Because I'm Watching (37 page)

“Trying to stop a friend from making a bad mistake.”

“Good way to get yourself killed.”

“True. But I'm not worried about him. It's all about the bride.”
Bride of Frankenstein.

“Women are the deadliest sex.” The cabbie looked in the rearview mirror. “It
is
a woman?”

“I think so,” Jacob said cautiously.

“Oh, it's like that.” The cabbie hit light speed down the Strip, slammed on his brakes in front of the chapel, took Jacob's cash, leaped out, and opened Jacob's door. “Want me to wait in case you need to make a fast getaway?”

“Sure. Do that.” Jacob suspected this wouldn't take long.

Inside he leaned across the counter to the elderly receptionist. He thought how best to get information out of—he glanced at the nameplate—Betty. He looked pitiful and asked, “Did I miss my friend's wedding?”

“Who's your friend?”

“Andrew Hewitson.”

Betty smirked. “Boy, are you in trouble. We married him and his bride two days ago at three in the afternoon.”

“I
am
in trouble. I was supposed to be the best man. Was it a beautiful wedding?”

“It was! Want to see the pictures?” She turned the monitor around so he could see a line of photos for “Andrew and Barbara's Wedding.” The bride was tall, taller than Andrew, and by the style of her dress and sweater, rather frumpy. In every shot she was looking at Andrew or hiding behind her bouquet or twirling in ecstasy while Andrew grinned stupidly.

Jacob stared at her. Squinted and scrutinized and wondered—who was she? Why was she hiding from the camera? And why, oh, why, did Andrew look as if he were intoxicated/on drugs/had taken enough Viagra to rob his brain of blood? “Andrew was … drunk?”

“Well.” Betty widened her eyes as if the thought had just occurred to her. “Perhaps he celebrated prematurely … with different substances. Many people do, you know.”

“I know…”
Weak as ditchwater,
Mr. Caron had said. “Barbara's a healthy-looking girl.”

“A handsome woman.” Emphasis on
handsome.

Jacob wasn't quite sure she wasn't a man. Apparently Betty had the same doubts. “Did Barbara change her last name to his?”

“She insisted on it.” With the bright tone of a high school cheerleader, Betty said, “Isn't that refreshing to find a modern bride who isn't hyphenating or keeping her own last name?”

“Refreshing.” Or a good way to conceal your identity. Everything was getting frightening and complicated. More frightening. More complicated. “I know they were staying at the Bellagio.”

“I believe so. He was quite the high roller.”

Jacob smiled winningly. “How long were they going to stay to celebrate their honeymoon? Do you think I can catch them and take them out to an ‘I'm sorry I was late' dinner?”

“My, yes. They were going to stay for three more days. Just call before you knock on their door.” She winked. “While they were here, he was trying to rip her clothes off. She was very forceful and pushed him away.”

“Did she?” He looked right at Betty. “Anything else you want to share?”

Betty shook her head. Stopped. Glanced around. Wet her lips. “She dodged the camera. What kind of bride doesn't want her picture taken?”

So Betty had realized how
off
Barbara's behavior had been. “That is odd.”

“She had a knife with her. In her bag. Sharp. Pointed.” Betty measured the size with her fingers.

Oh, shit. Exactly what he feared. “Betty, you've been a lot of help.”

“You won't repeat what I said?”

“Never. Let me catch my cab before it gets away.” He stepped outside into the blast of heat, hurried down the sidewalk, and climbed in the backseat. “The morgue,” he said.

“That must have been one disaster of a wedding,” the cabbie said.

“I think we can safely say it was.”

 

You're gone. She's alone. She's finished the book. Now I can do the job without you whining. Andrew, your sister will be with you soon.

 

CHAPTER FIFTY

On Monday, Maddie spent hours in Jacob's bedroom, sitting on his bed and working on her laptop, while out in the living room construction workers sawed and sanded and nailed and cursed. She snuck out once when they were at lunch, to use the restroom, but if they knew she was there, they never acknowledged it.

