaring down Flying Point Road, past a blur of tall hedges and green trees and sprawling brick and stone houses.

I saw the green van coming toward me. I swerved at the last minute. I didn’t realize I was driving in the middle of the street.

The van honked a long warning as it sped past. I pulled to the side of the street. Jammed the gearshift into
PARK
. Sat stunned for a moment or two.

And stopped sobbing.

I just stopped.

Maybe it was the shock of almost being hit.

Or maybe there’s just a time when sadness turns to anger.

That’s what happened to me. I knew I was all cried out. Someone wanted me to cry. Someone wanted to terrify me.

But suddenly, I felt only anger. Anger that someone thought he had the right to ruin my life.

My jaw ached. I realized I was gritting my teeth. My hands throbbed from gripping the wheel so tightly.

I forced myself to relax, forced my muscles to ease up, let go. And I tried to think clearly.

The police had been no help. Poor Mrs. Bricker lost a hand, and the police still didn’t have a clue.

Not a clue.

I suddenly had some ideas. Totally Nancy Drew ideas. But Nancy always got her man, didn’t she? Nancy always solved the crime.

Now that my crying was over, I knew it was time to get to the truth, to find out what this was all about.

I circled around Southampton for a while and found only one flower store, a small shop on Hampton Road between a travel agency and a clothing boutique. Hand-printed signs covered the front window, advertising specials on long-stemmed roses and orchids in pots.

The store was crowded, and an elderly, white-haired woman with bright blue eyes and a harried expression seemed to be the only one minding the store. She tried to take customers’ orders and answer the phone at the same time, and it was obvious from the disgruntled, impatient expressions on everyone’s faces that she wasn’t keeping up too well.

The shop was deep, bigger than it appeared from the street, with long refrigerated cases of flowers and a glassed-in greenhouse at the back. I took a deep breath and inhaled that sweet smell you find only in flower stores.

I had a lot of time to study the flower cases and inhale the sweet aroma before she finally got around to me.

“Can I help you, dear? I’m so sorry you had to wait. What a day. Both Arthur and Jimmy came down sick this morning. I don’t even have a delivery boy, and how am I supposed to make the arrangements and wait on people at the same time?”

“I promise I won’t keep you long,” I said. “Do you sell flowers painted black here? You know. For funerals.”

Her face changed, suddenly full of pity.

“Well, yes, of course. Arthur makes some lovely wreaths or arrangements. We’ve had a fresh shipment of lilies—did you see them in the back case? Of course, lilies are always appropriate and—”

“Actually, I don’t want to order flowers. I need to know about an order from about three weeks ago.”

She scratched her white hair. Then she pulled a white Life Saver from a pack on the counter and popped it into her mouth. “An order for funeral flowers?”

I nodded. “Black flowers, actually. You know. Sprayed black. The flowers were shipped to our house without a card. And I’d really like to know who was kind enough to send them.”

She sucked on the Life Saver. “Without a card? We don’t usually slip up like that. Especially with funeral flowers.”

“Do you have any kind of record? Do you keep the sales slips or anything?” I asked.

“Well, yes. We don’t have them in the computer or anything. We just have names and addresses on the computer. You know. Regular accounts. It’s quite handy, you know.”

“But you do keep sales slips?”

She bit down on the Life Saver. I could hear it crunch. She chewed it as she disappeared into the tiny office behind one of the displays. A few seconds later, she returned carrying a long wicker basket.

“I keep all the slips in here for about a month. Let’s take a look. What did you say the name was?”

Before I could answer, the bell over the door rang, and a middle-aged man and woman, in designer jeans and matching red-and-yellow floral shirts, walked in. “Hi, Alma. How’s it going?” the man asked.

Alma sighed. “You wouldn’t believe it.” She handed me the basket. “Look through it, dear. Let me talk to my good friends here. Did you two hear about Arthur and Jimmy?”

I took the basket to the end of the counter and began to paw through it. My hands were trembling. Was I about to learn who had sent the bug-ridden flowers and that disgusting note?

The sales slips and credit card receipts had been tossed in carelessly. But the dates were easy to see, the most recent sales at the top.

It didn’t take me long to find the order for the black flowers about halfway down the pile. The credit card receipt was stapled to the yellow sales slip. I lifted it from the box, brought it up close to my face, tried to steady my shaking hand.

And let out a silent gasp as I read the name on the receipt.

37

C
hip Harper.

Yes, the credit card receipt was in the name of Chip Harper. I squinted at it, reading it again and again.

Hadn’t the police been here? Hadn’t they tried to track down the sender of those disgusting flowers?

I wanted to ask Alma, but the phone had rung and she was writing an order, and her two friends were waiting to finish their conversation. So I tucked the receipt into my bag, slid the basket across the counter, and headed out of the shop.

“Did you find what you wanted, dear?” Alma called after me.

I hesitated. “Well, not exactly.” I closed the door gently behind me and stepped out into the hazy afternoon sunlight.

Had I found what I wanted?

Not really. Did I want it to be Chip who sent those awful flowers and that frightening note?

Of course not.

