Murder Follows Money (13 page)

“I wasn’t abducted,” Hannah admitted.

“Shoe’s on the other foot,” I yelled.

“‘Who’s that? Is she there? Hannah, be careful.”

“Ask her who’s holding who,” I shouted again. It was no time to worry about grammar.

“Be quiet.” Hannah snapped at me, then spoke into the phone. “Look, David. I need you to get some kind of assurance for me, some kind of immunity.”

“What are you telling me? That you killed Naomi?” David didn’t sound too surprised. It must have occurred to him already.

“Not in the least,” Hannah said, snapping at him now. “She must have killed herself. It’s the only explanation. I want you to convince the police of that. Then I’ll turn myself in.”

“Where are you?” His voice was insistent.

“Why do you want to know?” Hannah’s brows drew together. “Are you having this call traced? David, I trusted you. You’re fired!” She slammed the phone down.

Again we regarded each other. “He’s right. End this now. We’ll go down to the police station. I’ll ask Drake to take charge."

“No way.” Hannah pulled the gun out of her pocket and looked at it. “So you’ve shot someone. Was it hard?”

“It was my life or his at the moment. And I didn’t kill him. And it was awful. If you handed me that gun right now, I’d throw it in the creek or something.” I didn’t like the way her fingers tightened around the gun’s butt. “Go ahead, shoot me. Then you’ll be in real trouble, plus you’ll have no transportation.”

“You’re right. If they were tracing that call, we’ve got to get out of here.” She motioned me with the gun. “Let’s go.”

“Where? You’re really jerking me around here. You’ve ruined my good name, and on national TV, no less. And now you’re giving me orders. This really sucks, Hannah.”

“Let’s get out of here.” She pushed me toward the back door. “We’ll take your car.”

“The keys are in my house.”

She exhaled impatiently. “We’ll get them. And any food you have. Let’s go.”

She stood at my kitchen door, directing me to bring the carrots, the cheese, the crackers. That was pretty much it in the food department. I wanted to rebel, but at this point, what good would it do me to get away? I’d just be arrested, and probably charged with Naomi’s murder as well as abduction. It seemed to me my best course of action was to stay with Hannah until she ran herself into the ground, as would likely happen soon. Then maybe I’d be believed.

We got into the bus, and I started the engine. “Where to this time? The police station?”

She snorted. “Not likely. No, I know where I want to go. Your thrift shop.”

“What?” I stared at her, amazed. “Did you say the Thrift Savers?”

“Why not? It’s as good a place as any to hide out, and I collect antique linens."

Shrugging, I backed out, only to put on the brake as a car shrieked to a stop, blocking the end of the driveway. I hoped, prayed, that it would be Drake, and he would save me from the swampy morass in which I found myself.

It wasn’t his car. It was Bridget Montrose’s rusty old Suburban. Bridget hopped out, saw the bus, ran toward me. “Liz! Are you okay? What’s happening?” She got to the driver’s-side door, and looked across into the passenger seat. “It is Hannah Couch. My God! Did you really kidnap her?”

Hannah pulled the gun out of her pocket. “Not at all. I did the kidnapping. Now I’ll have to take you along too. We’ll go in your car, in case they’re looking for this one.” She waved with the gun. “Get out, Liz. Your friend can drive. You sit in front beside her. I’ll be in the back, with my gun."

Chapter 12

I left the bus in the driveway instead of reparking in front of the garage. Hannah insisted that we get moving right away. The CNN report had freaked her out.

“I can’t do this,” Bridget said, while Hannah urged her toward her Suburban. “I have kids to pick up at preschool in a couple of hours.”

“Let’s go.” Hannah showed the gun again. “I’ve just been asking your friend Liz here how it feels to shoot someone. Don’t make me find out firsthand.”

Bridget looked at me. I shrugged. Now that I’d been branded an abducting ex-con on national TV I found myself less interested in attracting the attention of law-enforcement types. Drake would believe me, I knew, but any other cop who pulled us over would see me as the perpetrator because of my record, and that would be rather unpleasant until Bridget could verify my story. At this point, I would have been a total fatalist if it hadn’t been for worrying about Bridget. If anything happened to her, I’d never forgive myself.

We climbed into the Suburban in the configuration Hannah dictated—Bridget and I in the wide front seat, Hannah in the middle seat. She had to push some toys out of the way and share the space with Moira’s car seat.

