A Killer Closet (16 page)

Harriet was doing her best to pay attention to what Dr. Phil was saying. A woman was sitting in a chair across from him, wiping tears from her eyes, while a man sat next to her wearing an angry look. It must have been some kind of marital problem they were discussing. Probably something having to do with sex—just the kind of thing to hold Harriet's interest. But not this time. All she could think about was Adelle and Irene Seligman.

Adelle had been gone too long. Kidnapped, probably by that woman who'd tried to kill them. Adelle was most likely dead by now. That guy from the bar said she was still alive, but you couldn't trust people you met in a bar. Especially not in a little town like Pecos. Everybody knew that.

She was worried about Irene, too. When she went by the store today, it was closed. Neither Irene nor Angel was anywhere around. She had tried calling Irene on her cellphone, but there was no answer. To make matters worse, Angel didn't answer his phone. Had something happened to both of them?

“Why don't you ask her?” Dr. Phil said, startling Harriet. She glared at the TV screen. There was a sulking teenage girl across from the woman. The show wasn't about sex, it was about brooding teenagers, and Dr. Phil wanted the girl's mother to ask her a question. Fat chance she had of getting an answer if Harriet was any judge of character. She punched the remote and made the screen go black.

“Are we out of bacon?” George called to her from the kitchen. He went in to the office only two or three days a week now. Trying out retirement, he claimed. Wanted to see if he liked it. Harriet thought he seemed to like it all too well. It wasn't easy getting used to having him in the house all day.

“I don't buy bacon anymore. Processed meat is bad for you.”

“Who says?”

“I saw it on TV.”

“And you believe everything you hear on TV? How in hell are you supposed to make a BLT without bacon?”

Harriet was used to ignoring him. “I'm worried about Irene.”

“Irene who?”

“Irene Seligman. Adelle's daughter. She didn't open her store today.”

“Maybe she just wanted a day off.” George had his head stuck in the refrigerator, making his voice sound muffled. “What's this stuff in the blue bowl?”

“No, it's something worse.

“Worse than what? Bacon?” He sniffed at the contents of the bowl and carried it with him as he walked into the den, where Harriet still sat in front of the now-silent television. He was unshaven and still dressed in his robe and slippers.

“I'm afraid she's gone to look for Adelle. I'm afraid she's in danger. Maybe we should call the police.”

“My God, Harriett, that's not necessary. Just call her.”

“I did. No answer. I've got a feeling she went up to Mariposa again. I think we should drive up there and find out. She might be in trouble.”

George shook his head. “She wouldn't be stupid enough to go back up there after what you told me happened. Besides, the police told both of you to stay away.”

Harriet sighed. “I
will
call the police.”

“Whatever.” He sniffed the bowl again. “What is this stuff?”

“Tofu.”

“My God, Harriet! When did you start buying that?”

The receptionist at the police station asked in her usual too-cheerful voice if she could help Harriet. When Harriet asked to speak to the chief, she was told he was unavailable until Harriet told her she was Mrs. George Baumgarten.

“Oh, I think I just heard him come in, Mrs. Baumgarten,” the receptionist said.

There was a definite advantage to being married to George. They weren't as wealthy as the Delgado family, but George made enough money to earn the respect of every public official in the city, especially when he opened his checkbook during campaigns like the race for chief of police.

“Mrs. Baumgarten, you're not in trouble again, are you? And how's old George?” Chief Iglesias asked.

“Old George is fine, thank you, but I'm not.”

“What's wrong?” The chief sounded alarmed.

“I'm worried about Irene Seligman. She didn't open her store today, and she doesn't answer her phone.”

“Maybe she—”

“No, she didn't take the day off.”

“I was planning on stopping by her place later in the day,” Andy said. “I'll go over there now, if you think—”

“I think she went back to Mariposa. I think she's in trouble.”

“Why would she go to Mariposa? I told both of you to stay away from that place.” The chief sounded worried. That was good, Harriet thought. He was finally taking her seriously.

“She's looking for Adelle. She thinks she's still alive. Can you blame her? She's worried about her mother. She doesn't want to admit that she might be—”

“All right. Thanks for letting me know. I'll get right on it.” Andy's voice was tense, and he hung up abruptly. Another good sign, Harriet thought. He
was
taking the matter seriously.

