Andy scowled. Then he glanced at the thing in his hand. “Oh, this? It’s my lock pick.” He put it in his pocket and held up his hands as though that would reassure her.

  Gretchen, still flattened against the wall behind the door, looked back into the break room, frantic to find a weapon and protect herself. Where was the stage pistol? That would get her out of here. He wouldn’t know that it was a fake.

  The gun wasn’t in sight.

  “I tell you what,” Andy said, taking one slow step at a time toward her, “I’ll come in there and we’ll have a cup of that wonderful-smelling coffee and share information.”

  “Stay out. I’m warning you.”

  “But I’m turning myself in, right? I’m giving myself up to you.”

  He came closer, reached the threshold. When he walked through the doorway, Gretchen used all her might to slam the door against him. She locked both palms against the back of the door and shoved as hard as she could, throwing all her body weight behind it.

  She felt resistance, but she’d expected that. If his reflexes were slower than hers, the door might hit him in the head. That didn’t happen. Instead, the door was coming back at her.

  They were locked in a war against each other. He, on the outside, determined to get in. She, on the inside, doing everything she could to keep him out.

  Gretchen was a strong woman. She’d been jealous of all the Phoenix twig women when she had first arrived in Arizona, but now, she thanked her body. Heavier would have been even better. Three hundred pounds would have been perfect.

  She was no match for Andy. He had the advantage of additional weight and more arm strength.

  He was going to kill her after he won this last arm-wrestling bout.

  She felt the door inching back at her, heard both of them breathing hard, felt her feet sliding back, and looked around one last time for a weapon.

  Then she was flung away and the door banged against the wall, wide open.

  “I don’t have time for this,” Andy snarled, coming at her. “You’re going to tell me what you know, if I have to force it out of you.”

  Gretchen grabbed the first thing she saw, the first thing she could get in her grasp, and whipped it at him. The coffeepot crashed into Andy and a wave of hot coffee shot from the rim.

  He slapped his hands against his face, trying to wipe away the hot brew.

  “Strike one,” she screamed, feeling warriorlike in spite of her terror. The coffeepot shattered on the floor, but she was already moving, picking up a heavy mug and throwing it at him, striking his forehead. She wasn’t going down without a fight. She’d make sure to scratch him. They would find traces of his DNA under her fingernails. She’d figure out how to leave a message before she died.

  She backed toward a small, cluttered table in the corner. Stage props were piled on it, and she almost collapsed in joy when she saw the butt of the stage gun poking out of the mess.

  Gretchen grabbed the gun and trained it on Andy. “Turn around slowly,” she said. “Do it!”

  That stopped him. Without another word, he did as she demanded, turning his back to her. He looked overly confident for a man in his position. His hands were in his pockets. The pick!

  Without further thought, she clunked him on the head with the gun. He wobbled. She drew back and struck again, harder this time. He crashed to the floor.

  Standing over his prone body, Gretchen hoped she hadn’t hit him too hard. What if she’d killed him?

  Andy didn’t move.

  Was he breathing?

  Gretchen wasn’t about to get close enough to find out or to be grabbed.

  She’d call the cops and an ambulance.

  Should she run out into the street and flag someone down?

  She’d get Mr. B. He’d help her.

  Gretchen pounded up the stairs and rapped hard on Mr. B.’s apartment door, watching her back all the way, feeling afraid, feeling the adrenaline.

  47

  Mr. B. didn’t answer her desperate knocks. She turned the doorknob.

  Unlocked.

  What a break.

  If he wasn’t at home, she could still go inside and use his phone. He’d never know, and if he did, he’d understand that she’d had no choice. Gretchen opened the door cautiously, not wanting to startle Mr. B. if he was home. “It’s Gretchen,” she called, trying to project her voice out, but not loud enough to give her location away to Andy. “I need to use your phone.”

  Gretchen quickly shut the door behind her and locked it, loving the sound of the bolt action. Then she remembered Andy’s lock-picking tool. He still had it.

  Move quickly, she told herself. Although he hadn’t looked like he was in any shape to pursue her.

  She looked around at the typical single older male décor, stark in contrast to what he’d accomplished with the lower banquet hall. The smell of pipe tobacco hung in the air, thick and soothing.

  Gretchen moved through the apartment, still calling out softly while glancing around for a landline. A younger man might not have one in these modern days of high-tech advancement and wireless connections, but Gretchen had noticed Mr. B.’s old-fashioned mannerisms and she’d never seen him using a cell phone.

  He’d have a landline phone in his house.

  The small kitchen and living area didn’t produce one.

  The door to the only other room in the apartment was closed. She tapped. Nothing from inside.

  Slowly she turned the handle.

  What would he think if he came home and found her inside, searching through his house? How embarrassing would that be?

  Gretchen poked her head inside. His bedroom. Drawn blinds on the windows kept the room cast in darkness, but she could tell that it wasn’t occupied at the moment. She flipped a switch on the wall next to the door and an overhead light came on.

  There had better be a phone in here or she’d have to go back down those steps and risk another encounter with Andy. That is, if she hadn’t killed him.

  For good measure, she also locked the bedroom door behind her. That would slow down the professional lock picker.