Why did he hate me? Why was he doing this to me?

He’d been coming on to me almost since the day I arrived. Coming on to me—and then trying to terrify me?

It made no sense at all.

Is he totally psycho?

Oh, wait. I forgot one thing. I dipped my head back into the flower shop. “I’m sorry to bother you again,” I said. “Is there a bakery nearby?”

Alma turned away from her friends. She pointed. “Yes. A very good French bakery. Right across the street. You’ll see it, dear. It’s right next to La Parmigiana restaurant. Try the raisin scones. The scones are out of this world.”

I thanked her and started across the street. Some people had stopped to admire an old Cadillac convertible. It was bright yellow and enormous, more like a boat than a car, with swooping tail fins.

A lot of people collected vintage cars here in the Hamptons. I’d even seen an entire car lot where they sold only vintage cars.

Why didn’t Chip have a normal hobby like that? Why didn’t he collect old cars instead of torturing me?

The bakery smelled of butter and cinnamon. A young woman wearing a white apron over her T-shirt and tights looked up from her
Hamptons
magazine as I entered.

My eyes stopped on the tray of scones on the counter. But I had no appetite. I didn’t really know what to ask. The young woman didn’t get up from her canvas chair. She waited patiently for me to speak.

“I want to ask you about an order from about two weeks ago,” I started.

She brushed back her short, streaky blond hair, but her expression didn’t change.

“Do you remember—? Did anyone come in here and ask for an empty cake box?”

She tilted her head, as if thinking hard. “An empty box?
Mais non
. No one orders an empty box.” She had a heavy French accent and spoke with a slight lisp.

Okay, so maybe there was a cake in the box originally.

“Do you keep a record of orders?” I asked. “You know. A record of your deliveries.”

“Oui.”
She stood up, closed the magazine, and stepped up to the register. “What kind of a cake was it?”

“I—I don’t know. I only know where it was delivered.”

She frowned at me. “You did not like the cake?”

“Oh, no. No. That’s not the problem.”

This was harder than I thought.

“I just want to find out who sent it,” I said. “It was a delicious cake. Really.”

She continued to stare at me. “It was a delicious cake, but you do not remember what kind it was?”

Oh, boy. I knew I sounded like a total asshole.

I sighed. “Could you please just tell me who sent the cake?” I gave her the address on Flying Point Road.

She stepped over to the computer on a little table against the wall. She sat down and typed for a long while. Finally, she found it.

“The cake was sent to the Harper residence? On Flying Point Road?”

“Yes. Yes, that’s it.” My heart started to pound.

“And let me see . . .” She leaned closer to the monitor and peered closely at the blue screen. “It was purchased by Mr. Chip Harper.”

38

M
om, I’m coming home.”

My bedroom door was shut tight, but I whispered into the cell phone anyway. I’d crept into the house and made sure that Chip wasn’t home. I saw Abby on the deck with the kids, but her husband was nowhere in sight. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and hurried to my room to call home and plan my escape.

“You’re
what
?” My mother reacted with her usual cool. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. What are you telling me?”

“I want to come home. I don’t really have anywhere else to go.”

I’d called Teresa first, my only friend in New York. When I tried her phone, I just got her voice mail. So I called her apartment, and May Lin, one of her roommates, told me that Teresa was in South Orange, helping her cousin move. May Lin didn’t know if Teresa was coming out to the Hamptons this weekend or not.

I didn’t want to go back to the Harpers’ house. I didn’t want to see Chip again. But all my stuff was here. I couldn’t just run away.

Now I knew I really wasn’t safe here. I was living with a maniac. I decided I would be safe in Madison, as far away from Chip as I could get.

“Mom, I have to come home right away. I’m packing my stuff and—”

“Ellie, slow down. What’s this about? Why are you whispering? Take a breath, okay, honey? And tell me what’s happening.”

“I can’t really explain, Mom. It’s just . . . Well . . . the job hasn’t worked out, and—”

“Oh, my God, Ellie, did something terrible happen? Are the children okay?”

“Yes. They’re fine, Mom. It’s not about the children.”

Jesus. Leave it to my mother to imagine the worst kind of tragedy—caused by
me
.

“I’m quitting the job,” I continued, my voice trembling. A noise outside my door made me jump.

Chip?

“I’m quitting, and I don’t have anywhere to live. I gave up the apartment in the city, and—well—I want to come home for a while. You know. Try to regroup.”

Silence on the other end.

Finally, “We don’t really have much room for you, Ellie. Your father is using your room as a study. We didn’t think you’d be coming back so soon.”

“I’ll sleep on the couch in the den, Mom. Really. It’s just for a little while so—”

“It’s not that we don’t want you. Of course we do. It’s just that . . . Don’t you think just for once you should stick with something? You quit every job. Even your temp jobs.”

I started to lose it. “A few days ago, you told me to quit and come home. Now you tell me to stay?” I was shouting into the tiny phone.

Of course, darling, come home at once and we’ll take care of you.
Isn’t that what a mother should say instead of arguing? Did she really think she was arguing with me for my own good?

