Save Me: A dark romantic thriller (Novel) (13 page)

Rachel had to calculate. “Here. I’d say about sixty feet. That’s deep though. If you drop the gun overboard in sixty feet of water, it should stay on the bottom for hundreds of years. It would sink in the mud.”

“Perfect. Then that’s what I’ll do.”

Near dinnertime, when Claire arrived home, she was surprised to hear that Eve Ferguson had left a message on her answering machine: “Hi Claire. It‘s Eve. Please get back to me as soon as possible. We need to talk. Thanks.” BEEP!

Before returning the call, Claire checked to see where Ashley and Kimberly were. She glanced out the kitchen window and saw that they were in the backyard. Ashley had her easel set up on the deck, and was adding detail to a new painting.

After allowing the curtain to drop back into place, Claire reached for the phone. Thirty seconds into her conversation with Eve, she uttered, “Your housekeeper what?”

“Nelly told me Ashley might have been the one who stole the morphine.”

Claire did not know how to react. “Morphine. What are you talking about?”

“We’re missing a bottle of morphine from our medicine cabinet.” Eve went on to add that she and Brad believed that the pills had been stolen on Sunday, the day of the pool party. “And I‘m talking about an extended-relief formulation. If you don‘t know what that means, simply put, this is no ordinary pain killer. We‘re talking about some really powerful junk.”

“Oh wow!” Claire exclaimed, taking the cordless phone into the family room. Tensely, she sat down at her desk. “And how do you know my daughter was the one who took this stuff?” She thought back to her conversation with Rachel.
It could be a number of things. Sedatives. Tranquilizers. Pain killers
.

“Because,” Eve elaborated, “when Ashley was out by the pool, Nelly saw a pill bottle fall out of her pocket.”

“That’s not really proof.”

“Not actual proof. But this happened right after Ashley used our bathroom. Which makes the pill bottle falling out of her pocket seem highly suspicious. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I suppose.”

“Although she did tell Nelly the pills were for migraine headaches. Does Ashley take anything for headaches?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Claire responded truthfully. “Except for maybe Advil or Motrin.”

“Well, from what I was told, the pill bottle that fell out of her pocket was definitely not ibuprofen. It was a prescription.” Eve also mentioned, that she had tried to contact Claire earlier in the week, hoping to discuss the matter.

“You did? What day?”

“I tried to get a hold of you on Monday.”

“Did you leave a message?”

“Yes. I left two. Brad also left a message on Tuesday. He called from his office.”

To Claire, the fact that Ashley must have erased the messages essentially rendered her guilty.
Stealing morphine
. What was Ashley planning to do next, smoke crack, or fill her veins with heroin?

“So what do you suggest I do?”

“If I was you, I would try to locate those pills. This particular dosage of morphine, like I said, isn’t something you want to fool around with. If Ashley takes too much of that stuff, we could be looking at a potentially fatal overdose.”

Claire cringed. What an alarming thought. She got the feeling that Brad had coached Eve as to what to say to her. Perhaps he was afraid that if it were ever leaked out Ashley had stolen the morphine from his bathroom, he could somehow be held accountable.

“By the way, is your daughter at home now?”

“Yes.”

“Not in the same room, I’m hoping?”

“No. She’s out in the backyard, painting.”

“Really?” Suddenly Eve did not sound as angry. “Is she working on the painting she’s supposed to give to me and my hubby?”

“No. No! The painting she did for you and Brad is down in her studio. Ashley showed it to me. It’s a large cubism piece and quite brilliant. Although she didn‘t tell me whether it was finished or not.”

“And you really think this work of art is interesting?” Eve’s voice had taken on an optimistic tone.

“Oh absolutely. I’m sure you and Brad will love it. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear my daughter was Picasso reincarnated. I think Ashley picked up his style because throughout her life, I’ve always had so many Picasso prints on the walls.”

“He was a master,” Eve concurred. “Personally I was always partial to Camille Pissarro and Georges Braque. But Picasso is right up there with them. Such extraordinary minds they had. So creative.”

“Yes. No doubt.” Before hanging up, Claire promised Eve that she would look for the pills. So now there were two things she needed to locate, the morphine and the gun.