Bridget turned to face Hannah. “You must see how ridiculous this is. I have children to tend. Liz needs her life back. We’ve done nothing to you. If you want to run away, why don’t you do it on your own?”

“Drive,” Hannah said. She sat, stony-faced, while Bridget started the car. It rumbled like an attack vehicle.

“When are you going to get a new car?” I listened to the various clanks and rattles, and wondered if we’d even make it to the Thrift Savers.

“I don’t know. When Moira gets out of college, probably.”

“But she’s only two.”

“Right.” Bridget drove slowly up the street. “Do I have a destination, or am I just contributing to smog without any goal?”

“Hannah wants to go to the Thrift Savers and look for vintage linens.

Bridget looked at me in disbelief, then checked out Hannah in the rear-view mirror. “Is that right? You want to go to the secondhand store?”

“Of course it’s true.” Hannah put on her most haughty air. “As long as I’m forced into this distasteful role, I might as well see what I can find there. Perhaps it would make a good subject for our TV show.”

“Delusional,” I muttered. Hannah didn’t hear me over the noisy engine, but Bridget did. “Humor her.”

“I don’t like this.” Bridget’s round face was pinched. Normally she is a sweet, sunny person who does whatever is put in her path and does it well.

“Nobody likes it. Certainly poor Naomi didn’t.” Bridget was silent a moment, negotiating a turn onto El Camino. We went north, toward San Carlos.

“You think Hannah killed her?”

“I did at first.” I glanced over my shoulder. Hannah was looking through the front windshield, her expression fixed. But I had no doubt that she could handle any rebellion we staged in an efficient and ruthless manner. “She rides roughshod over people, and murder is just an extension of that kind of personality. But now I’m not sure. She seems genuinely shaken and surprised, and it would have to be premeditated, unless Naomi just dropped dead of a heart attack or something.”

“I hear what you’re saying.” Hannah’s voice was curt. “You don’t need to be talking.”

“Well, if we can’t talk together, why don’t you tell Bridget about the book publicity trail? She’s going to go on tour in a few weeks.” If she didn’t get killed by a homicidal homemaker, anyway.

“Really? What did you say your name was?”

“Bridget Montrose. My book just came out a few weeks ago.”

“Oh, yes. I remember reading something about it. You popped onto the bestseller list after a very good review in the Times.” Hannah looked at Bridget with more interest. “I have bought your book, of course. I hope to read it sometime. So you’re going on a book tour.”

“Yes. My publisher has arranged it. They wanted me to go for two or three weeks, but I explained I have small children and they crammed all this stuff into ten days. There won’t be time for laundry, and I don’t have that many clothes anyway.”

“Perhaps we should be shopping for Bridget’s travel wardrobe.” I said that as a joke, but Hannah picked up on it in all seriousness.

“You can get a personal shopper at Nordstrom to help you with that.”

“Can I get a personal checking account from them too, to pay for it?” Bridget gestured around the inside of the car. “We are going to remodel our house as soon as we get permits, and there’s nothing extra in the budget for a Nordstrom wardrobe. Thank goodness the publisher’s paying for the book tour. If it was a choice between that and new cabinets, I would definitely go for the cabinets.”

Hannah waved these petty annoyances away. “Get a nice, basic skirt and pants, a couple of jackets, and comfortable shoes. Two or three shells or blouses. Make sure the fabric travels well—microfiber is good to resist wrinkles. Hotels will clean your clothes at night. Scarves and other accessories freshen the look. It’s all in last July’s issue of my magazine, when we talked of travel. Take along exercise clothing. You do exercise, don’t you?” She leaned over the seat back to eye Bridget’s rather ample figure.

“I exercise when I have time.”

“You’ll have to make some time in the mornings, because it really helps you cope with the stress of being on tour. Eat lots of salads, dressing on the side. Drink lots of water. Your driver can buy it for you.”

“Treat your driver well,” I said, glaring at Hannah. “Don’t abduct her and her friends.”

“I’ll definitely remember that one."

“Look,” Hannah said, with what passed for patience. “I don’t want to be the bad guy. I don’t want to frighten people. But you don’t understand. I can’t be arrested and questioned, and have suspicion thrown on me. It would ruin everything I’ve worked for.” She sounded defensive. “I did the best thing under the circumstances. They’re sure to figure out how Naomi really died, and then it will all blow over. If I’d been there, it would have turned into some kind of media circus."

