I Have a Secret (A Sloane Monroe Novel, Book Three) (15 page)

“I thought the two of you were supposed to go on vacation together?”

She refilled her glass to the brim and took a nice big gulp.  “That was before I caught him wizz another woman at his house in his bed—the same bed we’d shared together the night before.”

I sat in a chair next to the only window in the room.  “But you’re married.  So why the hell do you care what he does—wasn’t it just some kind of fling?”

“My marriage sucks the only life I have left out of me.”  Candice pinched her fingers together, pressed them into her lips and then pulled backward like she was trying to extract words from it.  “Sucks it out.  Sucks it all owwwt.”

I shrugged.  “So divorce.”

She fondled the stem of her glass with her fingers but didn’t respond. 

“Ah, that’s right.,” I said.  “You can’t, can you?  You’re waiting for the old man to kick it so you can get your hands on his millions.”

She rolled her eyes.  “You’re such a bitch, Sloane.  In high school you were the same way.  You never even talked to me.”

“We didn’t know each other back then,” I said. 

“Correction.  You existed, I didn’t.”

And the insecure little girl comes out to play.

I laughed.  “There wasn’t a person in school who didn’t know you.”

She tried to make a face, but her past and most likely continual use of Botox only allowed her one-and-a-half expressions, which made her look like an impartial woman living in Switzerland.  Either way, the constant huffing noise she made after each gulp of wine made it apparent she didn’t want me to be there.

“So, you left your posh digs and returned here to date a local?” I said.  “Kinda pathetic, don’t you think?”

She sucked on the top part of her lip until it disappeared inside her mouth.  “It doesn’t matter now.  I’ve ruins thingzz between us.”

“Then you
did
have feelings for Nate?” I said.  “That’s why you couldn’t handle seeing him with another girl.  It crushed you, and you rammed into his car to teach him a lesson.”

It made me wonder if she had the song “Before He Cheats” blaring through her car speakers at the moment of impact.  She certainly was crazy.

Candice shot her body forward and stumbled while going for the empty bottle of wine.  “Rats!” she said, tipping it over.  Only it came out razz.  She stumbled around like she’d just stepped on a wasp.

“Why don’t you sit down for a minute?” I said.  

She flopped her head back and forth like her neck lacked the support it needed to sustain its weight.  “I’ll do’s what I’z please, and you juss stop trying to get me all…get me all…all…”

I caught her arm before she crashed to the floor and swooped her onto the bed.  She mumbled something and then buried her face in a pillow and fell asleep. 

Great, now what am I supposed to do? 

Although Candice was far from being one of my most favorite people, my first thought was to cover her up, more to shield myself from her exposed flesh than anything else.  When I lifted the sheet, I noticed a tattoo on her upper thigh of an exotic blue flower.  It was only about two inches long, but the detail was so vivid, it looked real.  And if it had been done by Rusty—they had a connection.  All three men dead, all with a connection to Candice.  Rejection was a strong motivator to kill. 

A half hour later a grumpy, groggy Candice woke to a vision of me sitting straight up in the bed next to her dangling a knife in my hand. 

“What the—where did you…?”

“Get this?” I said, my eyes fastened on the knife.  “It’s yours, you should know.”

“How’d you find it?”

“Hiding something like this inside of a pillowcase on the bed is a little obvious.”

She reached for it and missed.  “Give it back—it’s mine!”

“Not until you tell me why you have it.  Or even better; why don’t you tell me who you’re planning on killing next so I can stop you?”

“Next?”

“Well Doug’s dead, and Rusty, and Nate, so…”

“Is that some kind of joke?”

I leaned in.  “Am I laughing?”

“What do you mean,
Nate
?  He’s fine.  He’s vacationing without me—probably with that trampy girl he was with the other night.”

 “The vacation you were supposed to be on with him,” I said. 

“I thought I’d let him see what life was like without me.”

“So that’s why you didn’t go?” I said.

She shrugged.  “Why else?”

“When did you see him last?”

“The night I ran into his car.”

“Which was?”

She stood up and held out her hands as if to say ‘that’s enough!’  

“I’m sick of all the questions—get out!”

I grabbed her arms and stared her down.  “Candice—Nate is dead.  He was found in his bed with a knife through the chest, just like Doug, just like Rusty.  And you’ve got a knife hidden in your room, so start talking.”

But she didn’t.  And it became clear she hadn’t heard anything I’d said beyond the
Nate’s dead
part. 

Several minutes went by before she snapped out of the daze she was in and said, “Nate isn’t dead…he can’t be.”

“To be honest, I’m surprised Heather hasn’t told you.  She works at the hospital.  I bet she knows.” 

“Heather and I don’t talk much anymore.”

“The way she describes it, the two of you are friends.”  

She laughed.  “You know what’s sad?  Heather looked like a homely wallflower six months ago.  I saw her one night at dinner and felt bad for her.  I offered to teach her everything I knew.”

Lucky girl.

“So what happened?”

“Not what—who.  Doug.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“She could have gone for any guy in town.  But not him.  Doug was off limits.”

“I heard you challenged her to get him in bed just to see if she could do it.”

“Never!  He was mine.”

It was getting weirder by the second.  “Doug was Trista’s—what’s with all this
mine
talk?” 

“I don’t mean
actually
mine.  He was the one.  You know?  The one who got away.”

“So why do you have a knife?”

“I was going to ahh…slash Nate’s tires.  Teach him another lesson.”

