Rosemary and Crime (34 page)

I kept low and, moving in a zigzag pattern, wove through the rows of parked vehicles. I hoped I was doing the right thing. I didn’t know the proper protocol to follow when being chased by a madman with a gun. Maybe zigzagging only applied to avoiding alligators.

My heart was thumping so hard I was afraid Dwayne might hear it. I paused to catch my breath alongside a minivan. It was there that I came to the realization I’d committed an even bigger blunder than leaving without an umbrella. I’d left my cell in my purse at Spice It Up!

From not far away, I heard the crunch of Dwayne’s footsteps. I darted between more pre-owned cars. I felt as though I was working my way through a corn maze at Halloween. I’d never been very astute at finding my way out of those things, usually relying on my kids rather than gut instinct.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Dwayne called out in singsong, as if we were playing a game of hide-and-seek.

I could tell from his voice he was close—too close. I didn’t move, barely breathed, terrified I’d telegraph my whereabouts. After what seemed hours, I heard him move on. I crept forward. Finally, I came to the end of a row. Beyond that was the street—the street and possible escape. All I needed to do was to break free and run as if my life depended on it. I said a quick prayer that Dwayne spent more time on the golf course than at the gun range. Preparing to sprint, I started to rise from my crouched position …

… and Dwayne stepped in front of me.

“Game’s over,” he said. “Now get in the car before I shoot you right here.”

From this range, even if Dwayne wasn’t a crack shot, there was no way he could miss a target my size. I straightened and walked toward the Lincoln, my feet lagging every step of the way.

“Quit stalling,” he snarled, nudging me between the shoulder blades with the gun barrel.

I shoved a handful of sopping wet hair out of my face and climbed into the driver’s seat. “What are you waiting for? Just shoot me and get it over with.”

“Tempting,” he grunted. “I’ll admit I thought about shooting you and dragging your body into the office. I’d claim I saw someone robbing my safe, but didn’t know who it was when I fired. Self-defense. It wouldn’t be a hard sell—everyone knows you’re short of funds. Not only is your piddly little business failing, but you need money to hire a good lawyer. In spite of what you may have heard, they don’t come cheap.”

I started the engine. “Where to?”

“Your place.” I must’ve looked surprised because he added, “Pull around to the street behind and park.”

My hands clenched the steering wheel so hard the knuckles ached. “What made you change your mind,” I asked. “About shooting me, that is.”

“Too much unfavorable publicity. Besides”—he smiled—“I came up with a better idea.”

“You’ll never get away with this.” Lame, lame, lame! I’d heard this line a million times in a million different movies.

“We’ll see,” he said, chuckling mirthlessly.

“Can you at least tell me why you killed Mario? Was it because of his affair with Diane?”

“Affair…?” He snorted. “Why would I be jealous? That ended ages ago.”

Apparently Dwayne wasn’t privy to the Klassy Kut gossip, and I wasn’t in a sharing mood. I turned off Main and down a side street. “So, if it wasn’t Diane and Mario’s affair, why kill him?”

“Pull up to the curb and cut the engine.”

“This is the spot where you waited to run me down. Why?”

“Because you’re a nosy broad who refuses to mind her own business, that’s why,” he snapped. “I couldn’t risk you stumbling across something that would point suspicion in my direction. Even a hint of scandal would ruin my chances for the senate. I’ve worked too long and too hard to let you interfere.”

“But how did you know…?”

“You sorely underestimated my powers of deduction.” Dwayne barked out a laugh. “At first, I thought I’d be safe having you arrested for murder. Case closed, end of story. I even went as far as planting a shirt in your shop with Mario’s blood on it. I intended to alert the police with an anonymous call. But my plan didn’t work. Then over dinner one night, Diane mentioned a conversation in which you quite convincingly vowed to find the killer. One of my poker buddies is on the police force. After one too many beers, he regaled us with a story about McBride busting you for searching for clues at the Tratory. I realized you wouldn’t give up unless I silenced you.”

The matter-of-fact tone he used to describe my demise chilled me to the core. “It was raining that night, too,” I said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

“If you weren’t such an accomplished gymnast, I might’ve succeeded. Now get out of the car slowly. Remember, I’m right behind you. Did you know I won the skeet shooting championship at the Rod and Gun Club three years running?”

