Silence of the Lamps (23 page)

Why else would Fairchild have pretended he hadn’t had any contact with Bronson, Larry, and Drew for years? Why else would he have a gun pointed at her?

Now was no time for cowardice. She needed to get them to turn on each other so she could slip her phone out of her pocket and dial Detective Carstead.

Fairchild’s gun wasn’t tight against her now. That didn’t mean he couldn’t kill her in an instant, but this might give her a little leeway. It sounded as if Larry and Drew and Bronson had been caught up in something as teenagers and they hadn’t known how to get out of it.

Her gaze went from Bronson to Larry, making a point. Then she said, “You trusted Mr. Fairchild back in high school, didn’t you? After all, he was your teacher. But he wouldn’t be holding a gun on me if he can be trusted.”

Bronson shook his head. “I didn’t trust him. Larry did. But he said he’d always keep the secret.”

Larry’s eyes were glazed, but his words were clear when he said in a low voice, “I’ve never been able to forget the sound of the car hitting that old man. Never.”

And that’s why he drank.

“I knew what had happened before Larry told me,” Fairchild muttered. “All those years ago, they thought I didn’t notice Drew’s dented bumper and the piece of material caught on it. I knew about their drag racing. When I heard about the hit-and-run accident, I put two and two together. But by then a friend of Drew’s had fixed his bumper and the car was cleaned up. I found Larry drunk on the bleachers one night and he spilled it all. A secret is a handy thing to have in your back pocket . . . especially when you want to retire.”

Caprice understood that the only reason Fairchild was talking was because he was going to kill her. What would Bronson and Larry do? Let him?

She was panicking inside but she had to keep her wits about her. She could get out of this somehow. She could. She should have texted Grant that she was thinking of him. She didn’t want him to think she’d died hurt and angry.

She wasn’t going to die.

“You were going to blackmail Drew, weren’t you?” Caprice asked in order to keep Fairchild talking as her hand slipped to her pocket. She hadn’t brought her mace gun. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Drew was making it big, and I wanted some of that,” Fairchild said.

Caprice nodded to Bronson. “Why not blackmail
him
? He had the money.”

“He wasn’t in the car that night. Larry and Drew were. But I called him out here tonight because now that he has politics on his mind, he can grease my palm to keep me quiet. Enough of this chitchat. You’ve got to go, girl. Apparently my threats didn’t work with you. The woods are dark and deep. Let’s move it.”

But before Fairchild could poke her with the gun again, she caught the appalled expression on Bronson’s face when he realized that Fairchild had intended to blackmail
him
and that he intended to kill
her
.

With an angry shout, Bronson rushed Fairchild.

When he did, the gun went off!

Both men staggered, and Caprice didn’t know if either of them had been hit.

Suddenly Fairchild pushed away from Bronson. As he did, she saw Bronson clutch his shoulder. Fairchild stooped to retrieve the gun that must have fallen out of his hand when Bronson grabbed him.

Caprice didn’t need any advice on what to do next. She ran for the woods, yelling at Larry to use Bronson’s phone to call 9-1-1. She grabbed hold of her phone as she ran and pressed the number to speed-dial Carstead. After tripping over a tree root, she caught herself, hung onto the trunk, and rounded another tree.

When Carstead answered her call, she didn’t give him a chance to speak. She rat-a-tat-tatted her location—Elliot Chronister’s cabin near Wellsville. Then she added, “Louis Fairchild killed Drew. I think he shot Bronson. Need paramedics. Get here.” Then she pocketed her cell phone so she could run faster.

Fairchild was in shape, but she was younger. Maybe she could fool him and circle around . . . or climb a tree. As she scurried through the brush, she heard a loud grunt and swearing behind her. Maybe Fairchild had fallen over a tree root. She could only hope. She ran faster, increasing the distance between them.

Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. Carstead wanting her to keep the line open? That would be the smart thing to do. But as she pulled out her phone and saw its glow in the dimming light, she realized the caller was Grant!