  The nightstand didn’t offer up a phone. Neither did the top of the dresser.

  The man didn’t have a phone? What was the world coming to?

  In the future, she’d be telling her children old-fashioned stories of street-side pay phones and phones with cords. If she lived to have kids.

  Gretchen’s eyes lit on a glass curio cabinet in the corner that she hadn’t noticed at first. She walked over, peered in—and sucked in her breath in surprise.

  The cabinet contained rocks, a fairly sizeable collection. Each specimen had an identification tag attached to it.

  Gretchen opened the curio and picked up a rock. Read the tag.

  Exchanged it for another. Read another tag.

  And another.

  The rocks had long complex names that she couldn’t pronounce, let alone decipher. Granodiorite, gabbro, anaorthosite gneiss.

  And every one of them had a place of origin neatly printed underneath the name.

  Cairo.

  Jericho.

  Zimbabwe.

  The same exotic places she’d daydreamed about. The travel stickers had come from these faraway cities. They had been placed lovingly on a doll’s travel trunk by a young girl named Flora.

  Gretchen had found John Swilling’s rock collection.

  48

  Caroline sits in an interrogation room with Matt Albright. Good thing Gretchen took off down the street before the detective found out about their escapade at the museum. He’s working his jaw like he’s trying to restrain an angry outburst. It crosses her mind to push him a little. What happens when her daughter’s boyfriend gets really angry? She’d like to see him at his worst.

  If he’s not the right guy for Gretchen, she wants to know now.

  “Let me get this straight,” he says. “You spent the night at the museum after I specifically told you that it was off-limits?”

  “You never told me any such thing.”

  “I warned your daughter. The two of you violated police orders. That building is under investigation. It’s a crime scene. I can’t believe it.” He studies the ceiling like he might find the answer written up there.

  Caroline feels a tinge of compassion for him. He’s in a tough place, sitting on the fence between his professional ethics and his personal relationship with her daughter. Would he be exhibiting this kind of frustration with two women he didn’t know? She doesn’t think so. He feels helpless and is afraid for them. His emotions surface as anger. She studied psychology in college and is putting it to good use.

  She won’t let him get to her.

  His elbows are on the table. He rubs both hands through his hair. “Where is she?” he asks.

  “I said I’ll tell you but not yet.” Calm down first.

  “The guy you hog-tied insists he was protecting you.”

  “Hardly likely. He broke in. He had a knife.”

  “You think he’s a killer.”

  “Yes.”

  “Both Flora Berringer and Allison Thomasia were murdered with a geologist’s hammer, not a switchblade. The killer didn’t use a knife on his victims. The guy you assaulted is in trouble for breaking and entering and carrying, but not for murdering a woman in a cemetery. Not for stashing bones in an armoire.”

  Could Matt be right? Caroline isn’t sure. But Jerome, not exactly a harmless guy, is off the street. “I wouldn’t discount him if I were you,” she says.

  “Where is she?”

  “At the banquet hall. She has my cell phone.”

  She gives him the number and he dials with his thumb. “No answer.”

  “The phone was running low on power.”

  They are out in a front entry room of the police station when another cop pulls Matt aside. Whispers. She hears only one word. Berringer.

  “I’ll have someone take you home,” Matt says to her. “I’ll let you know if we need anything else from you.”

  He has dismissed her, distracted.

  The detective stops at a window and speaks clearly, so Caroline doesn’t miss a word. “Locate a car in central Phoenix,” he says to the dispatcher. “Have the squad pick up Gretchen Birch and bring her here.” He gives the location of the banquet hall before disappearing down the hall.

  49

  Gretchen was rigid with shock. She stared at the rock collection. It had to be John Swilling’s collection. What was it doing in Mr. B.’s apartment? Was her landlord actually Richard Berringer? No wonder the man had been so eager to donate space for their luncheon. The club members had been thrilled. They wouldn’t have considered turning down his offer. How devious!

  She glanced out the window to the street below. A car pulled up on the side of the building and Julie Wicker got out of the driver’s side.

  A little late for their meeting, but Gretchen would forgive the woman for not showing up earlier. She needed her help and was relieved to see her alive and well.

  She raised the blind. The window rolled open easily. Gretchen called out to her. “Am I glad to see you!”

  Julie looked up, startled. “What are you doing up there?”

  “It’s a long story. I have to get out of here immediately. Do you have a phone?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “No, I mean, yes, but if I don’t come out in the next two minutes, call the police. Wait. Call them anyway.”

  Julie said something else, but Gretchen couldn’t hear because she was already at the bedroom door, then at the apartment door, then creeping quickly down the steps straining her ears for any sound of movement below.

  She thought she heard something. Before letting herself out, she peeked cautiously into the break room. Andy sat on the floor, moaning and holding his head.

  What if he had a concussion? “An ambulance will be on the way soon,” she said. He nodded weakly.

  She had to get medical attention for him.

  The warm sunny day shocked Gretchen after so much time spent indoors in low lighting. She blinked like a mole.

  “What in the world is going on?” Julie asked.

  “I need to use your phone. I might have made a terrible mistake. A man inside might die because of me.”