***

As tempting as it was to be a stoolpigeon, Eve Ferguson had somehow managed to hold her tongue, and not make known to Claire Whittaker how her daughter, aside from possibly stealing the prescription of morphine, had also pulled a gun on her and her husband’s friend, Dr. Montgomery.

“Good job,” Brad congratulated, after his wife hung up. “I’m glad you didn’t bring up Gary. We don’t need to make more trouble . . . So does it sound like Ashley was the one who had taken the pills?”

“Honestly,” Eve said, sighing. “It’s difficult to say. Her mother knew absolutely nothing.”

“Then maybe it wasn’t her. There were a lot of people at the party.”

“True. And they weren’t all members of the medical profession. As far as I’m concerned, Brad, we might as well forget about it. But from now on, whenever we have guests over, especially as many as we had here on Sunday, we’ll need to keep the medicine cabinet locked.”

“I agree. I don’t want this sort of thing happening again. I have a reputation to protect.”

***

Disappointedly, for Claire, by midnight, she did not find the gun or the pills. It seemed downright hopeless. No matter where she searched, which had included Ashley’s car, her art studio again, as well as the garage, she came up empty.

It wasn’t until four in the morning before luck would finally materialize.

At that hour, when Ashley was asleep in her room, Claire had quietly opened her daughter’s nightstand drawer. Yes, got it!! There it was. The .22 caliber revolver, resting on top of a copy of the Bible.

There were no pills in the drawer. However, that was okay. They’d turn up eventually. At least finding the gun was an encouraging first step.

Careful so as not to make any racket, Claire closed the drawer as carefully as possible. Then she tip-toed out of the room.

The following day, she and Rachel would stick to their plan; and chuck the gun in the Chelsea River.

At a quarter past five on Saturday, Troy Young’s small, one-bedroom apartment was a disaster.

Dirty dishes swamped the sink. There were pretzels spilling from a bag on the counter. The kitchen trash, which reeked of onions, coffee grounds, and last night’s chop suey, needed to be emptied.

The place looked as if it had been hit by an earthquake. And when Troy’s girlfriend Sarah Kline had stopped by, she wouldn’t let him hear the end of it.

Sarah, who operated a ladies clothing boutique, Shirts and Skirts, had a thing against messy people. The sight of Troy’s filthy socks and pants scattered across the living room carpet, sent her into a nagging tirade. The moody brunette threw her Gucci purse down, and then began to examine the apartment the way a drill sergeant might inspect an army barrack.

“What a pigsty!” Sarah sneered, wrinkling her nose. “Troy, don’t you ever clean this place? You’re worse than my lazy sales girls, and you know what utter slobs they can be. My God, I can hardly walk in here without tripping over your stinky laundry.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Troy said, frowning. He had met Sarah five months earlier, at the market. Presently, he had yet to inform her about his plans for the evening: how at nine o’clock he was meeting Ashley Ferguson at Lloyd’s nightclub.

“This is so disgusting.” Sarah ran a scrutinizing finger across the marble table, that was in front of the beige Sleeper Sofa. “There’s more dust in here than there is in a desert. Didn’t you ever hear of furniture polish?”

“I just got home,” Troy said, while picking up a pair of Levi’s faded jeans. He folded them and then hung the pants on the back of an armchair. “I didn’t have time to straighten the place up.”

“Apparently not. And what’s with all of these empty pizza boxes, Tony’s, Dominoes, Pizza Hut, Papa John’s, what are you starting a collection?”

Aside from being demanding, twenty-seven-year-old Sarah also had a sensitive side, and that’s what had attracted Troy. What’s more, the fact that she was five-feet-eight, with an exotic bob-cut hairdo, and sexy legs, had a lot to do with her appeal as well.

Before Sarah, there had only been one true love in Troy’s life, and her name was Naomi Cartwright.

Before drifting apart, Troy and Naomi, a gorgeous redhead with fabulous curves, had dated for four years, and for the last two, had lived together. They had even flirted with the idea of maybe someday getting married and having kids.

Naomi had worked as a horse trainer on a nearby farm. Ever since she’d been a young girl, she had dreamed of moving out west. Then, one day, that fantasy had come to fruition.

