A Blush With Death Read online

  So it made sense that she was taking me somewhere where I wouldn’t be easily found. Which meant that I had a few minutes to plan.

  Something kept nagging at the back of my mind—something I remembered telling somebody. I scrambled for the elusive memory, and then, when I heard the turn signal click, and felt the car swing to the left, it flooded back into my mind.

  One of the survival tips from my self-defense classes taught that, if ever locked in a trunk by an assailant, break the taillight and try to stick your hand out the hole. The trick had saved several lives when the cops stopped the car because of the broken light or seeing somebody’s hand dangling out the back of the trunk. I just never thought I’d be the one having to take my own advice. I shook everything out of my tote bag and wrapped the cloth around my hand, then pulled away the panel covering the left taillight.

  Taking a deep breath, I smashed my fist into the light. The glow from the bulb popped and vanished as the glass shattered. Now for the right. I broke the light and then tried to smash the cover.

  Abruptly, the car hit a bumpy patch and I had to withdraw my hand to avoid both the bag and my skin from being slashed on the jagged remains of the bulb. A moment later, the car pulled to a stop. Oh shit. No sirens, so the cops weren’t to thank.

  Frantic, I felt around in the trunk, hoping for a crowbar or anything else that might be usable as a weapon. Nada. Didn’t the woman even keep a jack in her trunk? I exhaled and tried to calm my mind. She wouldn’t shoot me while I was still in the trunk, she wasn’t that stupid. No, she’d kill me away from her car so there wouldn’t be any blood-stains. I was going to have to take her down the hard way.

  But a little thought nagged at me, that I might not come out of this alive. Quickly, I yanked a few hairs from my head and scattered them around, trying to slide a couple under the taillight panel, then reached up to make sure that the roof of the trunk was covered with fingerprints. If she did manage to kill me, I wanted evidence pointing to her.

  A rustling told me she was near the trunk, then a click, and it opened. She was still holding the gun, and, under the faint light from the clouds, I could see she was staring at the taillights with an angry expression on her face.

  “You’re resourceful, I’ll give you that,” she said. “Get out.”

  I unfolded myself and climbed out. Though my face and my body hurt like hell, I hadn’t cramped. Thank heaven for small favors. I glanced around to see where we were and smelled the water before I saw or heard it. The breakers were coming in, and farther back on the beach stood the blurry outline of a tall building. We were on Lighthouse Spit, and chances were good that we were alone.

  “Get your things from the trunk. Make sure you have everything.” She noticed my flashlight. “Use that to double-check.”

  Removing evidence, I thought. But she couldn’t find everything—every fiber, every hair, every print. I slung my bag over my shoulder.

  “Now, I want you to walk along the pier, out to the very end,” she said.

  Lighthouse Spit was a long, narrow spit of land leading out into the inlet. It ended in a pier, and during the summer, boats would moor along it. A great place for walking out to watch the waves, it was usually deserted by night. But right now, I didn’t feel like a nature walk, especially one I knew was intended to be my last.

  I swung in front of her, all the while gauging where the best place to make my stand was. Could I just jump in the water? Swim for safety? August nights weren’t that cold, and I was a good swimmer. But then, how long would she wait, and how far would I have to swim in the dark? The riptides were an ever-present danger, and I was still suffering the effects of the pepper spray. We were on the beach, nearing the path, and there were no trees here, no bushes, just open sand. If I ran, chances were I’d take a bullet. That didn’t mean she’d hit me in a vital area, but it didn’t mean she wouldn’t.

  The sound of a car pulling up broke into my thoughts, and as Bebe started, I grabbed the chance and whirled, my feet flying. My reflexes took over and I landed a haphazard kick in her stomach. She groaned, then fell backward. No time to waste! She had the gun and the pepper spray. I half jumped, half fell on top of her, sprawling with a bone-jarring thud. She tried to fight me off, and I saw that the gun was still in her hand, aimed directly at my shoulder.

