Murder is a Girl's Best Friend (41 page)

Which was the stupidest thing I could have done, of course. Because Elsie quickly concluded she didn’t need me anymore. And to prove it, she took a wide stance, aimed her gun at me with both hands, let out another hideous hyena laugh, and blasted me to kingdom come.

Chapter 32

WELL, NOT ALL THE WAY TO KINGDOM come, thank God. Since Elsie was standing so tall above me, and I was still squatting on the floor when she squeezed the trigger, the bullet didn’t have a clear, precise trajectory. It tore into my shoulder instead of my heart (or some other vital organ), and—though it knocked me flat on my back, and made me writhe on the floor in spastic convulsions and scream out in excruciating, unthinkable agony—it didn’t make me dead.

Elsie ignored this fact for the moment, stooping down in a mad frenzy to seize the bag I’d dropped at her feet. The bag she thought was full of diamond jewelry. The bag that held nothing but a Tiffany’s gift box and a silver cigarette lighter. She opened the sack and literally stuffed her face inside it—resembling, for a moment, a horse wearing a feed bag. Then she lowered the bag, pulled out the gift box, yanked it open, and—seeing that the diamonds were nowhere to be found—threw the bag, box, and the cigarette lighter in my face. (It hurt when the lighter conked me on the forehead and the gift box grazed the corner of my eye, but I was in so much pain already, I barely noticed.)

“You lying bitch!” Elsie screamed at the top of her lungs. “Where the hell are they? What did you do with them?”

I didn’t answer. I was too busy squirming and whimpering and bleeding. And praying. Let’s not forget praying.

“You might as well give up now, you know,” Elsie said, suddenly reining in her violent emotions and speaking in a low, controlled, truly terrifying tone. She leaned down close and gave me a sadistic grin. “The longer you hold out, the more it’s going to hurt. I promise you that. There are five bullets left in this gun—one for each limb, and one for the grand finale. The sooner you tell me where the diamonds are, the fewer times I’ll have to shoot you, and the sooner I can put you out of your misery for good. That’s a damn fair deal. Right, partner?”

She wasn’t bluffing. I could tell from the glint in her eye (and the way she was holding the gun to my nose) that she was not only ready—but eager—to proceed with the tortur ous treasure hunt.

And I don’t mind telling you I was scared. Scareder than I’d ever been in my whole sad, sweet, tragic, magic, short, full, too-soon-to-be-over life. I was so scared I couldn’t think or speak. All I could do was blubber.

“Still not talking, eh?” Elsie heckled, raising herself to full height. The fake sprig of holly pinned to her hat was as off-kilter as her smile. “What are you, a goddamn masochist or something? Well, that’s okay with me, kid, ’cause I’m getting a real kick out of this.” She moved a couple of steps back and took careful aim. “Last chance,” she said, with a sickening giggle. “No talking, no walking.”

When I didn’t answer, she shot me in the leg.

 

 

I’M NOT TOO CLEAR ON WHAT HAPPENED next. I think I blacked out for a minute or two. And when my consciousness returned, my only wish was that it hadn’t. The shocking, blazing, bone-searing pain in my mangled left thigh was unendurable. And the hideous stench of burning flesh (my flesh!), coupled with the metallic smell of warm blood (my blood!), almost made me throw up. Head spinning and stomach turning, it took every ounce of strength I had just to keep breathing (and howling).

“How was
that,
Paige Turner?” Elsie croaked, leering down at me with a look of pure elation on her face. “Kinda uncomfortable, right? Bet you’re ready to turn the page now. ”

And I was, I was! I was ready to do or say anything that would keep her from firing another bullet into my wretched mess of a body. “Okay, I’ll tell!” I cried, lifting my unwounded arm up in the air, palm flat like a stop sign. “Please don’t shoot me again!”

Elsie grinned and took aim at my other leg. “I’ll stop shooting when you start talking.”

The words leapt out of my mouth like locusts. “The diamonds aren’t here,” I sputtered, not knowing what I was going to say, but not caring, either. “Terry Catcher has them. He’s had them all along. They’re wrapped up in one of his undershirts and stuffed down in the corner of his duffel bag.” Using my good arm, I tried to push myself up to a sitting position on the floor. But it was hopeless. I didn’t have the strength. My energy was seeping out of my body with my blood. I fell back to the floor with a thud.

“So where the hell is
he?!
” Elsie demanded.

“Who?” I muttered. (And, believe it or not, I wasn’t stalling now. My head was so crazed and groggy I think I’d actually lost track of what we were talking about!)

“
You
know who!” Elsie screamed, eyes bulging. “You better tell me where Terry Catcher is, and you better tell me
right now!
Or you can kiss your other leg goodbye!”

Unable to think of (let alone
utter
) an expedient answer, I sucked up my breath, squeezed my eyes tight, and begged God to let the next blast kill me.

KABOOM! There was a sudden, shocking, deafening explosion—but it wasn’t the sound of a gun going off. It was the sound of my back door being kicked open, and smashing against the wall so hard that all the remaining panes of glass shattered and fell out in shards and splinters on the floor. I couldn’t see what was happening from my prostrate position, but I
heard
it—and sensed the broken glass falling all around me, and felt a great gust of freezing cold air sweep over my skin.

And
then
I heard the gun go off.

Steeling myself against a wallop of fresh pain, I was surprised when I didn’t feel any. (Any
new
pain, that is. The wounds in my left shoulder and left leg still hurt like hell!) My eyes flew open and immediately focused on my right leg. It was smooth and unbloody. It was whole. There wasn’t even a run in my stocking! My right arm was also intact. And these happy realizations gave rize to a sudden resurgence of energy—which allowed me to push my torso up to a near upright position, which meant I could finally see what was going on.