He sure picked a dandy time to call. She was torn, but she knew she had to answer. This was the first he’d contacted her since Naomi’s visit. Grant and his call were as important as her life.

Breathless, she asked in a low voice, “Can I call you back?”

But Grant knew her moods and her voice. “What’s wrong?”

They didn’t keep secrets between them. She whispered, “Hold on a minute,” and ducked behind a thick tree truck.

But Grant wasn’t holding on. “Where are you?”

She heard brush cracking, branches moving. If she talked to Grant, Fairchild would hear her. She whispered, “I’ll text.”

Moving farther into the woods and the night, she curled herself behind a sycamore so Fairchild couldn’t see the glow from her phone and quickly texted,
Murderer chasing me at Elliot Chronister’s cabin. Dad has directions. I called Carstead.

Pocketing the phone, she moved a little farther through the trees, then decided the best thing for her to do was to climb one. Fortunately Vince had taught her well. In fact, he’d taught her lots of skills that could save her life as well as any self-defense course. She jumped at the lowest branch, caught it with her arms, then used her sneakered feet to scramble up the tree. It was practically dark now, with no moon lighting the woods.

She didn’t know how long she was in that tree. It seemed like centuries. How much distance had she put between herself and Fairchild? Had he gone off in another direction?

She waited and waited and waited, afraid to make a move. Maybe she should climb down and run again. But which way? Toward the cabin? Into the woods? She could run right into him.

Minute after minute slowly ticked by. Then suddenly she spotted a beam of light and suspected it was the flashlight app on Fairchild’s cell phone. Wasn’t technology a wonder? All she could do was say Hail Marys and hope.

Fairchild was obviously trying to be quiet, but she could hear his shuffles through the brush, his low grunt when a branch grazed him or a bramble caught his jeans.

Her body was rigid and stiff. Finally she decided she’d better breathe. She took a few shallow breaths. He was using that flashlight beam in circles but not shining it up into the trees. Maybe he was too afraid he’d trip again. After all, maybe he wasn’t as nimble as she was. The light inched closer to
her
tree. She didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. She didn’t even flinch.

“I’m going to find you,” he called out to the general area. “You know I will. You might as well come out.”

She wondered if he underestimated all women. Maybe that’s why he never married. Or maybe women always discovered his mean streak, because he obviously had one.

He stopped, probably to listen. When he didn’t hear anything, he moved on. Now he kept quiet, maybe thinking he could sneak up on her wherever she was hiding. But the woods
were
dark and deep, and soon he was farther into them. Now she could scramble down and run back to the cabin . . . maybe even reach her van.

The wail of sirens broke the stillness of the night. The sound was faint at first but grew louder with each second. Thank goodness for GPSs and cell phone towers. Thank goodness for detectives who knew how to find addresses. Thank goodness for Hail Marys and brothers who didn’t mind her tagging along. And self-defense courses.

The siren sounds were almost deafening now in the hushed night. Not caring about scratched and cut hands or brush and brambles, she scurried down the tree, lit up her own phone’s flashlight app, and ran as fast as she could back toward the cabin.

Before she emerged from the trees, she could hear officers shouting to each other. She heard them spreading out through the woods. As she reached the cabin, she spotted Bronson and Larry sitting on the porch steps, Carstead looming over them.

“I’m here,” she called as she waved and approached them. She could see Bronson holding his arm across his chest, blood staining his shirt sleeve.

But before she reached Carstead, another man came running from the makeshift road. A man who was tall with black hair and broad shoulders—the man she loved.

Grant rushed to Caprice and took her into his arms. “Are you all right? What are you doing out here? I don’t know whether to shake you or kiss you.”

She didn’t wait for him to decide.
She
kissed him.

He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t love her. He wouldn’t be here if he’d made a different choice.

After Grant pulled away, he said, “Everything’s going to be all right. I promise. We can talk later.”

Just then, two patrol officers dragged Louis Fairchild from the edge of the woods. He was handcuffed and looked as if he wanted to murder someone again. They none too gently pushed him toward the patrol car.

