Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too (32 page)

I had spent the time in the coffee shop assessing my physical condition and decided I didn't feel any worse than I'd felt for the last two months. “I'll be all right. We need to get to Rawlins as quickly as possible.”

Libby moaned, but Emma asked, “Where are we going?”

“I've been thinking. Judging by the bad spelling, I think Clover wrote her own ransom note. I think she's faking her own kidnapping, and she's got Rawlins with her. And they're probably at Fitch's Fancy. It's big, and she probably knows all its nooks and crannies. I bet it's the only place she'd think she would be unrecognized by her adoring fans.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, but it's a place to start.”

Emma threw the minivan into drive. “Hang on.”

While she dodged traffic, I told both my sisters what I'd learned about Clover and Jane.

“That hussy!” Libby cried when I got to the part about Clover trying to entice her son on the sidewalk outside the tea shop. “What kind of girl throws herself at every man she meets?”

Emma took a breath to speak, but Libby rushed on, “My Rawlins would never fall for such trashy behavior!”

Emma muttered, “I bet Rawlins wasn't crying for help.”

“Not exactly,” I agreed.

“That little sneak!” Libby's motherly concern turned on a dime. “What is it with men? I'm going to ground that boy the minute I see him.”

“Relax,” said Em. “You've given him a zillion condoms over the years. He's safe enough.”

“Have you ever known a man to have one when he really needs it?”

By the time we reached Fitch's Fancy, the afternoon had begun to slip away and rain pelted the road in front of us. The lawn of the estate had grown in the few days since Zell had died, making the whole place look even more unkempt and neglected than before.

Emma touched the brake and peered through the rain-spattered windshield. “What are we going to do? Break into the house to look around for Rawlins and Clover?”

In the gloom of the descending storm, the mansion appeared to be empty—all the windows bare and no lights shining from inside. Even the ghosts of past Fitch generations had packed up and moved to more hospitable headquarters. The house had been abandoned. Suddenly I doubted myself.

“Do you think Rawlins is in there?” Libby asked, echoing my disappointment.

“Maybe the basement,” Emma guessed. “You two stay here. I'm going to check.”

“What's your plan?” I asked. “Are you going to knock politely on the door and hope Clover answers? Maybe we should call the police.”

“And tell them what? That a dastardly teenage girl might be having wild party sex with our nephew?” Emma popped her door open. “We just need to find them, not get them arrested for lewd conduct. I'll break a window if I have to. Stay here, you two.”

“Lewd conduct! I'm coming, too!” Libby cried. She flipped the hood of her tracksuit over her head.

The two of them bailed out of the minivan and slammed their doors, leaving me alone. I watched them scamper through the rain, up the garden path toward the house.

“Good luck,” I said.

They were soon out of my sight, but I rubbed the condensation off the window anyway, in dread of catching a glimpse of bricks being thrown through the French doors. As the minutes passed, the rain began to ease, but the darkness continued to gather beneath scudding storm clouds.

Headlights flashed behind the minivan. I smothered a yelp as I pictured police intervention. Aloud, I said, “Please let this be a security company.”

The car pulled up beside Libby's van and parked. It was not a police car or marked with a security logo, however, just a plain gray sedan. The driver got out. He wore a long, tailored raincoat over a dark suit and a red-white-and-blue-striped tie. He popped open a black umbrella.

Protected against the rain, the man came over to the minivan and cupped one hand around his face to peer inside.

Boykin Fitch in another patriotic tie.

I unlocked the passenger door and slid it open. “Hi, Boy.”

“Nora, what are you doing here? Whose vehicle is this?” He came over to the door and stood there, blocking my exit. Rain pattered on his umbrella, and he looked at the Ab Buster in my lap, clearly trying to determine what the contraption was. “Is there anything wrong?”

“We're looking for my nephew.”

“We?”

“Emma and Libby are searching for him right now.”

Boy glanced up at the house. “I see. Has he run away?”

“No—at least I don't think so. He—well, this is a little embarrassing, but we think he might be with your niece, Clover.”