  I grabbed for her arm, trying to force it back so the muzzle was pointed away from me, but she was stronger than she looked. I was going to have to hurt her before she managed to pull the trigger. I raised my arm, then brought my left fist down center on her face. She screamed, and the coppery smell of blood filled the air as her arm went limp. Knocking the gun out of reach, I blinked, trying to see what damage I’d managed. Well, well, well. A broken nose, by the looks of it. Sticky drops of blood clung to my hand, and I hoped to God I didn’t have any open cuts.

  Killian raced up from where he’d parked behind Bebe. He slid to his knees and stared at the two of us. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice echoing through the night.

  “No, I’m hurt—pepper spray,” I said. “She was going to shoot me.”

  “I know, I followed you, but I didn’t want to spook her until she stopped the car and I could get close enough to help. I lost her at the last turn, and it took me a few minutes to backtrack.”

  Bebe moaned. “Get off of me, you little bitch.”

  I wanted nothing more than to comply, but there was no way I was letting her escape. “We need to get Kyle out here—”

  “He’s on his way. I saw her leading you out of the building and called him from my car. He should be here any minute. He was on the other side of town.” Killian looked around. “I can check to see if I have any rope so we can tie her up. Can you hold her a little longer?”

  I grimaced, my body seriously protesting any further movement at this point. “I don’t think so. Help me, please.”

  “You—you hired someone to kill Sharon,” Bebe managed to say, staring up at Killian. I suddenly worried that she might choke on the blood if I kept her on her back, so I slipped off but kept hold of her wrists and dragged her to a sitting position.

  Killian took over, pulling her arms behind her and pinning them there. So he was stronger than I was—that was a new one for me, and I smiled quietly. Even Bran couldn’t beat me at arm wrestling.

  “What? I barely knew Janette, and I sure didn’t hire her to kill anybody.” he said. I patted Bebe down while he held her, confiscating her pepper spray. The gun lay a little ways away on the sand.

  Bebe leaned forward. “I think I’m going to throw up,” she said, and we moved to allow her room. As a stream of feathery liquid mingled with blood spilled out of her mouth, I looked away. Blood, I could stomach. Vomit, not so much.

  “May I wipe my mouth?” Bebe gave me such a beseeching look that I relented. She was, after all, a lady. A would-be murderer, yes, but a proper one. I reached in my tote bag and found a tissue, handing it to her. She seemed to have given up any hope of getting away, because she sat there limply, wiping her mouth and nose as the blood continued to stream.

  “I suppose we should call for an ambulance, too,” I said. Killian flipped out his cell phone and put in a call to Kyle. When he hung up, he said, “On its way. The chief called them. His ETA is about three minutes.”

  I found another tissue for Bebe, who mutely accepted it, staring dully ahead. She nodded to me, quickly stopping to gently prod her nose. “I have to give it to you, girl, you know how to fight. I suppose this means the end to everything I’ve been working for.”

  I broke a faint grin. Bebe wasn’t worth the paper her birth certificate was printed on, but at least she could concede defeat when the game was over. “Considering you had no qualms about walking over everybody else to get what you wanted, I don’t feel sorry for you,” I said. “You screwed Venus Envy over as best as you could, as well as Donna Prima and who knows how many other little businesses.”

  She gave me a speculative look. “B
usiness, my dear. Simply business. I have nothing against you or your aunt. In fact, I still think that—had you a slightly different bent—you would have made an excellent addition to my company. You and I could have gone a long ways.”

  “Yeah, straight to prison, which is where you’re headed. For numerous sins.” I looked up at Killian, who was staring out at the water.

  “Trish,” he murmured.

  “What?” I heard the wail of sirens in the near vicinity. “Kyle’s almost here. The ambulance can’t be far behind.”

  “Trish,” Killian said. “I know who murdered Sharon. It was Trish.” He blinked, then rubbed his hand across his eyes. “I should have known. She was so paranoid about her work—so protective.”