Finally Detective Carstead approached Caprice. He gave her a look that said he’d never understand her. He muttered, “Maybe I should put you on the Kismet P.D.’s payroll. Can you meet me at the station and fill me in on exactly what happened?”

“I’d be glad to,” she answered agreeably. She wasn’t shaking now that Grant was holding on to her so tightly. He’d promised everything would be all right . . . and she
did
trust him.

As Carstead walked away, Grant said, “He likes you.”

She heard that hint of jealousy in Grant’s voice again, and it made her heart sing. Turning to him, remembering Nana’s advice to jump without a net when she knew what she wanted, she gazed into his eyes and assured him, “But I like
you
. You’re the only man I want to consider a future with. That is, if you want a future with me.”

“We have a lot to talk about,” Grant assured her, pulling her close again. “Naomi went back to Oklahoma. This week put resentment and recriminations to rest. We revived good memories of Sally. But my life with Naomi is in the past. After you and I finish at the police station, I want to talk to you about what comes next for us.”

That was a conversation she couldn’t wait to have.

Epilogue

 

The cafeteria at Kismet High School had been transformed for the night. The committee developing the reunion wanted to make the night affordable for as many classmates as they could, so they’d decided to have the reunion at the school. It was a sweltering July night, but no one seemed to mind as they stepped into the air-conditioning and the music that poured from the speakers the DJ had set up in the lobby adjacent to the cafeteria.

On Grant’s arm, Caprice was glad she’d dressed up. She’d found a fifties-style lacy crinoline dress in off-white with an embroidered flower pattern. Donned in its capped sleeves, sweetheart neck, and tight waist, along with teal strappy pumps and a teal and cream purse, she felt good.

When Grant looked at her, she felt pretty.

They’d been spending as many hours together as they could. She could tell his time with Naomi had settled things in his mind. He’d shared some of the conversations he’d had with his ex-wife. He’d also shared some of his grief at losing his daughter. She knew that would always be with him. But she accepted that, just as she accepted him. And he seemed to accept her just the way she was, even when he was angrier than an irate bull that she’d put herself in danger again, inadvertently or not.

They sat at one of the tables in the cafeteria beside Roz and Vince. Other members of the reunion committee were seated across the table.

Vince waved to the centerpieces. “They’re looking good.” He turned to Roz. “I hear you helped with those.”

“I did. I’ve always liked arranging flowers. Jeanie Boswell gave us a discount on them, as well as the vases.”

Since the apprehension of Drew’s murderer, Caprice had learned more about Jeanie and the way she often hid her emotions behind indifference and anger. That hadn’t made her a guilty sister, just a grieving one.

“We’ve finally decided we’re going to take a vacation together,” Roz told her in a low voice. Her friend sounded excited . . . and happy.

“Where?” Caprice asked.

Vince answered, “The Finger Lakes in New York State. We’ll have a whole week together—day and night.”

Roz blushed.

Grant leaned close to Caprice. She caught a whiff of his woodsy cologne that was one of her favorite scents these days. He looked so handsome tonight in a charcoal suit with a blue tie and pale blue shirt. But then she thought he looked handsome no matter what he wore.

He murmured near her ear, “Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?”

She smiled. “In spite of the fact that I was up all last night watching Halo deliver her kittens?” The tortoiseshell had given birth to three—a dark tortoiseshell, a gray-striped tabby, and a lighter tortoiseshell—all still to be named. Watching them being born and settling in to nurse had been an awesome experience.

Grant’s voice went a little lower. “Do you remember the night we delivered Shasta’s pups?”

“Of course I do. I’ll never forget it.”

Grant took her hand and asked, “Would you like to dance?”

“I definitely would.”

They stood and excused themselves.

Roz winked. Vince gave them a thumbs-up, and Caprice didn’t even feel embarrassed.

Before they reached the lobby, where couples were dancing, Helen Parcelli, whom Caprice had run into at the Raspberry Festival, approached them. “Hi. I’ve been wanting to talk to you, but I didn’t want to interrupt at your table. I want the real scoop on what happened at Elliot Chronister’s cabin.”