“They couldn't be here,” Boy said politely. “Clover doesn't live at Fitch's Fancy.”

“I know, but—”

“Why don't you come into my car?” Boy asked. He reached for my arm. “You'd be much more comfortable there. The heater's running.”

“I'm fine here. Em and Libby will be back any second and—”

His grip bit into my arm and he pulled. “I insist. Come with me, Nora.”

“Ouch! Boy, you're hurting me.”

“Stop that,” he said when I resisted. His expression turned hard, but still a gentleman, he tipped the umbrella to shield me from the rain. “We're going to find your sisters, and then you're going to tell me what you're really doing here.”

“I'm telling the truth. We're looking for—”

“Shut up,” said Boy. “You're looking for evidence to incriminate me, aren't you? You're trying to prove I had something to do with Zell's death.”

What can I say? After I'd poisoned three federal investigators, it was nothing to grab the Ab Buster and clonk a wannabe Senate candidate upside the head.

In one blow, I knocked him to the ground, where he landed on his knees in a puddle. His umbrella went flying. Despite his sprawl, Boy managed to reach one-handed across the floor of the minivan to make a grab for my ankle. With my other foot, I kicked his wrist until he released me. In the instant he drew back, I slammed the door. I slipped the lock, and—breathing hard—I figured I was safe.

Until Boy stood up and began to smash at the window with the Ab Buster.

I threw myself across to the opposite door. Fumbling with the handle for only an instant, I yanked it open.

“Stop,” Boy yelled over the rain. He started around the hood of the minivan toward me, gripping the Ab Buster like Fred Flintstone with a club.

In jeans and flat shoes, I thought I could outrun him. I set off up through the garden, yelling for my sisters. Boy came after me, but his wing tips slipped on the wet stones underfoot.

Emma must have heard our commotion. She came skidding full tilt down through the garden. Her short hair was plastered to her head from the rain. “What the hell?”

“It's Boy,” I panted. “He's gone crazy.”

Emma's eyes widened as she looked past me at the sight of Boy charging toward us, waving the bent remnants of the Ab Buster over his head. She said, “Get out of here! I'll handle him. Go call the police!”

“Libby's got a cell phone. Where is she?”

“Stuck in the doggy door! I couldn't stop her and now she can't budge!”

There was no time for more information. Boy arrived and swung the broken Ab Buster at Emma. As graceful as a Musketeer, she ducked the blow, then came up and head-butted Boy in the solar plexus. He let out a strangled, “Oof!”

Emma grabbed the weapon from his grasp. I turned and ran.

The rain drenched me as I raced up the sidewalk to the kitchen side of the house. I could make out a figure kneeling in front of the kitchen door where the Fitch sheepdogs had once come and gone. Libby. Her backside was unmistakable in the lavender stretch pants. Her legs flailed as she tried to wriggle through a small pet door meant only for border collies.

I reached the door and crouched beside her struggling figure. “Libby! Libby, what are you doing?”

“What does it look like I'm doing?” she snarled from inside the house. “I'm stuck, dammit! Push me!”

I put both hands on her bottom and gave a tentative shove. No doubt about it, she was plugged tighter than a cork in a bottle. I tried locking my hands around one of her knees to pull her out, but she fought against me, yelling, “No, no! I'm almost through!”

“Libby, there's no way you're going to make it!”

“I'm almost in,” she insisted.

I was looking at the largest part of her, which definitely wasn't going to squeeze through the tiny opening. No use arguing with her, though. There was nothing more determined than my sister when she was trying to delude herself. “Libby, where's your cell phone?”

“Here!” Her muffled yell came through the door. “It's in here with me.”

“Call the police,” I cried.

“What?”

“The police!” I shouted. “Call nine-one-one!”

“What for? I can wiggle out of here on my own!”

“Not for you,” I bellowed. “Boy Fitch is here! He's fighting with Emma!”

“Why is she fighting him? I thought she was supposed to date him!”

