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Authors: Laura Disilverio

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BOOK: 3 Malled to Death
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Twenty

• • • 

I was enjoying
a quiet Friday evening at home, dreading another sleepless night but looking forward to a day off, when the phone rang at almost nine o’clock. I debated answering it, not in the mood to suffer through a politician’s spiel, but picked it up.

“Turn the news on,” Grandpa Atherton’s tense voice told me.

“Why?” I asked as I hurried into the living room, Fubar at my heels, and clicked the remote to bring up a local station.

“Your parents—”

I hushed him as a brunette reporter standing in front of a house I recognized said, “—shots fired at Ethan Jarrett’s house. Jarrett is the star of the long-running series
Roll Call
and numerous blockbusters, and is here in the metro area filming a new movie. It is unknown whether anyone was injured.”

Police officers roamed behind the reporter and I scanned the background, looking for Mom and Dad. The camera panned the four-car garage of their rented mansion, but I didn’t see anyone I recognized. I didn’t see an ambulance. That didn’t mean anything, though; one could have come and gone, rushing one of my parents to the hospital. The reporter flagged down a suited detective and asked, “Can we get more details of the shooting from you, Detective? Is it true there’s a contract out on Ethan Jarrett because his latest movie,
Mafia Mistress
, reveals the inner workings of the mob?”

Becoming vaguely aware that Grandpa was talking in my ear, I said, “I’ll pick you up on my way. Ten minutes.” Banging the phone down, I ripped off my jammies and threw on a pair of jeans, patted Fubar, told him to guard the house, and rushed to my car.

• • • 

With Grandpa riding
shotgun, I barreled up I-95 toward Mount Vernon, ignoring every posted speed limit. An accident on Route 1 slowed us down, but traffic opened up after a mile or two and we shot up to my parents’ rental house without further problems. My fingers were tense on the wheel the whole way as I tried to block out thoughts of Mom or Ethan bleeding, in pain, being rushed into surgery. Grandpa called the police, trying to get more information, but they wouldn’t tell him anything over the phone, even when he told them he was Mom’s father. Grandpa tried to phone Mom for most of the drive, but kept getting sent to her voicemail. He didn’t say anything, but his expression was grim and he breathed heavily through his nose, nostrils flaring and then collapsing. I put a hand on his knee. “They’re okay,” I told him as we pulled up at the gate. They had to be okay.

Carefully checking our IDs and shining a flashlight in our faces, the police officer at the gate radioed to someone at the house and then pushed the button that swung the gates open. He blocked a couple of reporters from sneaking in while I zoomed up the driveway, making Grandpa clutch at the underside of his seat. I skidded to a stop in front of the portico, spewing oyster shells across the barbered lawn, partially illuminated by security lights. Two figures stepped onto the portico, silhouetted by the porch light, and I sagged with relief. Mom and Ethan. They were okay. Tears stung my eyes and my stiff fingers trembled as I uncurled them from the steering wheel.

“I’ll drive home,” Grandpa announced, unfolding himself from the seat. His voice was almost giddy and I knew he was as relieved as I was. “My life flashed before my eyes at least three times. When you slid by that semi—”

“Some of the scenes from your life would be enough to scare anyone,” I tossed over my shoulder as I hurried up the shallow steps and threw my arms around Mom. “You’re okay,” I breathed. She hugged me convulsively.

“Pretty much.” The tightness of her hug told me she was still feeling the aftereffects of being shot at.

Grandpa shook hands, grinning, with Ethan who looked like he was ready for a
Town & Country
photo shoot in an elaborate smoking jacket.

“You didn’t have to come, EJ, Ralph,” he said, wrapping me in a big hug when Mom released me.

“Right. Like I’m going to stay away when someone’s taking potshots at my dear old dad,” I said.

Ethan winced. “Don’t use the O word, Eej.”

“Sorry.” I grinned, full of relief to find them bullet hole free, apparently doing fine. “What happened?”

“And why did we have to hear about it on the news?” Grandpa grumbled.

“Are the police still here?” I looked around but didn’t spot any officers.