I got the message. Loud and clear. I crossed the vacant lot, nearly tripping over a soggy cardboard box someone had thoughtlessly discarded. Dwayne caught my arm and jabbed the gun between my ribs. “Keep moving. Don’t try anything clever.”

Clever seemed to have deserted me for the moment. I hoped it would return shortly. In the meantime, I needed to keep stalling until it did.

“Unlock the damn door and head upstairs,” he directed.

I fished my keys out of my pocket. My fingers shook so much that it took several tries before I managed to open the door. Dwayne kept darting jittery glances over his shoulder to reassure himself no one was around.

“What are you going to do?” I didn’t even attempt to keep the quaver out of my voice.

“After you write a note confessing you stabbed Mario, you’re going to commit suicide by hanging.”

I climbed the stairs on legs that felt like overcooked noodles. “Do you think people will buy that piece of fiction?”

“Why not? You were overcome with guilt. About to be arrested. The thought of leaving prison in a box pushed you over the edge. Now,” he said, as we reached the upper landing, “once inside, turn on a light, but don’t try any funny stuff.”

Actually, I could use a little funny stuff about now, I thought, stifling a hysterical giggle. Turning the knob, I stepped inside my apartment and flipped a light switch. Casey flew out of nowhere in full attack mode, teeth bared. Fifteen pounds of furry torpedo launched into the air and fastened onto Dwayne’s wrist.

Dwayne howled with pain and fury. The gun clattered to the floor and spun away. I dove for it. Dwayne did, too. Just as my hand closed around the grip, Dwayne wrestled it away. The gun fired, the explosion deafening. A shower of plaster rained down from the ceiling.

Dwayne cursed, his face distorted with rage, and scrambled to his feet.

Growling ferociously, Casey rejoined the fray, attaching himself to Dwayne’s pant leg. Dwayne kicked viciously, sending the little dog flying through the air to land with a sickening thud against the wall, where he lay motionless.

“No!”
I cried, and started toward him.

“I’m sick and tired of you and that stupid mutt!” Dwayne roughly grabbed me by the arm, dragged me to the kitchen table, and shoved me into a chair. “Time to pen your swan song.”

It would be hard to convince him I had neither pen nor paper when they were both right there in front of me. Another glance at Casey, still a crumpled heap, didn’t bode well for my knight in shining fur to ride to my rescue. I thought I heard the creak of a stair, but then silence. Nothing more than the shifting bones of an old building.

“Write!”

“Okay, okay.” I picked up a ballpoint. Ironically, it was the same one he’d once given me as a promotional gimmick. Keep him talking, I thought. Keep stalling. “I’ll write whatever you want, but if it wasn’t because of Diane’s affair with Mario, why did you kill him?”

“Mario was stealing my inheritance.” Agitated, Dwayne’s head bobbed up and down. I could see he’d started to sweat. Nervously, he ran his finger around the collar of his shirt. Not just any shirt, I observed for the first time, but a purple T-shirt identical to the bloodstained one McBride found in my cupboard. Identical except for one glaring difference. This shirt bore the slogan:
VOTE FOR CLOUNE. HE WON’T CLOWN AROUND
.

I paused, pen in air. “Your inheritance?”

“Yeah, you heard me. I went to the Tratory to confront the bastard, not to kill him. Mario and I are—were—third cousins once removed. Our uncle, Brigance Abernathy, is a rich old bugger. Uncle Brig decided to bankroll Mario’s fancy new restaurant in Atlanta. Yet when I approached him, practically begged him, he flat-out refused to give me a red cent. He had the nerve to laugh in my face. Said he wouldn’t support my run for dogcatcher, much less the senate. The old coot told me he didn’t like my politics. That he might even help fund my opponent. Can you imagine how that made me feel?”

I nodded. “Angry enough to kill.”

“You’re damn right. Should’ve killed the old buzzard, too. He had it coming.” A thin sheen of perspiration dotted his upper lip. “Even as kids, Mario and I never got along. He always knew what buttons to push. This time he went too far. The more he talked—gloated, actually—the madder I got. I reached my boiling point and let him have it. Then, like the answer to a prayer, you stumbled onto the scene of the crime. I thanked my lucky stars. But you couldn’t simply let matters rest. You had to keep poking a hornet’s nest. Stir things up. Fill McBride’s ear with all sorts of far-fetched theories. It would only be a matter of time till he found out Mario and I were related and demand to know where I was the night my cousin died.”