Harriet stood next to the phone in the kitchen, chewing her thumbnail and thinking. If Irene was in trouble, she needed to be there. Especially if she had learned by now that her mother was dead. Irene and Adelle had never been close, but they were mother and daughter, and blood, as they say, is thicker than water. If, God forbid, anything ever happened to her, Harriet would want someone to be with her own daughter.

“George,” she called, “get dressed. We're going to take a ride up to the mountains.”

“The mountains? Why? What—”

“I can't drive on those roads by myself, dear. You're coming with me to do the driving. We'll stop at Applebee's on the way and buy a couple of bacon burgers.”

It seemed to Harriet that it took forever for George to get dressed and then to drive to Applebee's, order the burgers, and wait for them to be made. They got them to go, and George wasn't happy about having to drive and eat at the same time. Harriet couldn't eat hers. She could only sit in nervous silence, thinking of Adelle and Irene. She was certain by then that Irene was in trouble. Chief Andy's demeanor had convinced her completely.

“This was not a good idea,” George said. “If there's anything bad going on at Mariposa, we need to stay out of it. Let the police handle it. And you think I don't know you used this sandwich as bait to get me to come along?”

“Don't be mad. What if Irene needs us?”

“Well, I…That's not something we…I…It's not a good idea.”

George blustered for a while, but he kept driving. Harriet knew he was thinking of Irene as the little girl who used to come to their house to play with Liz, their daughter.

Several minutes later, as George made his way up the rough path toward the house, he noticed a pickup parked at the side of the road.

“Look, Harriet. There's someone up here. See? Two, no three, men getting out of that pickup.”

“Yes, I see. Stop the car.”

“Are you crazy? I'm not stopping for a bunch of men up here in the wilderness. Look! One of them has a gun.” He pressed hard on the accelerator and created an opaque cloud of dust as he sped past the men.

“Stop!” Harriet cried again. “You don't have to worry. I called the police, and besides, I know—”

“That's not the police. They don't drive a pickup, and they don't—”

“I know it's not the police!” Harriet's voice was a screech. “I know that pickup. I know the man with the gun!”

“How the hell do you know—” George was driving too fast and veered off the road, slamming one wheel into a small boulder before Harriet could answer. They both lurched forward, but were just as quickly pushed back by the sudden, hard thrust of inflating airbags. The car leaned to the left where the front wheel had been pushed sideways. They were both too dazed to speak at first. Finally, George pushed at the heavy balloon. “My God, Harriet. Now look at what you've gotten us into. Those men are going to come kill us.”

Harriet gathered herself enough to turn around and see the pickup stopped several yards behind them. It took all of her strength to open the door, but as soon as she was out she heard three shots coming from the direction of the house. She placed both hands over her mouth to stifle a scream and fell to her knees. Everything went black, and she had only a vague idea that her head had hit the ground.

She was too dazed to know how much time had passed before George and someone else were helping her to her feet.

“Who the hell are you?” George asked.

“Rafael!” Harriet cried. “Oh, Rafael!”

Rafael was still holding her. “Miss Harriet! Look at you! Your face is all bloody. Are you all right?”

“Who the hell is Rafael?”

Harriet tried to speak. “I heard gunshots…”

“What are you doing here?” Rafael said, trying to move her back toward the car. “You better go home.”

“Listen to him, Harriet,” George said. “We've got to go home, for Christ's sake.” George's face was bruised and bloody from the impact of the airbag.

“Those shots. They came from the house,” Harriet said. “What—”

“Don't ask,” Rafael said, as the other two men gathered around him.

“There was two women and a boy in there,” one of the men said. “Those shots were probably meant for—”

“Shut up!” the other man said.

Harriet felt as if she might faint. “Two women and a…Irene and Angel. Who else?” When no one answered her, she shrieked at their blank faces. “Who else? In heaven's name, tell me!”

“Adelle,” Rafael said, as if his answer was an apology.

“Adelle?” Harriet tried to ask for more, but words failed her.

“Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?” George asked.

“Adelle's alive?” Harriet finally managed to ask. She saw the look on Rafael's face. “Those three shots…”

“Get back in the car,
señora,
” Rafael said. “Go home,” he added.

“We can't go home!” George's voice was an angry explosion. “Look at the car.”

“Then wait here,” Rafael said. “Wait in your car. Don't get out. We'll come back for you.”

“Come back for us? Where are you going?'

“We're going in. We'll get all three of them out of there if they're alive.”

Irene heard the three shots P.J. had fired to fool the men in the house, but she didn't stop running. Or almost running. Having to drag Adelle along with her into the forest slowed her down.

“Go on!” she shouted to Angel, who was next to them. “Don't wait for us. Save yourself.”

Angel's answer was to swoop Adelle up in his arms and keep running. “You go on,” he said, breathing heavily. “Run ahead. We'll catch up.”

Irene didn't run ahead, but she was thankful they could at least move a little faster.

“I can't velieve this is hattening to ve,” Adelle said. Irene tried to ignore her and resisted the urge to tell her it wasn't happening only to her.

No more than a minute later, Irene spied a particularly thick outcropping of the ponderosa pines that populated the canyon they were trying to run through. The canyon was lined with several of the large boulders that gave the Rocky Mountains their name. Angel spotted the cluster of trees at the same time and ran toward them, still with Adelle in his arms. Irene stopped as she entered the grove and leaned against one of the rocks. “Let's rest here. I think we're safe. At least for a while.”

Angel lowered Adelle to an area padded with dead pine needles, but she jumped up immediately, brushing the prickly needles from the black Chanel pants she'd bought at a bargain price from Irene's Closet, although she'd had Irene bring them home to her after the store closed so no one would see her coming out of a consignment shop with a package.

She swore under her breath, still brushing at her bottom. “These vants vetter not ve ruined. Those vine needles are vet.”

“We've got more to worry about than your pants, Adelle,” Irene said, “and you should be grateful for what Angel did for you.”

“Of course I'n grateful,” Adelle said. “Do you think I'n a cretin?”

Irene figuratively bit her tongue. At least Adelle had admitted gratitude even if she hadn't thanked Angel directly.

“I thought that nan, that P.J., was going to kill us, vut he told us to run. Then I thought he was going to shoot us in the vack.” She sobbed and wiped at her nose and dabbed at her eyes and her still-swollen mouth with P.J.'s bloodstained handkerchief that she still held in her hand. “Then those shots! There vust have veen six or seven of them. I just knew one would hit ne.” She put her hand to her chest. “I don't know if I'll ever get over this,” she said.

“Three shots, Adelle. There were only three shots,” Irene said and immediately wondered why she had bothered to correct Adelle. If they lived through this, the story would grow to include dozens of gunshots.

Angel turned to Irene. “What do you think? What's he up to?” He was still breathing heavily.

“Obviously, he wanted us to get away,” Irene said.

“Why?” Angel asked. “So he could kill us later?”

“Oh, God!” Adelle's face was a shade paler than it had been before. “I just don't understand vhat's going on.” She sounded near tears. “All those paintings! How did you know they ver there, Irene? Who vould have thought to look in a vasevent.”

“In a basement!” Irene said. “How would anyone know to look in a…” She stopped midsentence and pulled a paper from her jeans pocket and handed it to Adelle. “I almost forgot. This is for you. Susana wrote it.”

Adelle's eyes widened in surprise. She took the paper and unfolded it. “I can't read this. It's jivverish. Just randon consonants.”

“Random consonants just like Harriet said,” Irene said as she took the paper from Adelle and studied it, mouthing the sounds. “Of course!” I should have known! Wait here! Stay with her, Angel.” She started running toward the house.

“Don't go back there!” Angel shouted. “You'll get yourself killed. Those men have a lot to lose if they learn you're not dead. They know you'll tell the cops what we saw.”

“Stay with Adelle,” Irene said, pausing long enough to turn back to Angel. “There's someone else who has more to lose than those two men.”

“You're talking about the man they're calling the boss,” Angel said.

