Murder on the First Day of Christmas (Chloe Carstairs Mysteries) (38 page)

    
Cassie smiled and picked up her gun. “Come in,” she called, in a voice that sounded uncannily like mine.

    
I revised my plan to something more swift and direct - running around the side of the house screaming “Daddy, no!”

    
I hadn’t drawn breath, before I saw a uniformed cop creeping in my direction. The cavalry had arrived. I waved to get the cop’s attention, pointing inside to where Cassie was heading toward the front door.

    
“Freeze!” He stood and aimed yet another gun at me.

    
What was with these people?

    
Cassie turned and looked out the window, immediately figuring out what was going on. She headed for the front of the house.

    
“Freeze!” the cop yelled again.

    
Like hell I would. I still had two parents unaccounted for.

    
I pushed through the side door and reflexively locked it behind me, as I headed after Cassie.

    
The house was too quiet. All adrenaline and courage drained out of me as I ran crouched over to the kitchen counter and waited, listening for any sound.

    
Had Dad come inside? Was Cassie holding him at gunpoint? Through the window I could see the cop radioing in, probably telling his cohorts to shoot me on sight.

    
I scooted over to the kitchen doorway and peered into the butler’s pantry, then crawled to the next doorway. I could see Cassie in the foyer, peering unhappily through one of the entryway windows.

    
I pulled back into the butler’s pantry, weak with relief that Dad wasn’t visible.

    
“The house is surrounded. It’s all over.” I called to Cassie.

    
The ticking of Saul’s grandfather clock was the only response.

    
Now what? Scary silence hadn’t been in the script.

    
I sat with my back against the wall and took another breath. Was Cassie waiting for me to peek so she could blow my head off?

    
“Cassie?” My voice came out a whisper.

    
I chanced a quick peek at the foyer window.

    
She was gone.

    
Damn it.

    
Had she gone into Saul’s study, up the stairs or into the living room? Crawling after her held no appeal. The cop had radioed in, so surely Dad was nowhere near the house.

    
I reversed my direction back to the kitchen. I’d go down the basement steps, make sure Mom was out of the house and run like hell to safety. Piece of cake.

    
Except that Cassie had circled back to the kitchen through the living room and now stood between the basement door and me.

    
“If I can’t kill your father, I can kill someone he loves,” she said to me. “Maybe there’s justice in that.”

    
I couldn’t take my eyes off the gun. “Justice? You said yourself, this doesn’t involve me.”

    
“You got involved. I warned you to stay out of it.”

    
“I couldn’t. I care about my father as much as you cared about yours.”

    
“Maybe we should see how much he cares about you - his life for yours.”

    
My eyes filled with tears. “Why are you doing this? Why hurt another daughter the way you were hurt?”

    
Cassie started explaining her miserable childhood again, but I wasn’t listening, my attention riveted to a shadow of movement under the basement door. Someone was standing right behind it. Mom?

    
I got to my feet. I wasn’t going to die on my knees. “You can still get away, Cassie. You’re standing in front of the basement door. Make a run for it.”

    
“I don’t care about me. I have to finish my list.”

    
Was the doorknob turning? Please, please. Let the doorknob be turning.

    
“Run, Cassie. You’ll never get to the names on your list now, but those folks won’t have a moment’s peace knowing you’re still out there.”

    
“I want it over.”

    
“Safety is right there.” I pointed over her shoulder. “You’re so close.”

    
I was overplaying my hand, making her suspicious, but it didn’t matter.

    
The basement door flung open, knocking Cassie to one side, and I was on her. At the same time, the cop from outside kicked open the side door and yelled, “Freeze!” Obviously, the only cop skill he had mastered.

    
As the cop and Mom watched, Cassie and I grappled for the gun. Physically, we were matched, but she was a practiced killer with nothing to lose and I was a natural born ‘fraidy cat. Cowardice trumped craziness, and I flung her toward the steps. She teetered on the top edge, reaching toward Mom.

    
With no hesitation, I closed my eyes and dove, hitting Cassie squarely in the chest and riding her downstairs like a toboggan. We slammed onto the basement floor, the gun went off and my world went black.

    
In the distance, I heard Mom scream and then many voices, other shouts and footsteps on the stairs.

    
The world came back into focus just in time for me to see Jacob leaning over me and to hear McGowan’s sing-songy rendition of, “I see London, I see France, I see Chloe’s underpants.”

CHAPTER 41

    
The next day was Christmas Eve. Amidst the chaos of opening packages, trying on new clothes and exchanging heartfelt thanks for such thoughtful gifts, the horrors of the day before seemed like a bad dream.

    
Bridget and I had spent the night at Mom and Dad’s house, so we could all watch Lily open her presents before she left to spend Christmas with her father. Now we were sitting down at brunch, everybody tired and happy, even me.

    
It had been hours since I’d had my last post-traumatic stress flashback, triggered not by having been poisoned, assaulted, tied up or shot at, but by the humiliation of having flashed my father, my boyfriend and eight members of the Birmingham police department. Jacob, who had arrived that morning, bearing bagels and croissants, was playing an important role in my recovery.

    
Last night, Mom and I had filled everyone in about our ordeal. This morning we were hearing the story from Dad and Jacob’s perspective.

