Chapter 38

I TOOK MY PAIN PILL, WASHED IT DOWN WITH WATER, then turned toward him, subtly giving him my right side and settling into a open-legged, karate-ready stance. A soto-hachiji-dachi. I was trying not to telegraph it, but if Chick went to the next level, if he tried to even so much as lay a finger on me, then I was going to unleash some dojo whup-ass on him. Or at least try.

"… Life should be about more than good times and a great backhand, don't you think?" he rambled on.

"We should get this stuff loaded into the car and get out of here," I repeated firmly.

"I was hoping we could sit and talk."

"Why don't we talk in the car on the ride back to L. A.?"

"There's things I really need to discuss with you," he pressed. "Things we need to sort out. A few conditions for our relationship."

My heart was now slamming inside my chest. Conditions for our relationship? This was totally nuts.

And then, he took a step toward me. I flinched and dropped the bottle of pills. It rolled across the floor and settled between his feet. He stooped and picked it up. Then he squinted at the label. "Percocet?" he said, reading it. "I thought you took Darvocet for your back."

"I need to pee:' I said and picked up my purse. I had to get to the bathroom and collect my thoughts. "Where's the loo?"

"Right through there, off the living room. Or you can use the one upstairs in the master bedroom."

"This one's fine." I crossed to the guest bathroom, and carrying my wineglass, went inside, closed the door, then locked it.

The first thing I did was dump out the wine. Then I looked at myself in the mirror. The eyes staring back at me were frightened and tense.

Of course the new big question was: How had Chick known about the Darvocet? It had only been prescribed once-the night Chandler had gone out to the drugstore to get it for me, the night he was killed. I had never told anybody but Bob Butler about having changed medications. So how did Chick know? How had he found out?

Then a chilling thought hit me. Had Chick been there the night Chandler went to the store to pick up my prescription? Was it Chick who had run my husband down?

Then another thought. Seven months after Chandler was murdered, Evelyn was shot to death in her car. Could Chick have…?

I stopped in mid-thought as the enormity of that possibility overpowered everything else. Was I trapped in this house with a monster? A serial murderer?

I stood in front of the mirror hyperventilating. If you don't calm down, you'll never be able to deal with this. I began to pull myself back together. So far, all of it was just conjecture.

Maybe Detective Butler told Chick about the Darvocet. He said he'd talked to Chick at Chandler's funeral. But would a seasoned cop like Detective Butler reveal information like that to a stranger?

I didn't think so.

Suddenly, I remembered the envelope given to me by the concierge. I'd been so upset by the Mercedes with Evelyn's brains on the kick panel that I'd completely forgotten about it. I put my purse on the counter and frantically searched through it.

"Everything okay in there?" Chick called through the door, jolting me.

"Just fine. Be out in a minute. Pour me another wine, will you?" I said, trying to make my voice sound light and friendly. I found the envelope, tore it open, and sat down on the commode to read. The fax was printed neatly in Bob's hand on a piece of New York hotel stationery dated this morning.

.

Dear Mrs. Ellis:

I have tried desperatey to reach you. l've left message after message at your hotel and on your cell voice-mail, but for some reason I have not been able to get through, so I am putting this in a fax in the hope that it might reach you. I think I have finally solved your husbands hit-and-run. As I wrote earlier, Top Hat Auto in New Jersey is where the Taurus was repaired. The owner remembered the guy who was driving and I've enclosed a much better drawing. This morning I rechecked all the Hertz agencies in New York and eventualy found the car. It was rented by your friend Charles Best on April 12th and returned on the 13th. On my instructions, Hertz reexamined the car. It had severe right front feeder damage that had been Bondoed' up and repainted. I just found out from one of your friends yesterday that you went to Mr. Best's wife's funeral in LA. That really has me worried. You must yet in touch with me immediately, and Mrs. Ellis, please stay away from that man. I have notified the LA. police and am on my way out there. In the meantime, be extremely careful.

Chick Best is a cold-blooded killer.

Very sincerely yours

Detective Robert Butler

.

Then I dug into the envelope and pulled out a folded fax picture and opened it up. The drawing depicted a dark-haired, middle-aged man.

It was Chick.

I sat on the toilet as my whole body went numb. Sweat started beading on my forehead and under my arms. I sat motionless trying to decide what to do next.

"Hey, Paige, what the hell're you doing in there?" Chick's voice came through the locked door again, shattering my thoughts and jangling my nerves. "Are you going to the bathroom or redecorating?"

"Be out in a minute," I sang out brightly. Then I took the wineglass, wrapped it in a towel, and held it over the sink. I tapped it lightly on the gold faucet fixture. It shattered, leaving me with the rounded pedestal base and a good shaft with a sharp, jagged point. I took this weapon, such as it was, and carefully fit it into my purse with the bottom up, so I could draw it quickly. I decided to keep humoring Chick. Stall. Delay. Find a way to make a phone call out. That was the gist of my feeble plan.

I knew Bob Butler was, if nothing else, a bulldog. His letter said he was on his way to L. A. and had already notified the LAPD. Maybe they could figure this out in time. He would probably start with the Lang-ham Hotel, where he knew I was staying. Since Peter Ellis had left a message for me there earlier, it would be on their computer. He would get to Chandler's parents. I'd told them I was coming up here. However, I'd only mentioned it in passing. I prayed they would remember.

Stall… Delay… Humor… Try and get a call out. That was my mantra.

I looked out the bathroom window. The snow was coming down even harder than before. We would soon be snowed in-maybe already were.

I had to assume, for the time being, that no help would be coming. This was going to be completely up to me. I was going to have to save myself. The Japanese meaning of karate suddenly flipped into my mind: Way of the empty hand… How appropriate.

I took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped out of the guest bathroom to face my husband's killer. It was…

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