“I'm going back up to the house,” Irene said, turning away from him again without answering him. “You two stay here until I come back.”

“Oh, no!” Adelle said. “Don't leave ne here. What if it gets dark? What if—”

“Like hell you're going back,” Angel said, at the same time Adelle spoke. “Not without me, you're not.”

“Don't leave ne here alone!” Adelle said again.

“Stay here with Adelle,” Irene said. “I want to be there when the boss shows up.”

“Are you crazy?” Angel asked. “You escaped being shot once. Why would you want to risk it again?”

“I don't have time to explain.” Irene was already on her way again. “Please, just stay here. I'll be back as soon as I can.” She could hear Adelle sobbing as she ran, and Angel yelling at her to come back.

Irene kept running until she saw the house looming in front of her. They weren't as far away from it as she had thought. Maybe it was fear that had made it seem an eternity had passed as P.J. herded them away from the house and toward the forest at the point of a gun. She stopped a moment to catch her breath and had just started running again when a figure appeared suddenly out of the trees. She crashed into him and fell to the ground. In the next moment, she saw that it was P.J. hovering over her with his gun pointed directly at her.

Angel watched Irene disappear into the canyon, obscured by the tall ponderosas that grew along what at one time must have been a stream that ran through the canyon. He ran the fingers of one hand through his thick black hair as if that would somehow stimulate his brain and help him figure out what to do. He couldn't imagine what good Irene thought she was doing by running into the arms of danger. He'd thought she was smarter than that. Especially after she had chided him for taking chances by associating with the Capitolistas. But that was a long time ago when he was just a kid. He knew better now. She ought to know better than to do what she was doing.

He paced back and forth, glancing frequently in the direction Irene had run. He didn't follow her because she'd wanted him to stay with her mother. Adelle, he noticed, was literally shivering with fear now, and she looked as if she was trying to stuff that handkerchief in her mouth. It was hard to believe she and Irene were mother and daughter. They couldn't have been more different. Adelle was a vain, often superficial woman who thought mostly of herself, while Irene had sacrificed what had to be a good job in New York to come back to Santa Fe to take care of her. There were times when he couldn't imagine how Irene could put up with her. At the same time, he had to admit it was hard not to like Adelle. She could be funny and engaging. He could see why men might have been attracted to her when she was younger. Why they still were, in fact, judging by how she had charmed that son of a bitch Rafael.

Still, Adelle was a pain in the ass. Even though Irene had asked him to stay with her, he couldn't help feeling it was more important to make sure Irene was safe. After all, the only danger Adelle was likely to face here in the woods was wild animals. And what good would he be in trying to defend her from animals? She'd probably scare them off with her screams. Irene, on the other hand, was walking into a house full of criminals with guns. If she made it that far. He was convinced that P. J. Bailey alone was even more dangerous. He had something up his sleeve when he let them go. He was too crafty not to, although Angel had no idea what it could be.

“I'm going after Irene,” he said abruptly. “You stay here, like she said. You'll be fine as long as you don't wander off.”

“No! Wait!” she called to his back, but he didn't look back. He ran, thrashing through the trees and half stumbling over the rough terrain of the canyon floor.

“What the hell?” P.J. said, and moved the gun away from Irene's face. “I thought you were one of them. I told you to stay back there.” He kept his voice low, knowing they were close enough to the house that someone might hear him.

Irene's eyes widened as she looked at him. “I couldn't stay there. I had to come help.”

“Help? How could you possibly think you could help?”

“That woman—I know who she is. I should have…”

P.J. reached for her and pulled her gently to her feet. “Go back there with Angel and your mother.”

“Don't go to the house, P.J. You'll be shot if you do.”

P.J. made a sardonic sound that was a little like a laugh. “And you won't?”

“I don't know, but—”

“Don't be a fool, Irene. Stay in the woods until you're sure we're all gone.”

“Don't you understand? I know they're going to kill you. I just might have a chance to stop them.”

Irene saw a mixture of fear and anger in P.J.'s face. “Will you just shut up and get back in the woods! They think I've already killed you. Don't screw it up. If you go back there, they'll know I didn't do the job, and they'll kill you and me both.”