I wanted to scream. “Libby, just call nine-one-one, will you? Say there's an emergency here!”

“I don't understand,” she shouted. “Wait until I get out of here, and you can explain—hey! I'm stuck!'”

She tried backing out of the hole, but her bottom only bounced more frantically as she struggled. “Help!” she cried. “I'm really stuck!”

“I'll go get Emma,” I said. “I'll be right back.”

“Don't leave me!”

“You need help,” I called. “I can't do this by myself. Just—sit tight and I'll come back. But call nine-one-one, Libby. Do you hear me? Call nine-one-one!”

I left her yelling and dashed back through the garden. In the brambles near the fountain, I spotted Emma wrestling Boy into submission. She had one knee on his back as she pinned him to the mud. If Boykin truly loved the humiliation of submitting to a powerful woman, he was probably in ecstasy. Emma, on the other hand, looked furious. Her face was smeared with dirt, and her clothing was soaked. I heard Boy whimpering as he struggled under her.

“Em, you're hurting a member of the legislature!”

“Get me some rope,” Emma snapped, out of breath as she rode Boy's bucking body. “One of Libby's jump ropes from the minivan.”

I ran back to the van. Just as I started into the backseat to rummage through the junk, I heard a distant yell. A frightened human voice. I backed out of the van and listened intently. Besides Libby's muffled cries from the direction of the house and Boy's distinct baritone bellowing in the weeds with Emma, I heard another voice calling for help.

“Rawlins?”

I grabbed the jump rope from the minivan, threw it at Emma and headed toward the sound. It had come from the old sheep barn.

I ran down the lawn to the barn and came upon a set of tire tracks that had mashed down the grass. I followed them, climbed the low gate and slipped the last several yards to the barn. It hadn't changed much since I'd visited it as a child. But instead of a whole flock of sheep, just three woolly ewes stood huddled out of the rain beneath the overhanging roof near the door. I shoved through them and grabbed the slippery handle of the door. The tire tracks disappeared into the barn. Throwing my weight against the sliding door, I hauled it open. I saw the blue Mustang parked inside. As soon as the door opened just a foot, the sheep crowded through the opening, baaing in relief to be inside.

A feeble light glowed inside the barn. I peered ahead and saw a dusty lantern on a bale of straw. It was an antique, one of the lamps we'd used to hunt for champagne in the snowdrifts. Its small kerosene flame burned steadily.

“Rawlins?” I grabbed the lantern by its hot handle and plucked it off the straw, which was already smoldering. With my foot, I stamped on the straw, my pulse roaring in my ears. In another few minutes, the barn might have been in flames. And with the car parked inside, an explosion would have been certain.

Then I swung it to cast light around the interior of the barn. A series of wooden partitions about three feet tall divided the space into a series of stalls with a large open space in the center for shearing.

From the darkest corner came a croak. “I'm here, Aunt Nora. Watch out! She'll come out any minute!”

I headed toward his voice and came upon Rawlins in one of the stalls. He was shirtless and handcuffed to the low wooden fence. He had rubbed the wood to jagged edges by scraping the handcuff against it. A video camera had been abandoned, balanced on the top of the stall fence, pointed in the direction of my nephew.

“Rawlins! Are you okay?”

“Y-yes, I think so.” His voice was hoarse from shouting.

He looked younger than his sixteen years and shivered in the cold. Bits of straw clung to his hair and jeans. I stripped off my jacket. “Oh, honey, you're freezing!”

His teeth chattered. “She's still here, Aunt Nora. She's still here.”

“Who? Clover?” I set the lantern on the railing beside the camera and wrapped my coat around his quaking shoulders. “It's okay. We'll get you free in a minute. Your mom's here, and Emma, too.”

“M-Mom? She's going to see me like this?” He looked more terrified than before.

“It's a toss-up whether you might see her first, considering where she's stuck right now. Where is the key to these handcuffs?”

Suddenly the barn was bathed in green light. Rawlins shuddered beside me and gulped.