They left at 7:00
P.M.
She raced out to use the restroom again—six hours between potty breaks was too much—then tiptoed out to the living room. She checked the locks to make sure they were secure, heated up a frozen dinner, and then got the highlight of her tense and lonely day; a call from Jacob. He had met Mr. Caron and together they were searching Andrew's empty home. He would call again when he made contact with Andrew, and he asked her to remain at his house. He sounded tired, and worried about her, and although she badly wanted to go home, she promised. She returned to his bedroom, shoved furniture around to block the door, reclined on the bed in her clothes and waited for morning. She slept in increments, jerking herself awake at every creak and groan of the old house, and rose before dawn to shower and change, eat breakfast and work on her story.

The construction workers arrived at 9:00
A.M.
Their presence made Tuesday a repeat of Monday, except that when Madeline nodded off the noise and the knowledge that they were out there allowed her sleep hard for three hours. Again the workers left at 7:00
P.M.
, and again she raced out to use the bathroom. But this time, she didn't return to the bedroom. Instead, she strapped on her pistol. She pulled on her denim bomber jacket and buttoned it at the waist to ensure coverage. She hesitated over her computer, but with no Wi-Fi, no thumb drive, no way of backing up the contents, and a solid suspicion that her tormentor could follow her to the ends of the earth to hurt her, she didn't dare leave it. She tucked the laptop under her arm, got her house keys, and peeked out the front door.

She needed to go home. Just for a second, long enough to grab the work on her graphic novel. This morning, in her hurry to get to safety, she had rashly abandoned her painfully drawn sketches, and she couldn't leave them to be burned. Or otherwise destroyed. Or seen.

Tattered clouds slipped up over the horizon, and the breeze off the ocean smelled like incoming rain. The street was eerily empty; the neighborhood seemed to have died with Mrs. Butenschoen. Maddie crept across the porch, then hesitated in the shadows.

Dr. Frownfelter's house was dark. The Franklins had their windows open; the kids were playing a game, shrieking with laughter. If Dayton Floren was home, he was hiding like her, but hey—
he
was guilty of his crimes. She glared across at his house. Damn him; he had made her life more difficult. She was innocent, and today it had seemed as if knowing that let her breathe more easily.

With a last look around, she scampered across the street, unlocked her door, and swung it open. She looked inside; with boxes and belongings strewn everywhere, the living room looked dim and battered, but no different from when she had left.

She didn't trust that. She didn't trust what she saw or heard.

She did trust Jacob. She trusted his warnings, his concern, and his earlier cautious call that assured her he was tracking Andrew to Las Vegas.

Why Las Vegas? That worried her. Andrew and Las Vegas … that could not be a good combination.

Pulling the revolver from the holster, she felt the click as she eased the safety off. Holding it in her right hand, she rested the butt on her left palm. Arms extended, she let the barrel lead the way the first few steps into the living room. With her foot, she shut the door behind her and walked the house, checking each room, each closet, until she was satisfied she was alone. Only then did she lock herself in, return the revolver to safe, holster it, and go to her desk.

The drawings lay untouched in the drawer. With fierce delight, she gathered them together, stacked them carefully—and jumped when her cell vibrated in her pocket.

She dropped the drawings and the computer on the desk, grabbed the phone, and saw it was Jacob. At last. She answered. “Jacob? What did you find out?”

His voice was preternaturally calm and very quiet. “Maddie, I'm sorry to do this to you, but I'm sending you a photo of a body and I need a positive ID.”

She sank into her desk chair. “Who is it?”

“Maddie…”

Of course she knew who it was. “Andrew.”

“Yes.”

“Where did you find him?”

“In the morgue in Las Vegas.”

“How was he killed?”

“Stabbed and dumped in a backstreet.”

“By who?”

“There have been no arrests. Have you got the photo yet?”

Her phone vibrated in her hand. “Yes, it just came in.”

“Is it Andrew?”

I don't want to look.
But she did. She looked at the picture of her brother's still, white, stern face. “That's him.”