Helen wasn’t the first person to ask Caprice, and she answered by rote. “Marianne Brisbane reported what happened in the article in the
Kismet Crier
.”

Narrowing her eyes, Helen prodded, “Come on now. Fill in the details for me.”

Caprice looked at Grant, and he gave a shrug.

Caprice studied Helen. “What do you know?”

“Everything I’ve been reading online. Larry and Drew were involved in an accident in high school and didn’t report it. Bronson made a public apology concerning his knowledge of it. I think he hopes if he comes clean about everything, maybe he still can have some kind of career in politics. After all, he wasn’t in the car when it happened. What exactly are the charges against all of them?”

Those were points of public record, so Caprice answered easily. “Larry was charged with conspiracy to commit homicide by motor vehicle and obstruction of justice.”

“Don’t forget breaking and entering at Rowena’s when he tried to find Drew’s yearbook,” Grant interjected. “An inscription in the yearbook could have been damming if it came to light. A prosecuting DA could have used it to his advantage.”

“I heard Bronson is paying for a good lawyer for Larry,” Helen said. “Maybe he’ll get a minimum sentence.”

“That’s what they’re hoping,” Grant agreed. “Bronson was charged with obstruction of justice but will probably be sentenced to probation or community service. I doubt if a political career is in the cards for him anymore.”

“I can’t believe Louis Fairchild murdered Drew. Exactly why did he do it?” Helen asked.

Caprice knew Fairchild was having the book thrown at him—homicide, attempted homicide, and obstruction of justice. The prosecutor also tacked on a charge of terroristic threats for scaring her out of her wits with the knife and note on the rack of ribs and the letter in the mail.

“When Louis Fairchild wanted to retire,” Caprice explained, “he had a problem. He’d blown most of his 401K on gambling debts, and social security wouldn’t fund the retirement he wanted. He knew Larry, Drew, and Bronson had each other’s backs, and he decided to cash in on their secret. He couldn’t blackmail Bronson—this was before Bronson’s political ambition—because Bronson only
knew
about the hit-and-run. He hadn’t been in the car. But after Drew hit the big time with his barbeque sauce, Fairchild thought he could squeeze money from him.”

“So Fairchild confessed?”

“He did,” Caprice responded. “The whole story came out when the police questioned him, because he was so angry . . . at me, at Bronson, at Drew, at Larry. Apparently Drew had been snooping for recipes in Rowena’s Tiffany lamps. When the cord broke on the table lamp, Larry fixed it and returned the lamp. After Fairchild showed up at Drew’s, Larry left. But he stood outside to smoke and heard raised voices. He didn’t stay because he didn’t want to get involved in whatever was brewing. Fairchild said that when he tried to blackmail Drew, Drew just laughed at him. They argued. Drew turned away, and Fairchild picked up the lamp base that Larry had returned, conked Drew with it, and took it with him. On his rush to leave, he knocked over the other Tiffany lamp. The police found the base of the lamp stashed in a closet at his residence.”

“The irony of it,” Grant added, “was that if he’d just stolen the lamps, he’d have had a windfall of sorts.”

“I’d heard they were Tiffany,” Helen said. “I wonder if Drew’s grandmother is going to keep them.”

“She’s selling them,” Caprice revealed. “They’re going up for auction.”

“I knew you could tell me more than was in that newspaper article.”

Another classmate waved to Helen from across the room. She waved back. “I’d better get going,” she said. “You two have a nice time tonight.”

After she moved away, Grant wrapped his arm around Caprice’s waist and led her to the dance floor. A ballad had begun playing. As he took her hand in his and guided her to the music, she knew murder and mayhem were behind her for now.

“What are you thinking about?” Grant asked her as they danced.

She answered honestly. “You.”

He pulled her closer and rested his chin on top of her head.

Smiling, she squeezed his hand and sighed. She was right where she wanted to be . . . close to his heart.