    
“The first call I got from the OnStar people said the emergency button had been activated, but they couldn’t get a response from the Escalade or Amanda’s cell phone.” Dad buttered a cinnamon raisin bagel. “The air bags hadn’t been deployed, so they didn’t think there’d been an accident. We wondered if it was a button malfunction or Lily up to her old tricks, so we held off notifying the police and traced the car.”

    
“Better safe than sorry, right?” I interjected.

    
My father ignored my sarcasm, but really, a more prompt arrival on their part might’ve saved a lot of effort and exposed flesh on mine.

    
Dad topped off my mimosa with more juice. Subtle. “About ten minutes later I received another call from the OnStar folks,” he continued. “This time saying that Chloe had lost her purse and her keys and wants me to bring a second set. Still no word from Amanda.”

    
He passed the cream to Jacob. “I couldn’t figure out why Chloe was driving the Cadillac, and when I heard the address and realized it was Saul’s house, I knew something was off. I remembered you two had a date so I called Jacob.”

    
“I told Alex you hadn’t shown up,” Jacob said, stirring his coffee. “We called the cops and headed over to Saul’s.”

    
I tried to look nonchalant, but had a feeling my eyes were telegraphing, “My hero.”

    
“Detective McGowan didn’t think we were just causing trouble again?” Mom admired the diamond tennis bracelet Dad had given her that morning.

    
Dad shook his head. “He wasn’t taking any chances. He met us in front of the house, sent cops around back, and then he and I rang the front doorbell.”

    
“Which is when I met up with Mr. Loud Mouth Rookie Cop,” I pointed out.

    
“When a cop says freeze,” Bridget said, “you freeze.”

    
“I thought Cassie was going to kill Dad, and Mom was nowhere to be found.”

    
Turned out I had cut the tape on Mom’s left hand instead of her right. As she had tried to cut the tape from her right hand, the shears had dropped and bounced just out of reach. She had tipped the chair over and scooted to the shears. None of us could picture the scene.

    
Inevitably the conversation turned to Cassie.

    
“Part of me thinks it’d be better if she never woke up,” Bridget said, and the room fell silent.

    
Cassie had been rushed to the hospital, having sustained a massive head trauma from our ride down the stairs. She hadn’t yet regained consciousness only to end up like her father, and like Bridget, I almost hoped she wouldn’t, unable to reconcile with the fact that such a cute, likeable young woman was a multiple murderer.

    
“She seemed so sweet, like a really down-to-earth girl,” I said. “I don’t remember one malicious thing about her. Yet all along…” I thought I’d cried out all my tears during the previous night, but apparently not.

    
“She’s obviously ill, seeing herself as a good person, but something inside her, some fundamental problem with her wiring, turned her into a monster,” Mom soothed. “Chilling, isn’t it, how one long-ago crime can leave so much damage in its wake.”

    
“Or how much damage parents can do on their kids.” I wiped my eyes.

    
“What happened when you heard the gun shot?” Bridget asked Dad.

    
Cassie’s gun hand had hit the floor, the weapon had gone off and decimated Saul’s plasma screen TV.

    
“Everyone went crazy,” Dad exchanged an odd look with Jacob.

    
Just how shaken up had my hero been, I wondered.  Shaken up enough to shake some sense into him? The idea bore further investigation when I got Dad alone.

    
“McGowan kicked the door in,” Dad continued, “and we all rushed in after him.”

    
“You, too?” I asked Jacob.

    
“They had told me to wait in the car, but I’m not any better at following orders than you are.”

    
“We heard the commotion on the stairs and headed for the basement,” Dad finished.

    
“And got there just in time to catch Chloe’s floor show,” Jacob teased.

    
“Watch it. I have lots of friends in the Birmingham police department, and they won’t stand for your harassing me.”

    
“Not that they could pick your face out of a line up,” Bridget chuckled. “Polka dot panties maybe, but not your face.”

    
I glared at Mom, equal parts blame-the-mother and spare-me-the-lecture.

    
“Don’t give me that look,” Mom responded. “It wasn’t my fault you ended up in such a position, and what do I care if you choose underwear no bigger than a pirate’s eye patch? You’re a grown woman.”

    
Bridget took pity on me and switched the topic to our parents’ gift to us - a family trip to San Francisco in the spring, during which we would hit the shops on Fisherman’s Wharf and drive up the coast.

    
The doorbell rang and I jumped up to get it, blueberry bagel in hand.

    
Mom shot me her “a lady doesn’t walk and chew at the same time” frown to which I responded by opening up and showing her a mouthful of masticated bread, jelly and cream cheese. Her raised eyebrow said it all, “Thirty and still not married? Hard to believe.”

    
I had invited Angela to share the holiday with us, and she had been only slightly put out by the suggestion. It was a start, but that’s not who was at the door. A deliveryman handed me a beautifully wrapped box with a tag addressed to my mother.

    
“What on earth?” Mom exclaimed, admiring the lovely cobalt and silver wrapping encased in a huge organza bow. She opened the box, looking stunned by what was inside and downright shocked by the enclosed card.

    
“Who sent it?” I demanded.

    
Mom was speechless.

    
Bridget yanked the box from her hand. “Your Waterford Hope for Healing ornament. The one you’ve been looking for.” Then she read the card aloud, “Heard you cracked the case. Beauty and brains, a delightful combination. Hope you’ll join me for some more spanakopita soon.”