  I winced, trying not to rub my eyes. It made sense, it made too much sense. Was Janette in jail because of her aunt’s crimes? “We have to stop her before she leaves town. If she was able to shoot Sharon in cold blood and leave her there to die, I wouldn’t put it past her to skip town, leaving Janette to take the blame.”

  Just then, Kyle pulled in, lights and sirens going. The loneliest sound in the world, I thought—the sound of sirens in the night. He swung out of his cruiser and raced over.

  “You okay?” he shot at me.

  I shook my head. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. I’ll go see the doctor before I go home, but the effects are starting to wear off. Pepper spray,” I added before he could say a word. We filled him in on what had gone down. Bebe kept her mouth shut, only acknowledging her rights had been read to her, asking to speak to her lawyer as the ambulance loaded her in the back and took off for the hospital. A second patrol car showed up to follow the ambulance.

  Kyle, Killian, and I sat there, staring out at the ocean as it crashed against the breakers in front of the spit. I took a shaky breath. This was the second time in my life I’d come close to dying, and I didn’t like it any more than I had the first. Killian quietly told Kyle what he thought about Trish.

  “Let’s go have a talk with her,” Kyle said.

  “She might talk more if I’m there,” Killian said. “I’m her friend. I understand what that cream meant to her—both her career and her sense of self-worth. She created a masterpiece, she really did. It would have put Donna Prima in league with the big boys.”

  I sighed. After everything broke in the papers, chances were good that Donna Prima was done for. The company would never recover from the bad publicity. If they’d been big enough, they might have bought silence. But they were still a start-up, and who on earth would want to use a cream created by a murderer, no matter how good it was?

  Kyle shook his head. “You really think she’d kill over a face cream?”

  Killian smiled sadly. “People have killed over far less, haven’t they?”

  On that sobering thought, we headed back to the cars. Kyle called for a tow truck to impound Bebe’s car, and I told him I’d ride over with Killian. I needed to call Auntie and let her know I was safe.

  As I opened the door to Killian’s Jag, I looked up. Kyle was watching me, and in the shadows, I thought I saw resignation on his face. Resignation and the beginnings of understanding. It was better that way, I thought, as I slid into the low-slung seat. Maybe he could let go of a fantasy and find something real.

  AS SOON AS we were buckled in, I put in a call to Auntie. She burst into tears when she heard my voice. “I called Kyle after I talked to you, but I didn’t know where you were,” she said. “I was frantic with worry.”

  “I know, Auntie, and I’m sorry. But I’m safe now. There are a few things we have to take care of first, but I’ll call you when I’m ready to come home. It’s going to be a long night—you should get some rest. I’m okay.”

  She didn’t want to hang up, but I convinced her that I’d love nothing more than a pot of hot chicken soup when I was done, the kind she made from scratch. It would give her something to do while waiting for me, and truth was, Auntie’s chicken soup was quickly becoming a comfort food for me. I stared at the silent phone, counting my many blessings.

  The ride over to Trish’s house was tense, but when we hit the stoplight at Rhine and Mariner streets, Killian reached over and slid his hand onto my knee, very lightly. I ran my fingers over his skin. It was all we needed to say.

  Trish lived in a suburb near the west side of Gull Harbor. Her lights were blazing as we pulled in behind Kyle, and I had the feeling that she knew we were on our way. Kyle went first, while we waited at the edge of the sidewalk. Trish opened the door on the first ring and beckoned us in. She was fully dressed, even though it was well past midnight, and her handbag sat on the coffee table, along with a light wrap.

  She offered us coffee, which we politely declined, and then motioned for us to be seated. I glanced around the room. Stark white with brilliant splashes of red and black. The room was chic, avant-garde almost, and cold as ice. The prints on the walls were geometric, the vases angular rather than round. I glanced at Killian, who in turn was watching Trish.

  “I guess you know why we’ve come,” Kyle said.