Mom shook her blond hair, which lay loose around her shoulders like she was ready for bed. Her makeup-less eyes were red rimmed as if she’d been crying, and I gave her another squeeze. “No, only the man at the gate. The detective left about half an hour ago.”

“Drinks,” Ethan announced. “Then we’ll give you a sitrep.”

I rolled my eyes like I always did when he trotted out military or police jargon he’d picked up from some script or another. Everything was starting to feel very normal again and I rotated my shoulders backwards and then forwards, letting the anxiety drain out of me. Mom shepherded me and Grandpa into one of the living rooms, the comfy one with the cinnamon-colored leather love seats and the stone fireplace that went clear to the ceiling. Gas flames danced behind the glass and gave the room a cheery glow. Settling onto a squashy chair, I shucked my shoes and tucked my feet up under me. Ethan appeared with four mugs of hot chocolate on a tray, surprising me. I felt less surprised when I took a sip and realized it was heavily laced with booze.

“Now,” I said after we’d all had a chance to sip the warm brew. “Talk. What happened?”

Mom and Ethan glanced at each other, and then Mom said, “We were coming back from dinner with the Carnicks next door—he’s in banking and she does interior design, lovely people—when someone shot at your father.”

“We’ve been over this with the police,” Ethan said, holding up a hand, “so before you ask, we didn’t get a description—”

“Just a figure in black near the garage,” Mom put in.

“—and I thought there were three shots while Brenda counted four. We dropped to the ground and rolled out of the light. Your mom called 911 while I chased the shooter.”

“You what?” Grandpa and I said simultaneously.

“He was long gone by the time I even made it to the gate,” Ethan said, ignoring us.

“Thank God for small favors,” Grandpa muttered.

I silently agreed. Maybe Ethan had been a cop or a starship captain so many times in movies that he actually thought he was capable of tangling with an armed criminal. I shuddered at the thought of what might have happened if he’d caught up with the guy. A nine millimeter did a lot more damage than a light saber. “Did the police recover any bullets?”

“Just part of one that apparently hit the corner of the house and shattered,” Mom said, pulling a fawn mohair afghan off the back of the sofa and wrapping it around her shoulders. “I think they’re going to search more tomorrow, in the neighbors’ yards. I’m pretty sure one bullet went right through my hair.” She pulled a hank of blond hair sideways, as if we’d be able to see a bullet hole in the expensively highlighted tresses.

Grandpa rose and went over to plant a kiss on Mom’s face. “I’m glad you’re okay, Brenda.”

She caught his hand and held it a moment.

“What do the police think?” I asked.

The firelight played against the rich gold and royal blue silk of Ethan’s smoking jacket, making it look alive. “Robbery. They think the perp was planning to burgle the place but that we came home unexpectedly and scared him. They found the spot where he came over the wall. They made a cast of the footprint, like we used to do on that crime scene investigation series I did.”

He sounded proud, like he’d poured out the plaster of paris himself; I wouldn’t put it past him to have asked the crime scene techs to let him do it, I thought. A seven-foot stone wall surrounded the property; it would have been easy for anyone reasonably agile to scale, being that the wall was more for decoration than security. “So they don’t think the shooter was gunning for you specifically, Ethan?”

He licked a chocolate mustache off his upper lip. “I don’t think so. They asked about enemies of course, and whether I’d received any threats—”

“Had you?”

“Not that I know of. Not unless you count that note I brought you the other day, EJ, which pretty much everyone on the set got.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I slumped back and thought. A burglar who opened fire when the homeowners arrived home seemed unlikely. Why not run off, especially since he wasn’t even in the house yet? Grandpa caught my eye and I read the same doubts on his face, along with a warning not to worry Mom and Ethan further. “How long is the cop out front hanging around?”

Mom answered. “Just till the morning. Your father’s called a security company—”

“Forget them,” Grandpa said, pulling out his cell phone. “I know some people.” He walked into the adjacent dining room to make his call. When he returned, a smile of satisfaction stretched his face. “Con and his boys will be here at six.” He yawned, his jaws cracking, on the last word.

“You and EJ are staying here tonight,” Mom said in a voice that brooked no argument. “The beds are already made up in the guest rooms and you’ll find everything you need in the bureau drawers and the bathrooms. Sylvia will get your clothes washed before you’re even up.”