Naomi had met Earl Lowry, a breeder from Montana, who had traveled to New Jersey on business. Troy never knew how, or exactly when the affair started. All he knew was that Naomi had come home one evening and, without going into specific detail, had told him that she no longer wanted to be with him. Troy’s heart had nearly been ripped out of his chest as he had watched her load her belongings into Earl’s flatbed truck, which had a dusty trailer attached to it. He simply could not understand why Naomi would want to run off with a cigar-smoking cowboy, who was twice her age, and who wasn‘t even handsome.

Sure, Earl had a magnificent house and owned countless acres of land. Still, it seemed hard for Troy to believe that Naomi would chose materialism over compatibility. But she did, and there was nothing he could do about it. Naomi had found a new life more than a thousand miles away in a sparsely populated town called Handler.

After the breakup, Troy had gone out with a few other women, though had never gotten serious with anyone, up until recently, with Sarah.

“Do you want to go out to dinner?” she asked, now acting as though she were Troy’s maid. From the closet, Sarah had grabbed the Dirt Devil and had started to vacuum the pretzel crumbs on the sofa.

“Sorry babe. No can do.”

“What?”

“I have plans tonight.”

“To do what?”

He told her about Ashley.

“I don’t get it!” Sarah complained. “What’s with the sudden reunion? You haven’t seen this girl since she was in the hospital. And that was months ago.”

He explained how Ashley’s mother had come into the supermarket, asking for his help.

“Okay. But what does she expect you to do, you’re not a psychiatrist?”

“I guess this lady Claire Whittaker thinks if her daughter sees me again; it might help her to not be so depressed. She said Ashley was in group therapy for a while, but then, for no apparent reason, stopped going . . . C’mon Sarah, I couldn’t tell her I wouldn’t at least talk to her daughter. Not after what me and Ashley had gone through. Who knows, maybe I can help.”

She did not know exactly why, but when Ashley entered the loud, crowded nightclub to meet up with Troy, she could not seem to push the thought of Peter out of her mind. In her heart there was a gut-wrenching feeling of guilt.

To her, it felt as if her dead husband was spying on her from the secret heavens, watching to see how things, between she and Troy, were going to turn out. Ashley kept telling herself that Peter wouldn’t be mad. That, like her mother had said he would want her to move on.

“Okay. You can go in,” the bouncer said, handing Ashley her driver’s license back.

“Thank you.”

Tonight, Ashley had on a green sleeveless sequin top and a nice pair of slacks. On her blonde head she sported a black beret, which, because she had the brim pulled down to her eyes, made it hard to see her face. The stylish French hat gave Ashley a cultured appearance. Made her look like the artist she was.

She also smelled great. Ashley had not only sprayed herself with Calvin Klein perfume at home, she had also sprayed more on her neck and behind her ears a moment ago, while she was in her car.

Although Lloyd’s was regarded as a safe nightclub, Ashley would have felt more secure if she had her gun. An impossible undertaking, though, since she had no idea where she had put it.

The revolver wasn’t in any of the three places she normally kept it; her nightstand drawer, her art studio, or in the glove compartment. She resolved that she must have misplaced the firearm, during a blackout. As frustrating as it was, Ashley wasn’t going to dwell on the issue now. She’d worry about where the gun might be at a more appropriate time.

Suddenly she spotted Troy waving to her from one of the candlelit tables. Dressed in washed denim jeans and a long-sleeve white dress shirt, which he had not bothered to tuck in, Ashley thought, Troy looked remarkably cute.

As she approached the table, he stood up and, like a gentleman, respectfully pulled the chair out for her.

“Wow!” she said, grinning. “You do look like Johnny Depp. The more ruffled version.” When he and Adam had visited Ashley in the hospital, she recalled how Troy had mentioned that many of his friends thought he resembled the famous actor. “I love the five o’clock shadow. It gives you character.”

“Hi Ashley. You look terrific yourself. Did you just get here?”

“Uh huh.” It was quarter past nine. “It took me a few minutes to find a place to park.” She studied the crowd. “Jeez, this place is mobbed. I‘m glad we have a table.”