  Trish let out a loud sigh. “I know. I’d like to tell you everything now. I can’t let you hold my niece any longer. I was going to come down to the station tomorrow and confess. I’m the one who shot Sharon.”

  Kyle stared at her. “Would you like a lawyer present before you say anything more?”

  With a smile, Trish stood up and peeked around the corner, whispering something. A short little man with beady eyes appeared from the other room. He was dressed in a dark suit and, while I didn’t recognize him, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Trish had already made provisions in that direction.

  “Paul Manning,” the man said to Kyle. “I believe we’ve met in the past.”

  “Manning, I remember you.” Inclining his head slightly, Kyle added, “I take it you’re Ms. Jensen’s attorney?”

  “Yes. She’s prepared to give a full statement after you’ve read her her rights.” Manning glanced over at us. “You want them here?” he asked her.

  Trish shrugged. “I hardly think it matters,” she said, then turned to Killian. “I’m so sorry, Killian. I never meant to do anything that would jeopardize Donna Prima. But I guess things don’t always turn out like we want them to.”

  Kyle seemed taken aback but quickly took control of the situation. “Let’s go down to the station to do this. I’d like to record her confession.” Trish and her lawyer had no objections, so we headed out into the night again. Manning and Trish drove in front of Kyle, who kept watch to make sure they made it to their destination, while Killian and I brought up the rear.

  “Did you ever suspect that she might be the one?” I asked.

  “No, but then I would never have guessed that she’d let the cops think I was a suspect, either.” Killian shook his head. “She’d better not count on me to be a character witness for her, that’s all I have to say.” His voice was hard, but I understood exactly what he was going through. When I found out what Elliot had been up to—even though it hadn’t been as serious as murder—I’d felt totally betrayed.

  “This is going to be rough on Janette,” I said. “I like her.”

  “She’s a good kid,” he said. “At least she’ll come out of this with her skin intact.” He pulled into the parking lot, and we sat there for a moment, staring at the police station. “I’m closing down Donna Prima,” he said, after a moment.

  “I figured as much. I don’t know what else you can do until this blows over. What will you do after you’ve shut down the company?” I asked, realizing that I needed to know. Killian was different than anybody I’d ever met. He set off alarm bells in the pit of my stomach. I could be vulnerable to this man, and it frightened me as much as it intrigued me.

  He looked over at me. “I’m not sure, but the minute I figure it out, you’ll be the first one to know. Until then, can you live with a little uncertainty?”

  I stared at him, realizing that I already did. �
�I told you I’m seeing someone, but it’s not serious. We know that there will be a day where we’ll say good-bye as lovers. I’ve never been too good at the commitment thing, not if it means marriage and family. Can you live with that?”

  Killian broke into a grin. “I had a vasectomy four years ago. I think I can get used to the idea.” He paused. “Do you love him—your boyfriend?”

  Did I love Bran? He was freewheeling, fun, interesting, but was that enough? Was that the foundation of love? “I don’t think so,” I said slowly. “Not in that deep, unswerving way. I don’t know if I really know what love is. I’ve never really been in love before, I guess.”

  “I can live with that answer for now.” Killian slipped out of his seat, and I followed him into the building.

  BY THE TIME we joined Kyle, Manning, and Trish in one of the conference rooms, the fluorescents had already given me a headache. Kyle choked back a snort when he saw me in full light. “You look like death warmed over, Persia.”

  “Thanks,” I said, raising one eyebrow, then wincing because it hurt.

  Kyle waited until we were all seated, then turned on the cassette recorder. He recorded the date, asked Trish if she minded if we were present. She said no, that was fine. Then he asked her if she’d been read her rights and if she understood them, and she acknowledged that she had and did. Manning stated that he was present and that everything was aboveboard. We were ready to rumble.

  “Trish, what do you want to tell us?” Kyle asked.

  She took a deep breath, looked at Killian, who looked away, then leaned toward the tape recorder. “I want to confess to the murder of Sharon Wellstone. I shot her, nobody else was involved, and I take full responsibility.”