All the while, I kept scribbling away, hoping Dwayne would keep talking. Give me time to form some sort of plan. I was multitasking like crazy. I wasn’t about to go down without a fight. If only I had a weapon …

“With your confession and suicide, everything should be clear sailing from here on out.”

“I’m finished,” I said.

“Good. Now sign it.” Dwayne seemed to be growing more and more anxious now that the dastardly deed was at hand. “Now I want to you to gather all your scarves and belts, then knot them together.”

“They’re in the bedroom,” I told him. An idea was slowly beginning to take shape. While I didn’t have a knife, a gun, or pepper spray handy, I did have the next best thing. A large container of hairspray. If I could latch onto it, aim for the face, maybe I’d have a fighting chance.

I rose to my feet. Just then the door behind me crashed open, and Wyatt McBride burst through, his service weapon drawn. “Drop the gun, Cloune.”

Stunned, Dwayne hesitated, the pistol loosely in his hand.
Aim for the face.
In the far recesses of my brain, I heard the advice of my instructor at a self-defense course I’d taken many years ago at the Y. Detroit was a tough town, my father had warned, and a girl needed to know how to protect herself. Graceful as a ballerina, I pivoted and jabbed the ballpoint pen into Dwayne’s cheek. Blood trickling down his face, he screamed and dropped the gun.

McBride spun Dwayne around fast enough to give him whiplash and slapped on handcuffs. He turned to me once his prisoner was secured. “You all right?”

I didn’t answer. Running across the room, I knelt next to my sweet little dog. Tears streamed from my eyes and dripped onto his muzzle. I gathered him up and sat cross-legged on the floor and rocked. “C’mon, baby,” I pleaded. “Please, please don’t die.”

It was déjà vu all over again. I recalled the night I found him near death in the lot behind my shop. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him then.

Couldn’t bear it now.

To my immense relief, Casey’s chocolate-brown eyes opened a slit. His rough pink tongue reached out and licked my arm. Sniffing back tears of gratitude, I looked up and caught McBride watching.

“What took you so long to get here?” I asked him.

C
HAPTER
37

F
ULL OF SOUND
and fury.

A nearly forgotten quote popped into mind. Shakespeare?
Macbeth
? Tenth grade, maybe? Whichever the case, it pretty much summed up the storm that had overtaken my life and nearly swept away everything I held dear. I let out a sigh that seemed to start at my toes and work its way out my fingertips. I was more than ready for some peace and quiet.

Before the night ended, though, I had to stop by the police department to give my statement. McBride insisted this needed to be done while details were still fresh. I was grateful he’d allowed me to take Casey to Pets ’R People first. After examining him, Doug had assured me my heroic little pup would be right as rain the next day.

Tucking a damp strand of hair behind one ear, I pushed through the door of Brandywine Creek Police Department.

Precious Blessing peered at me over a mound of paperwork. “Girl, you look like you been dragged through a gopher hole.”

“Feels like it, too,” I replied, conscious my face was free of makeup, my hair a halo of frizz. I was beyond caring. I spied the coffeemaker on a corner table behind her desk, the carafe three-quarters full. “Don’t suppose I could bum a cup of coffee.”

“Comin’ right up.” Precious hoisted her bulk out of the chair and hustled to pour me some. Dozens of colorful beads woven into her tiny braids formed a miniature percussion section with each step she took. “The chief likes it good and strong, but I can round up some milk if you want.”

I gratefully accepted the Styrofoam cup from her. “Good and strong suits me perfectly. Thanks.”

“Gettin’ in a nice piece of overtime ’cause of you.” Precious, her usually jovial expression serious, eyed me top to bottom. “Glad to see you’re not hurt. Chief said you had yourself quite a night.”

“And then some,” I said, taking a sip of coffee and finding it as advertised. “What about Dwayne Cloune? Is the chief finished with him?”

“Mr. Cloune’s in a holdin’ cell, waitin’ on his lawyer. The chief told ’im it was a right good idea. He said when you got here, you were to head straight for his office.”

I started toward what had now become familiar territory, then paused. “Precious … thanks for the heads-up the other day. I owe you big time.”

Precious chuckled. “Glad to be of service. Us girls gotta stick together.”