“I'm sorry, honey. So sorry.”

“Um…” Her voice shook. “Um, why was he in Las Vegas?”

“He had a gambling problem.”

“Gambling?”
No.
“He … years ago, he got in trouble because of his gambling. But he told me he had quit.”

“Also he was in Vegas because … he got married.”

Maddie felt as if she were being punched over and over with one truth after another. “Married? To who?”

“To his girlfriend, Barbara Ulrich. Do you know her?”

“I never heard of her. He told me he wasn't with anyone.”

With an edge to his voice, Jacob said, “Andrew has told you a lot of lies.”

She swallowed. “I got that. But
why
?”

“For the money. You make a great deal of money with your writing. He spent it.”

“All of it?”

“He's in debt.” With his tone, Jacob condemned him. “Where are you now?”

“At my house. I needed my sketches.” She braced herself for anger or disappointment.

But Jacob surprised her. “I know you want to get more of your things, but not now. Listen. I'm on the plane. In a few minutes, we're going to take off for Seattle. From there, I'll get to Virtue Falls as fast as I can. But you need to get to safety.”

“What do you think is going to happen?”

Again Jacob lowered his voice. “Andrew's wife murdered him. She's going to try to murder you, too.”

“Why? Why kill me?”

“Because when you're out of the way, she's Andrew's heir. The royalties for your books are substantial and she could live well on them.”

Maddie felt almost dizzy with the assault of information. “I'll go back to your house and lock the doors.”

“No, Maddie, call the police.”

“I've got my gun.”

“You don't want to shoot anybody.”

That was true. She didn't.

“Besides, I don't even know whether to tell you to watch out for a tall woman or a feminine-looking man.”

“Andrew married a man? No, he would never…” But she had thought he would never deliberately harm her, never steal from her or lie to her. So what did she really know about her brother?

“In the wedding pictures, there were no good shots of her. She was the bride, which means she deliberately hid from the camera.” Jacob sounded troubled. “But her hands on the bouquet looked large and muscular. Call the police. Ask them to come and get you and take you into protective custody.”

She stiffened. She had been in protective custody before, in the mental hospital after Easton's murder and twice here in Virtue Falls. The police thought she was crazy, shooting at a phantom. They thought she was venal, poisoning a dog. They treated her the way they would treat a serial killer: watchfully and with an unpleasant edge. She wouldn't call them. She wouldn't take the chance they would put her back in jail. And Moen would try to take the call, and he was a sort of a stalker himself. “No.”

Jacob started talking faster. “You have to. The coroner gave me Andrew's effects, including his phone. The battery was dead, so when I got to the airport I charged it. When I turned it on”—he took an audible breath—“a text came in from Barbara.”

That did
not
make sense. “You said she killed him.”

“She did. No doubt.”

“What did the text say?”

“You're gone. She's alone. She's finished the book. Now I can do the job without you whining. Andrew, your sister will be with you soon.”

“She sent him that text—and he's dead? She's happy to … to hurt me? Kill me?” Maddie took a frightened breath. “She's crazy.”

“No doubt about that, either. She's ahead of me, she's had time to get to Virtue Falls, and she's been observing you. She knows you, Maddie, and I'm afraid for you.”

In the background, she heard the flight attendant start the announcement.

Jacob said, “They're shutting the cabin doors. I've got to go. Maddie, it's all up to you. Get yourself to safety.”

“Okay. I will. Right now.”

“Maddie, call Sheriff Kwinault. She'll keep you safe.”

“Jacob … I love you.”

She heard a strangling sound, then quite loudly he said, “I love you, too.”

“You be safe, Jacob. I will be, too.” She hung up. She supposed distracting him with her first
I love you
wasn't fair, but if she was in danger—and that text clearly said she was—she needed him to know how she felt. Plus it had served its purpose.

Now he was on his way to her and she was on her way out the door. She glanced out the window.

The clouds skittered across the sky, masking the setting sun, revealing it, then masking it once more.