I knew from past experience that I’d find silk pajamas in a variety of sizes in the dresser and expensive toiletries, lotions, and makeup in the bathroom. Mom prided herself on her hospitality. Even though they didn’t have live-in staff, preferring their privacy, they had a cook and a housekeeper who arrived about five each morning. I yawned, too, and decided Fubar could fend for himself for a night. He had a cat flap in the back door and spent half the night hunting, anyway.

“Sounds great,” I said, rising to give Mom, Ethan, and Grandpa a hug. I went to bed feeling tired and unutterably lucky to be part of such a loving—and unhurt—family. Despite my worry and tension, I slept soundly for the first time since finding Zoë. Go figure.

Twenty-one

• • • 

Saturday afternoon found
me playing lookout for Grandpa as he planted listening devices in Margot Chelius’s hotel room.

The day started out normally enough, if more luxuriously than I was used to, with eggs Benedict and pecan waffles in my parents’ light-filled dining room. My parents themselves were not present, being night owls by nature except when Ethan had an early call, and Grandpa Atherton was conferring with the bodyguards he’d hired, so I had the lovely room, and the newspaper, all to myself. The paper had a brief couple paragraphs about the shooting incident on page three, but didn’t offer any details I didn’t already know. Ethan’s publicist had booked him onto some talk show for later today and warned off other reporters, so we were spared the sight of journalists jabbering at the gate, hoping for an interview.

I was pouring my third cup of coffee into the translucent bone china, wondering if it had come with the rental or if Mom had shipped it from the California house, when Grandpa Atherton blew into the room, smelling like fresh air and with a look in his eye that told me he was on the warpath.

“Come on, Emma-Joy,” he said. “No time for lollygagging. There’s work to be done.”

Refusing to be budged until I’d finished my coffee, I asked, “Are you satisfied with the security guys?”

“Con and his crew are the best in the business,” Grandpa said, nodding out the window to where a man in a camo-patterned tee shirt and black pants patrolled the backyard. “There’ll be two men on Brenda and Ethan from here on out, twenty-four/seven. Now, you and I have work to do. No one takes potshots at my daughter and her husband and gets away with it.”

It had been a long time since I’d seen Grandpa this revved up and serious. “Okay,” I said, dragging myself away from the table reluctantly and wondering if it would be crass to ask for a baggie for the last section of pecan waffle. “What did you have in mind?”

• • • 

Breaking and entering,
as it turned out.

On our way back to Vernonville, Grandpa told me he was convinced that the attack on my folks was tied to Zoë Winters’s death in some way. “I don’t believe in coincidence,” he said, “and I don’t believe in burglars who open fire on the homeowners
from outside the house
. A potshot in the bedroom, if a sleeping owner challenges you while you’re ransacking the safe—sure. But shooting from beside the garage? I’m not buying it.”

“Me, neither.” Despite Grandpa’s statement last night, I was driving, mostly adhering to the speed limits on a sunny Saturday morning too early in the season for traffic to be headed to the beaches, thank goodness. “What do you think the connection is?”

“Now, don’t take this the wrong way, Emma-Joy,” Grandpa said, giving me a sideways look, “but there were some rumors on the set that your father was pretty friendly with Zoë.”

My foot slipped from the accelerator to the brake and we both jolted toward the dashboard before I got the car moving at speed again. Anger burned through me. “If anyone’s implying they were more than friends, that’s ridiculous.”

“You think I don’t know that? I thought the Agency was full of gossips, but it was nothing compared to a movie crew. Anyway, I’m wondering if Zoë knew something that someone didn’t want getting out and if they’re worried that she told Ethan.”

“Thin,” I pronounced after a moment’s thought.

Grandpa huffed. “Well, you come up with a better connection, Miss Smarty-Pants.”

“Ethan had an early call Tuesday morning, the day Zoë was stabbed. Maybe he saw something.”

“And is keeping it to himself why?”

“Because he doesn’t realize it was significant,” I said with a “so there” look at Grandpa. “The killer is trying to shut him up before he catches on to what he saw or overheard.”