She knew he was right, and she paused for a moment, thinking. “All right,” she said finally, “I won't go in, but you—” The report of gunfire interrupted her, and in the same instant the sound of a bullet humming and then a thud. P.J. pushed Irene to the ground and fell on top of her.

Irene was barely able to breathe under the weight of him. “Are you hit?” she asked.

“I'm okay. You?”

“You're lying,” she said. “I can feel the blood. It's coming from your chest. They shot you in the chest!” She tried to maneuver her way out from under him. He sensed what she was doing and rolled to his side, his back to her. She heard a gasp and sat up immediately. His face had turned white, and he tried to speak. Blood pooled under him, turning the soil and pine needles he lay upon black. “Don't talk,” she said. “I need to see how badly you're hurt.” She touched his chest, sliding her hand gently along, searching for the wound while her fingers turned sticky with blood. She found nothing, but the black pool beneath him continued to grow.

He was trying to speak again, and she leaned closer to him. “Not chest,” he managed to gasp. “Arm.”

She clutched his shoulder and pulled him gently to his back. The arm he'd been lying on was raw, and blood pulsed from the open wound. She ripped off her silk blouse without bothering to unbutton it and then ripped it apart to use as a tourniquet on his upper arm above the wound, with a stick twisted in the tie to use as a tightening lever. She took the water bottle from her side pocket and held it to his lips, forcing him to drink. When the bleeding had slowed to a trickle, she set the bottle aside and released and then tightened the tourniquet. She rose to her feet. Next, she picked up his gun from the ground where he had dropped it next to him.

“I'm going for help. Stay here. Drink as much water as you can. Don't try to walk. You've lost too much blood.”

She saw that he started to protest and tried to sit up, but she was on her way as he slumped back to lie on the ground again.

As she approached the back of the house, she noticed the cars belonging to Sagan and Webster were still there behind the house where they couldn't be seen from the front. She found the back entrance where P.J. had led her, Adelle, and Angel outside.

The door squeaked as she opened it. She stopped, dead still, afraid the sound had alerted someone. Stepping back from the door, she waited for several seconds, but when no one appeared, she stepped inside. The sound of voices with indistinguishable words floated toward her from inside—not from the kitchen or the basement where the vault was located, she thought, but most likely the living room.

With the gun in her hand, she crept toward the living room, but she didn't enter. Instead, she peered around the doorframe. Sagan and Webster were seated on one of the leather sofas, and Andy Iglesias was pacing in front of them holding a gun. Seated on another of the sofas were Rafael and two other men. Their hands were tied behind their backs, their feet were bound, and they all had gags over their mouths.

“That was your first mistake,” Andy said, speaking to Sagan and Webster. “You should have figured it out long before—” He stopped speaking when he saw Irene standing in the doorway with the gun pointed at him.

“Irene,” he said, his voice calm, as if he weren't surprised, yet his eyes scanned her suspiciously.

It was only then that she realized she wasn't wearing a blouse and that her torso was covered with P.J.'s blood, but she pointed the gun at Andy's head and spoke. “Drop the gun, Andy, and slide it toward me with your foot.”

“What are you talking about?” Andy asked. “These men are dangerous, and this is police business. Leave it to—”

She turned quickly when she saw Sagan try to pull his gun from the holster across his chest. She fired, hitting his hand, and he dropped the gun. It skittered across the floor. In less than a second she shot again, hitting Webster in the thigh, making him drop his gun as well. Webster cried out in pain, and Sagan grasped his injured hand with his good hand and swore loudly. In the same instant, Andy's gun fired, and Irene felt as if her heart had dropped from her chest, but when she turned toward him, she saw him trying to right himself. Rafael had tripped him with his tied feet, making him misfire.

“What's this all about?” Andy asked.

“I said slide the gun toward me. With your foot!” Irene barked at him.

He did as he was told. “You're being irrational,” he said. “You don't know what's going on here. Don't interfere with police business.”

“I know exactly what's going on here,” she said. “You're not here on police business.”

“For Christ's sake, Irene.” Andy nodded toward Sagan and Webster. “These two men are art thieves, and those three over there do the dirty work for them.”