And that was when I almost died for real.

Terry Catcher—my dear late husband’s dear old friend, and
m y
dearest
new
friend—was crouched low in the middle of my kitchen, staggering in a sea of splintered glass, with his snowy white hair gleaming, and the snowy white sleeve of his crisp cotton shirt turning red as red could be. He had been shot! And I could tell from the way Elsie was standing, and raising both arms to eye-level, and taking aim through the sight of her ugly little gun, that he was about to be shot again.

“Look out!” I screamed, as loud as I could, hoping my cry would alert him to duck for cover. But I could have saved my breath. Because before those words were even halfway out of my mouth, Terry had sprung through the air like a Flying Wallenda, tackled Elsie below the waist, and brought her down—with a thunderous slam—in a heavy, lumpen sprawl on the linoleum. There was a fierce, vociferous struggle (you wouldn’t believe the filthy curses that came tumbling out of Elsie’s mouth!)—and then the gun went off again.

Shocked by the blast, Terry and Elsie were frozen still for a moment. But as soon as they realized neither one of them had been shot, they continued their ferocious wrestling match—flailing, thrashing, and rolling around on the floor—until Terry scrambled on top, sat astride Elsie’s heaving trunk, pinned her arms down with both knees, and socked her hard (really hard!) in the face with his fist. Twice.

Elsie grunted and groaned and loosened her grip on the gun. Terry snatched the gun from her hand, grasped it in his own, and pointed the hideous, hateful, heinous, horrid thing at her. (Sorry about the excessive alliteration, folks, but I couldn’t help myself. A girl’s gotta have some fun
somehow!
And besides, the string of h-words listed above seemed the thriftiest way to express my true feelings about firearms.)

“Paige! Paige! Are you okay?” Terry cried out, keeping his gaze and the gun fixed on Elsie. He was still sitting on top of her, fastening her flat on her back to the floor.

“I’ve been better,” I said. “But what about you? Your arm’s gushing!”

“It’s nothing but a flesh wound. Where’s Abby?” he yelped, whipping his head from side to side, frantically searching his limited field of vision. “Is she all right? Has she been hit?”

“Oh, my God!” I shrieked. “Is Abby here, too?” I hadn’t heard her. I couldn’t see her. Was she behind me? Why didn’t she say something?

“I told her to stay out,” Terry cried, “but she wouldn’t listen. She came through the door right after I did!”

I went into a total panic. Had the last bullet fired struck Abby? Using my good arm and leg for leverage, I madly scooched my disabled self around, until the area behind me was viewable, and the cold wind blowing through the wide-open door was blowing smack into my face.

And then I almost died again.

Abby was lying in a heap—a very
still
heap—on the floor to one side of the door, right at the bottom of the stairs. I couldn’t see her face; it was turned away from me, toward the wall. There was no evidence of blood on her clothes or the floor, so I couldn’t tell whether or not she’d been shot. Or whether or not she was dead.

“She’s back here, Terry,” I wailed. “On the floor at the foot of the stairs. I don’t see any blood or anything, but she’s definitely not moving. I can’t get over there. You’ve got to help her!”

Terry bounded to his feet, screaming at Elsie, “Get up! Get up off the floor and sit in this chair where I can see you. Quick—or I’ll shoot your head off!”

Without a word, Elsie stood up, straightened her skirt, and sat down. I couldn’t believe she was being so quiet. Why wasn’t she shouting? Why wasn’t she cursing? One look at her gaping, lopsided face and I had my answer. Her chiseled John Wayne jaw was broken.

Keeping the gun pointed at Elsie, Terry backed away toward the open kitchen door, each footstep crunching on broken glass. When he reached the spot where Abby was lying, and saw that she was totally unconscious, he let out a heartrending moan and sank to his knees by her side. “Baby! Oh, baby!” he cried, setting the gun down on the floor and scooping Abby up in his arms, pulling her in close to his chest, stroking her face and her hair. He’d forgotten all about Elsie. All that mattered to him right now was Abby. “Wake up, baby,” he begged, choking and sobbing between words. “Please, please wake up . . .”

Do I have to tell you how crazy scared I was at this moment? Must I say that the thought of losing Abby—my most beloved friend in all the world—filled me with unfathomable, unbearable dread? Need I mention that the sight of the gun sitting unattended on the floor (i.e.,
not
pointed at Elsie) was driving me insane with fear?

I knew I had to get to the gun before Elsie did—or Terry,

Abby, and I would
all
be dead. But I also knew I’d never make it. I couldn’t walk, or even crawl. Using my good arm and leg like rudders, I’d have to
slide
my wounded body across the splintered-glass-strewn floor, protected only by thin layers of silk (i.e., my stockings and my slip). I didn’t stand a chance in hell. Elsie was going to grab the gun. Sure as shootin’.

Shows you what a fool I am. Elsie never even
tried
to reclaim the damn thing. She just vaulted off her chair, lunged over to the front door, threw it wide open, and—holding her hand tight around her broken jaw like a girdle—disappeared down the stairs to the street.

THE NEXT FEW MINUTES WERE THE longest of my life (if you don’t count the minutes—okay, months!—following my receipt of a certain U.S. Army telegram). I believed Abby was dead or dying. I figured Elsie was on her way to Idlewild to catch the next flight to Timbuktu. I thought Judy’s murder would go forever un-avenged (Roscoe’s, too, but I didn’t care so much about
that
), and I had a sinking (okay,
sunken
) feeling that I’d never walk again. I didn’t think Terry would ever recover, either.