“The same lesson you taught me?” I said.  “Or did you want to even the score after what happened on the cruise?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“So you don’t know about the note attached to the door of my hotel room, and you didn’t flatten my tires?”

“I swear, it wasn’t me…what day did it happen?”

“Tuesday.”

“I was with Nate all day.”

“Convenient alibi seeing how he’s no longer with us to...”

“I didn’t do it—and don’t even try pinning those murders on me!  What reason would I have to hurt any of them?”

“I can think of several.”

I stood up and walked to the door, knife still in hand.  “Stay put for a few days.  Or don’t,” I said.  “Either way, I
will
find you.”

I exited Candice’s hotel room and returned to the parking lot.  A shiny black car with blacked-out windows was parked a few stalls away from my own.  I walked over to the driver-side window of the vehicle and tapped on it, but nothing happened.  I knocked again.  There was no movement, but that didn’t mean the car was empty. 

“Lucio, are you going to put the window down, or what?” I said.

The window lowered. 

We locked eyes.  “Babysitting again?” I said.

He shook his head.  “Nah, it’s not like that, Sloane—really.  Besides, you and I’s friends now, right?”

Over the past month Lucio’s bodyguard-like status with Giovanni gave me plenty of time to get to know him on a personal level, but I never thought he regarded me as a friend.

“Look,” he said.  “You don’t want me standing in the way of you doing your thing, I get that.  But the boss said to keep an eye on you.  If I don’t and something happens…” he took his pointer finger and sliced his neck, “Ckkkkt, I’d—”  

“Get bumped off, whacked, sent to float around with a sea full of fishes?”

I laughed.  He didn’t.

“Point is, it makes the boss happy to know you’re safe,” Lucio said.  “He knows you like your space.  That’s why he didn’t send the whole crew—just me.”

Crew?

I figured it wouldn’t matter what I said.  Lucio only took orders from one person, and it wasn’t me, so I slid into the passenger side of his car and sat down.  “All right ‘just me’, you wanna tell me what you did to Jesse the other night?”

A wicked smile crossed his face, sending a cold chill up my arms.  “Crumb had it comin’…” 

“Jesse looks like he was shoved onto the track in the middle of the Kentucky Derby.”

Lucio shrugged.  “He was still alive when I left him—didn’t have to be.”  He paused.  “Why you ask?  He givin’ you problems again?  Because if he is—”

I shook my head.  “Jesse’s fine.  He won’t even talk to me.”

Lucio turned the key in the ignition and started the car.  “Where to, lady?”

With the sun fading into the horizon, we headed to the tattoo parlor.  I hoped to gain an audience with Rusty’s wife.  I was interested to find out if she could make any connections between her husband and the other victims, or with Candice and Heather.  Both women seemed to have ties to the other men, but what about Rusty? 

Lucio stayed in the car, but he wouldn’t remain there long.  The moment I walked in, I knew I was out of my element.  Way out.  There were three tattoo artists, each covered in a variety of different tattoos; one male even had tribal art covering the entire surface of his bicked head. 

The door banged closed behind me, and all three people looked over like I’d exited the goodie-goodie express at the wrong stop. 

I mustered up a weak smile and did my best to blend in.  “I’m looking for Rusty’s wife.”

A woman in a ribbed black tank top with full sleeves on both arms said, “Yeah, who’s askin’?”

“I heard about what happened the other day and I wanted to—”

“Yeah—yeah—yeah—but why are you
here
?” the woman said.

I took a deep breath in.  “I take it you were his wife?”

She blinked—twice, but didn’t answer.

“Can I ask a few questions?” I said. 

She swayed her head toward the chair and eyeballed a nearly-finished tattoo she was working on.

I sat down.  “I’ll wait.”

She waved someone over from the back room, handed off the needle and looked at the barely-legal teenager she was working on.  “Kid, take five.”  

She approached me with her arms crossed and her legs spread like she’d been trained in the military. 

“I’m not a reporter or anything,” I said.

She waved her hand in the air.  “It makes no difference to me who you are—I’ll talk, but you’ll have to pay.”

I pulled my wallet from my bag.  “How much?”

“What size?”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“What size do you want?”

I fanned my fingers out in front of me.  “You don’t understand—I’m not here to get a tattoo.”

“Why?  You too good for one?  Well, maybe I’m too good for you.”  She pivoted on her bare foot and turned around.

I stood there trying to decide whether a few questions were worth a lifetime of regret.  I’d never seriously considered a tattoo of any kind.  I wasn’t against it; I’d just never loved anything enough to embed it on my body forever.  I had two options: I could run, or I could stay, mark myself for life, and possibly get some answers.  With all the dead ends around me, I needed a good shove in the right direction. 

“Wait…I guess I could get a little something.  Let me think about it.”

The woman reached behind the counter and grabbed a black binder.  “What’s your name?” she said.

“Sloane. Yours?”

“Princess Buttercup.”

She flopped the book down in front of me, turned around, and all three artists had a good laugh.  With her back to me, she said, “Lemme know when you’re ready.”

I sat down on a worn sofa covered with a faded polka-dot sheet and thumbed through the book.  But I didn’t look at any of the designs; I pretended for the sake of passing the time.  My heart raced and my head pounded, and I considered walking out the door and bagging the idea.  And then I remembered my recent phone call to Maddie and her reminder to be the Sloane I was now, and not the one I’d left behind.