“I like that,” Grandpa said, nodding. “Okay, so who killed Zoë?”

Batting potential suspects back and forth for the rest of the drive, we finally settled on four as the most likely: Margot Chelius because she was jealous of Zoë’s affairs, Tab Gentry because he blamed Zoë for his firing, Jesse Willard in a PTSD-induced rage, and Grayson Bleek because he inherited Zoë’s job. I argued against including Bleek on the list—who killed someone to move up a notch on the job totem pole?—but Grandpa insisted.

“That Bleek’s a strange duck,” he said. “Since I’ve been hanging around the set, I’ve heard some weird stories about him. Did you know his mother was from Berlin?”

“It’s not the Cold War anymore, Grandpa,” I reminded him. “So what if she was born in Germany? How does that tie in with Zoë’s murder?”

“It was
East
Germany when she was born there,” he said.

Not bothering to point out that even if she’d been a die-hard commie it was unlikely that had anything to do with Zoë’s death, I merely said, “Fine. Who do we start with?”

Which is how I ended up loitering in the lobby of Margot Chelius’s hotel while Grandpa planted listening devices. “State of the art,” he’d said when I asked about them. “You couldn’t buy these off the Internet.” I carefully didn’t ask what government agency he’d “borrowed” them from. He didn’t say how he was going to gain access to Margot’s room and I carefully didn’t ask that, either.

I lingered in front of an electronic display that listed what activities and meetings were going on in the hotel’s conference center and ballrooms, pretending to search for an event. The spot gave me a clear view of the front doors and the elevators. I kept my finger on the autodial button that would let me call Grandpa if Margot showed up unexpectedly.

“May I help you find your event, ma’am?” a polite voice asked at my shoulder.

I started and jerked my head to see a navy-jacketed hotel employee with a name tag, looking at me in helpful inquiry.

“Uh, okay, yes. I’m here for the Lee wedding reception,” I said, pulling up a name from the list I’d been staring at.

He looked puzzled, but directed me to a ballroom down a hall to my right. With his eyes on me, I couldn’t stay where I was, so I hurried down the corridor he’d indicated and slipped through the door. I understood the clerk’s puzzlement; I found myself in a room full of Chinese men and women dressed to the nines. My Caucasian face and casual attire stood out like a woman in a miniskirt at a Saudi bazaar. Murmuring excuse me’s, I backed out the door and beelined for the restrooms, in case the clerk was still watching me. Once inside, I opened the door a crack and peered out, looking to see if the coast was clear so I could find another spot from which to watch the doors and elevators.

“Excuse me,” said an affronted voice behind me, and I moved away from the door so a sixtyish woman could get out of the bathroom.

She gave me a strange look as she passed me and I muttered, “Boyfriend trouble.” That made her move even faster, and the hall was soon clear of people. I got back to the lobby in time to see a woman who might’ve been Margot Chelius get on the elevator. The hair and figure were right, but I couldn’t see her face. “Damn.”

Not wanting to take any chances, I dialed Grandpa’s cell, let it ring once, and immediately hung up. That was our signal for “Margot’s on her way up so get your octogenarian butt out of her room ASAP.” I left the lobby to wait on the sidewalk out front where I would be less conspicuous. I looked at my watch now and then, as if waiting for a ride, and no one gave me a second glance. I’d been out there two minutes when a police car pulled up with an unmarked sedan behind it. Oh, no! Had Margot walked in on Grandpa and called the police?

My heart beat faster, thudding against my chest wall, and I deliberately took a deep breath and blew it out slowly to calm myself. All that was for naught when Detective Helland stepped out of the second car and headed for the lobby door. I wished desperately I’d thought to bring a newspaper or something to hide behind, but the best I could manage on the spur of the moment was to bend over and pretend to tie my shoe. He didn’t spot me twenty feet to his left as he swept into the hotel, followed by two uniformed officers.

Wild thoughts of running up the stairs and dragging Grandpa out of Margot’s room ran through my head. Or maybe I could set off the fire alarm somehow and force an evacuation. Surely Grandpa could escape in the chaos. Before I could set any of my impractical plans into motion, a quiet voice at my elbow said, “Mission accomplished, Emma-Joy.”