  “Mr. B.? What did you do to Mr. B.?”

  Gretchen shook her head in frustration. “Not Mr. B., Andy Thomasia. I thought he killed his wife. I hit him pretty hard with the stage gun. We have to call an ambulance.”

  “What can I do?” Julie said.

  “Stay with me. I don’t know what’s going on anymore. But I’m pretty sure that Mr. B., the guy who owns this building, is Richard Berringer.”

  “Impossible,” Julie said.

  “He has his grandfather’s rock collection upstairs.”

  “No!”

  “Give me the phone.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Julie keyed in the emergency number and spoke into the phone, giving their location and requesting an ambulance to assist with an injured man inside the building. “Now we can relax,” she said after hanging up.

  “Perfect. Let’s go in and wait with Andy.”

  “The ambulance attendants will take good care of him. There isn’t anything we can do. And if the man who lives upstairs really is Richard, we could be in significant danger. We need to get away.”

  Julie looked frightened. She should be, Gretchen thought. We both should be.

  Gretchen chewed the inside of her lip and considered the dilemma. There wasn’t anything she could do about Andy’s condition. And she wasn’t absolutely sure that he hadn’t killed his wife. And what about Mr. B.? Owning a rock collection wasn’t enough evidence to assume that Mr. B. was a killer. Was it?

  She had made too many assumptions as it was.

  “Okay,” Gretchen said, scanning the street for signs of Mr. B. “Let’s get in your car. We’ll lock ourselves in.”

  Was that enough protection? The killer had rammed her mother’s car in an attempt to murder her. Would he do the same to them if he found them here?

  Looking up and down the street again, she didn’t see Mr. B., but he could turn a corner at any moment. Had any of the club members asked what his full name was? Yes, she remembered that April had. He’d said it was a long Slavic name, that everyone called him Mr. B.

  “Where’s Caroline?” Julie asked.

  “Another long story. I’ll tell you later. Why don’t we move the car?”

  Julie nodded, checking out passing pedestrians. “I agree. We can wait down the street for the ambulance to arrive. Or drive around the block. Or something. But we shouldn’t stand in the open like sitting ducks.”

  The temporary security of Julie’s car gave Gretchen a moment to reflect on her own impulsive personality, and how much trouble she had caused. First Jerome, then Andy. She was leaving a trail of carnage behind her.

  Matt had been right all along. She shouldn’t have involved herself in police business. But to be fair, Gretchen didn’t invite threats. They appeared out of nowhere. She’d been perfectly content working on the play, minding her own business.

  Well, that wasn’t exactly true. The drama of past and present mysterious murders had lured her away. She’d wanted to be enticed into something else. Anything other than directing that play.

  So she’d seen a killer in every man she encountered. She’d disarmed one and tied him up. She’d pistol-whipped another.

  Was she the crazy one?

  Julie was on the phone talking to the police, explaining that their lives were at risk, that a man might be stalking them and that they needed protection. She sounded more worried and frightened as she spoke.

  “Yes, yes, we will. No, that’s not possible.” She glanced at Gretchen and covered the phone with her hand. “I’m not going to the police station, which is what they are suggesting.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Gretchen asked, recalling that Julie had refused to go to the museum the night before because of the police. “We’ll be safest there.”

  “No. I have an issue with that. I’ll drop you off, though.”

  “Let’s stay together.”

  “Should we wait here?” Julie asked. “The officer thinks it will be fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  “How about at the museum?” Even if Mr. B. was Richard, the club had changed the locks to the museum and only Gretchen and her mother had keys. “He can’t get into the museum.”

  “Great idea.” Julie gave the address to the police officer and hung up. “A police car is on the way. They said to stay inside.”

  It would be over before she knew it. In fifteen minutes the police would arrive, if they weren’t still there. Hadn’t Andy said he’d seen a cop at the museum? All her potential suspects were being rounded up. She may have been mistaken in some cases and injured the wrong people, but one of them was guilty. Andy Thomasia, Jerome, or Mr. B. One of them was a killer.

  It was really over this time.

  50

  “She has multiple personalities,” Richard Berringer says while the technician sits at a computer. The detective remains standing, appears detached. People probably lie to him all the time. Best to focus on the truth and keep an honest face.

  “Her head is in a good place when she remembers to take her medication,” he says, studying the black Velcro wrapped around his fingers. “But that’s hit-or-miss. When we were kids, before the meds, Rachel would do cruel things and then blame me. Everybody believed her, including my parents. She’d do horrible things to animals and kids too young to talk, then she’d blame me. She nearly suffocated herself and accused me of attempting to kill her. That was the end for me.”

  Richard hasn’t moved since he sat down in the chair, not a muscle, but the detective—what’s his name . . . Albright?—paces. The cop’s voice and facial features don’t display any emotion, no inflections whatsoever. He sounds like the computer program that they are running to record his blood pressure and pulse, to verify the truth.

  How can his blood pressure not be through the roof? But they told him he passed the pretest with flying colors. And they have control questions. It’s all been explained to him. He’s more than willing to go along, whatever it takes to make them believe him.

 

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