“Ellie, don’t lose your temper. I know how much moving to New York meant to you. And now—”

“I can’t stay here,” I said, lowering my voice again to a whisper. “I just can’t, Mom. It—it’s not good here. I’ll explain when I see you. Bye.”

I clicked off before she could reply. I sat on the edge of the bed, trembling, my mind spinning.

I was living in a house with a murderer. A crazed, psycho murderer. Chip had sliced off Mrs. Bricker’s hand, murdered my cat, and tried to kill Jackson and me by battering us off the road.

I knew I should call the police. But I was so frightened, so totally panicked. I just wanted to escape from this nightmare.

But what about Abby?

I have to tell her about Chip, I decided.

She has to know what she is living with. She and the kids might be in danger, too. I can’t just run away without saying a word. I have to warn her.

How will she react? Will she believe me? I folded the flower shop receipt in my hand to offer as proof.

Then I took a deep breath and made my way downstairs. I found Abby on a chaise longue on the deck. She had Heather on her lap and was reading a Dr. Seuss book to her. Brandon crouched on his knees at the other end of the deck, playing with a bunch of action figures.

She glanced up and read my face instantly. “Ellie? What’s wrong?”

“Read. Read,” Heather insisted, slapping the book.

“I have to talk to you,” I said, my heart suddenly pounding. “Right away.”

Abby closed the picture book. Heather let out an unhappy cry. Brandon didn’t look up from his action figures. “Is everything okay?” Abby asked.

“No,” I said.

Her eyes locked on mine.

My chin trembled. My legs suddenly felt rubbery.

Keep it together, Ellie. You have no choice. You have to tell her.

Holding Heather, Abby climbed to her feet. “Wait here,” she told me. “Come with me, kids.”

Both kids started to whine. They didn’t want to move.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

She pulled Brandon to his feet, then took them both upstairs. A few minutes later, she returned, carrying a bottle of water. Regaining her place on the chaise longue, she tilted the bottle to her mouth, her eyes on me the whole while. “What’s up, Ellie?”

I cleared my throat. I had my hands jammed in the pockets of my shorts. “This isn’t easy to say.”

She motioned for me to pull up a chair. “Are you leaving? Is that what you want to tell me? I don’t blame you. It’s been so horrible for you here.”

“Yes, I have to leave,” I said, sliding a deck chair up close to hers. I dropped onto it and gripped the wooden arms, my hands cold and wet. “But there’s more, Abby.”

She pulled herself up. “More?”

“It’s about Chip,” I said, my voice breaking. “He’s the one—the one who’s been torturing me.”

I expected her to scream or protest or get angry or call me crazy. But she stared back at me, suddenly very still. A fly landed on her forehead. She made no attempt to brush it away.

“I can prove it,” I said. I shoved the receipt at her. “Those black flowers crawling with cockroaches—he sent them. And Mrs. Bricker’s hand . . . I went to the bakery. It was Chip’s name on the receipt for the cake box. He—”

Abby let out a long breath.

Was she going to defend him? Was she going to argue?

When she didn’t speak, I forced myself to continue. “The black SUV is dented. And I found flakes of red paint on the bumper. It was him. . . . It was Chip who tried to kill Jackson and me. And my cat—”

She clamped her eyes shut. The water bottle fell to the deck and rolled away. “Not again,” she whispered. “Oh, no. Not again.”

I swallowed hard. My throat felt dry as sand. What was she saying?
Again?

She leaned forward and grabbed my hand. “He’s doing it again,” she whispered. “He promised me. He promised me he was taking his medication.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “You mean he’s done this before?”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I stuck it out with him last time. He begged me to stay with him. He swore it would never happen again. Of course, he never went this far before. Never like this.”

For a long, horrible moment, we just stared at each other. When she wiped away the tears, I could see the fear in her eyes. She jumped to her feet and turned to the house. “The kids,” she whispered.

She grabbed my arm again. “Ellie, I know you want to get away from here as fast as you can. But, please. I’ve got to think of the kids. I’ve got to make some arrangements, find some place for us to go. Some place where he won’t find us.”

Did she realize how tightly she was gripping my arm? “I really can’t stay,” I said. “I don’t feel safe. He—he—”

“Just two more days,” she pleaded. “Just till I can make a plan, make sure we will be safe from him.” A sob escaped her throat. “Please, Ellie. Two days, that’s all. I’ll protect you from him. I can. I know how to work him. I know how to keep him down. I’ve—done it before.”

“Well . . .” I hesitated. This poor woman. I could see she was totally panicked.

“Just two days,” she said. “I’ll make some phone calls right away. I’ll get the kids away from here. Then I’ll call the hospital from the last time this happened and find some help for Chip. Two days. I’ll keep him away from you, Ellie. You’ll be safe. I promise.”

“Okay,” I whispered. “Okay. Two days.”

“Oh, thank you. Thank you. You’re wonderful.” She leaned forward and hugged me. Her hot tears rubbed off on my cheek. “You’ll be safe. Don’t worry. Just act normal, okay? That’s the main thing. Just act normal.”

A killer in the house.

Just act normal?