“Grandpa!” I threw my arms around him and hugged him so hard he rocked back.

He hugged me back, chuckling. “What is this for?”

“I thought the police were going to drag you off to jail.”

“The police?” He arched his white brows questioningly.

“I thought I saw Margot go up, and gave you the signal and then came out here to wait. Detective Helland just showed up with a couple of uniforms. I thought they were here for you.”

“Nope. I ducked into the stairwell when the elevator door opened. I’m sure she didn’t see me.”

I wrinkled my brow. “Helland must be here to interview Margot, don’t you think?”

Grandpa’s bright blue eyes twinkled. “Maybe we should listen in.”

I followed him to a far corner of the crowded parking lot where we’d left the tan van he’d borrowed from someone. Grandpa had access to a never-ending variety of cars for missions and surveillance. This one had a florist logo on the door panels and no windows in the back. We clambered in and Grandpa fiddled with a receiver that looked like a small radio. Suddenly, Helland’s voice crackled into the van, making me jump.

“—lied about being in your room Monday night.”

“No,” Margot said, her voice breaking up a little. “I was here all night.”

“We have video from the Armacost Towers condo complex that says otherwise.”

Grandpa looked a question at me and I shrugged. I had no idea where Armacost Towers was or why Margot would have been there.

Something interfered with the reception for a moment, and then Helland said, “—confronted Zoë Winters in the parking lot at five twenty-two a.m.”

Silence hummed in the van for a good thirty seconds before Margot burst out with, “Okay! Okay, I was there. After we argued Monday afternoon, I knew what she’d do. I knew she’d go to a bar and find someone to go home with.” I heard tears in her voice. “I wanted to know who. I wanted to know if she was prettier than me, if she made more money. I wanted to know what she had that I didn’t, what made Zoë want her when she doesn’t want me anymore.”

Grandpa and I exchanged semiembarrassed looks at eavesdropping on Margot’s anguish.

“So you confronted her at her lover’s condo, then followed her to the mall and stabbed her.”

“No! Oh, no!” Margot’s voice sounded muffled and I wondered if she’d put her hands over her mouth. “I didn’t. I couldn’t hurt Zoë. I loved her. I confronted her at that woman’s place, and we argued again. She said I was smothering her. I said she was breaking my heart. She said . . . she said we were finished, that my spying on her was the last straw.” Margot’s voice had dropped to a whisper. “I didn’t follow her. I sat in my car and cried. I didn’t get to the set until half an hour past when I should have been there. Surely someone saw me drive up.”

Helland didn’t reassure her. “Who inherits Zoë’s estate?” he asked.

“Me, probably. We made out wills in each other’s favor when we had our commitment ceremony six years ago. I haven’t changed mine and I doubt that she changed hers.” Margot’s voice got a little stronger. “Are you arresting me? Do I need a lawyer?”

Yes
, I told her silently.

“We’re not arresting you at the moment, Ms. Chelius, but don’t leave town,” Helland said.

The sound of a door wheezing open was followed by a click and then by sobbing. As if by prior agreement, Grandpa and I said nothing. He turned down the volume so the sobbing faded away and we watched until Detective Helland and the other cops emerged from the lobby door. The sun struck pale gold from Helland’s hair as he folded himself into his car.

“Well,” I finally said.

“Well,” Grandpa agreed.

“Do you think she did it?”

“Odds are. She’s the woman scorned, she was angry enough to tail Zoë and confront her at that woman’s—”

“Astrid’s.”

“—place, she had access to the knives, I’m sure, and she could easily have followed Zoë into the mall and waylaid her in the bathroom area. She’s big enough that she could have overpowered Zoë without too much trouble.”

“I’d love to know where she was last night,” I said.

“Amen. How about if I stay here and monitor this gadget”—he patted the receiver—“and you track down our next suspect?”

“Doesn’t it record?”

“Of course.”

I eyed Grandpa, noticing how the corners of his mouth tucked in. “You’re up to something and you want me out of the way.”

He didn’t deny it.

“Just don’t get yourself arrested or shot,” I said, kissing his cheek and getting down from the van. “Mom would never forgive me.”

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