“And it’s not now?” Bridget raised her eyebrows. “It’s all over the TV. Plus, you’ve ruined Liz’s reputation. All that old stuff will be dragged out, all those other murders—”

“Other murders?” Hannah turned to me. “You said you didn’t kill your ex-husband.”

“He wasn’t my ex at the time.”

“I’m sure he’s glad to be now.”

“He’s dead.” I didn’t want to have to go into all this. “Look, I didn’t kill him. He was a scumbag, and someone else killed him later. I didn’t kill any of them.”

“Any of whom?” Bewildered, Hannah looked from me to Bridget. “You’re a mass murderer?”

“Not at all.” Bridget spoke up stoutly. “Liz has actually figured out some murders.”

“And not figured out others—not nearly soon enough.” I didn’t like the direction the conversation was taking. “Look. There’s the Thrift Savers.”

“Why don’t you figure out this one, then? Save us all a lot of trouble.” Hannah ignored the big building with shelves of glassware sparkling in the windows. She was intent on me now.

“I thought you said Naomi killed herself. Now you’re saying she was murdered. Which is it?”

“I thought she did kill herself. She was miserable, and it would have been like her to think she would succeed in mixing me up in scandal by making it look as though I did it. But maybe it was someone else. Someone who wanted her out of the way badly enough to kill her.” Hannah shivered, losing some of her iron control.

“You know what that means,” I said, while Bridget parked in the lot behind the Thrift Savers. “Someone in your entourage."

“I know.” Hannah fell silent.

“Well, here we are.” Bridget spoke brightly, but her eyes were worried. “Are we getting out?”

“Of course. I never miss an opportunity to comb through the secondhand stores.” Hannah gestured with the gun. “I’m keeping this in my pocket, so don’t think you can get away with anything. The two of you stay just ahead of me. I don’t want to hurt anyone. But I always do what has to be done, and I am a crack shot.”

Inside the Thrift Savers it smelled of old upholstery and dust. Usually when I’m there I check the towels and washcloths; I’ve found things that have hardly been used. I look at the plates and glassware too. I like interesting plates, so long as they don’t cost more than a dollar, and have amassed a collection of the kind with a landscape picture on them. If a glass or plate breaks, it doesn’t matter, because there are more at the Thrift Savers.

Bridget and I became Hannah’s linen slaves, searching through the stacks of tablecloths and place mats and napkins for those distinguished enough to belong in her collection. I found a hankie embroidered with a little cowboy boot and cactus and wouldn’t let Hannah have it. “No, I found it,” I insisted. “It’s mine.”

Hannah pouted. “You can come here anytime. I’m only here this once.”

“And so is this hankie. It’s mine.” I clutched the treasure to my chest and glared at her.

She shrugged. “Be that way.”

“Children, don’t quarrel.” Bridget spoke absently. She had strayed over to the nearby bookshelves instead of cruising the linens. “Here’s something really interesting. A first edition of Sue Grafton’s A Is for Alibi. I thought everyone knew how valuable this is.”

“It’s valuable?” Hannah eyed the book. It was worn and missing its dust cover, but unmistakably Sue Grafton’s first Kinsey Millhone.

“Not as valuable as if it was in fine shape. But it’ll fetch a few hundred, probably.” Bridget tucked it under her arm. “This one’s mine. Travel wardrobe, here I come.”

“Didn’t you get a good advance for your book?” Hannah stopped shopping long enough to quiz Bridget. “And of course the bestseller list means royalties.”

“Months from now.” Bridget looked gloomy. “Everyone thinks you make a lot of money writing, and maybe
you
do,” she told Hannah. “I was happy with my advance—some of my friends who write novels get only half as much. But if you look at it as a year’s salary, it sucks. And it still wasn’t enough to remodel the kitchen, especially after the agent’s fee and the estimated taxes came off the top. They’re offering me a lot more for my next book, but I won’t sign anything until I know there’ll be a next book.” She closed her lips tightly; I guessed that she hadn’t meant to say so much. Only to a couple of her writer friends had Bridget confided that she was not getting anywhere with her attempts to write another novel. She had thrown away several promising beginnings because they didn’t move forward. We didn’t mention the dreaded b word (block), but she spent more time with contractors and the city planning department now than she did at her keyboard.