Cardiac Arrest, page 24
Summer leaned back against the wall, hugging her knees. She couldn’t just sit here and do nothing. She’d come to confront Mary Lee, not hide behind an ugly plant. And if someone else was roughing her up...
Another thunk sounded from the room, followed by a long, scraping noise, as if something were being dragged across the floor.
Like...a body? Yikes.
Summer squeezed her eyes shut and dug her nails into her kneecaps. Maybe confronting Mary Lee—and whoever else might be in there—by herself wasn’t such a brilliant move, after all. She should have listened to Dorothy.
Just as she scrambled to her feet, the bedroom door flew open. Mary Lee stood in the doorway, breathing hard. She was dressed in a pale pink, princess-cut coat with a matching pillbox hat. In one hand she carried a black vintage train case as she attempted to pull a lumpy Army duffel bag behind her.
“Hi there, Mrs. Messinger.” Summer flashed a bright smile. “Gee, don’t you look nice? Just like those pictures of, uh, Jackie Kennedy.”
The tiny woman blinked, and touched at her curly blond hair. “Why, thank you. I always admired her style.” She cocked her head. “Why are you here in my condo?”
“I was just in the building, you know, visiting a friend.” Summer wracked her brain for who that person might be. “And I saw your door open, so I thought I’d pop in. You heard what happened to poor Mrs. Rumway, right?”
“Sorry, dearie, I’ve been very busy packing for my trip. Is Gladys ill?” Mary Lee seemed jittery, but that was nothing new.
“Oh, no worries,” Summer breezed on. “Mrs. Rumway is going to be just fine. She walked into the pool by mistake in the dark, can you believe it?”
“You don’t say.” Mary Lee carefully set down her cosmetics case and dragged the duffel bag the rest of the way into the living room. “Gladys has been very preoccupied lately.”
“You mean, after Dr. A got whacked?” Summer zoomed in for the kill. “When we pulled Mrs. Rumway out of the pool, she told us she knew who did it.”
Two bright red circles appeared on Mary Lee’s cheeks like twin stoplights, as the color drained from the rest of her face. “You?” she whispered, taking a step back.
“Nope.” Summer crossed her arms. “Guess again, Mrs. Messinger. Here are the categories: Killer Desserts or Pick Your Poison, for two thousand.”
“You’ve been watching too much afternoon television.” Mary Lee adjusted her hat, which was sliding off her head. “I warned Gladys she was getting carried away with all her silly talk. Imagine, someone trying to harm that sweet lamb Anthony.”
More like a nasty goat, Summer thought.
“My goodness, I forgot to pack something.” Mary Lee turned and fluttered back into the bedroom. “Young lady, can you please give me a hand in here?”
“Sure.” This would be a perfect chance to look for incriminating evidence, Summer told herself. Unless...
She cautiously poked just her head through the doorway. “There isn’t anyone else in here, right?”
“Lordy, no.” Mary Lee swept an arm across her frilly boudoir. “See? No one but little old me.”
Summer stepped into the room, unable to avert her eyes from the giant pink bed covered with a tufted, satin bedspread. A lace curtain draped above the padded headboard, with a big gold crown on top, like it was made for a queen.
Scented candles of every size flickered all around the room. Well, that explained the disgusting burnt sugar smell. Hadn’t Mia said she’d seen a bunch of candles burning on Dr. A’s yacht that night?
Maybe Mary Lee was planning to torch the place before she left. “Hey, Mrs. Messinger, want me to blow these candles out? Where are you going on your trip, anyway?”
Mary Lee didn’t answer. She was rummaging for something in one of the mirrored-door closets.
“Aargh!” Summer muffled a scream as she spotted Dr. A’s lecherous mug, larger than life, staring straight at her. Mary Lee had printed his photo on a giant pillow, propped on a loveseat.
Pictures of Dr. A littered the nightstand, the dressers, and the windowsill, all in heart-shaped frames. Summer fought a teensy wave of nausea.
“Now I see it!” Mary Lee stepped away from the closet, looking relieved. “That box right there, on the top shelf. Can you reach it for me?” She scurried to her vanity table and brought back the skirted, monogrammed chair. “Here, you can stand on this if you need to.”
“I’m plenty tall enough.” Summer reached toward the box. “So what’s in here?”
“You are, dearie.”
Summer felt a hard shove to her back as Mary Lee stuffed her in the closet and slammed the door.
For such a mini person, she was a lot stronger than Summer had expected. And smarter, it dawned on her, as Mary Lee pushed the vanity chair under the door handle.
“Hey, you can’t do this!” Summer cried. “Let me out of here. Like, right now.”
“So sorry,” Mary Lee said. “I really must be going. I’ll be back to tie up the loose ends after I’ve gotten everything ready. Byyyye!” Her voice trailed away.
Loose ends? As in, her? She pounded on the door with her fists. “You won’t get away with this!”
Well, that was a really stupid thing to say. So far, it looked as if Mary Lee would totally get away with plenty of things. Poisoning Dr. A, sending Dorothy mango tarts, half-broiling the Spunky Seniors class, pushing Gladys into a pool and driving her and Dash off the road. And, oh yeah, leaving her to suffocate and rot in a freaking closet.
No, that last scenario wasn’t going to happen. She’d been in tight spots before. The important thing was not to panic and hyperventilate, or she’d use up all the air really fast.
The closet door was solid wood, with that mirror on the other side. Why didn’t Mary Lee have cheapo, accordion-style closet doors like Grandma Sloan?
She patted along the wall inside the door and pulled on a little chain under a stick-up light bulb. She’d guessed correctly that her grandma and Mary Lee were both fans of infomercial products.
Summer felt another wave of revulsion as her gaze fell on three clear garment bags stuffed with extra-petite, black lace lingerie. Seriously?
Mia had said that the older woman on Dr. A’s yacht was wearing fancy lingerie. But Summer couldn’t waste time trying to scrub that disturbing image from her mind. She had to get out of here, before the loony tune made her getaway. Or, worse, returned to finish her off.
She’d left her bag at the pool. All she had in her pocket was her pool card, which was useless again, this time for jimmying purposes. The closet door wasn’t locked, just blocked by a chair. She’d have to bust her way out.
The only heavy thing on the closet floor was an old canister vacuum cleaner. Summer checked the overhead shelf, which was jammed with plastic shoe containers, hats and purses. Nothing remotely useful. Even if she succeeded in breaking down the door, she’d wind up with a slashed artery if she broke that mirror on the other side.
Not to mention seven more years of bad luck.
The shelf didn’t end at the wall of the closet, Summer noticed. There was a large gap behind it, so maybe the side wall was some kind of partition.
Yep. A clotheshorse like Mary Lee would need a much bigger closet.
Summer pulled a few of the larger containers down from the shelf and stacked them on the floor to create steps. Hopefully the shelf would be strong and wide enough to accommodate her.
Closing her eyes, she tried to visualize herself smaller and skinnier. Good thing she’d skipped dinner to get those laps in at the pool.
She hoisted herself up—so far, so good—and shimmied carefully along the shelf, keeping her weight evenly distributed. If the shelf buckled, the garment bags would break her fall. Holding her breath against a cloud of dust, she thrust her arm through the space on the other side of the closet and knocked a bunch of rolled belts and vintage hat boxes off the shelf ahead of her. They tumbled noisily to the floor.
Summer inched herself forward, swiveled on one hip, and jumped down onto the jumbled pile of boxes and accessories. Then she twisted the other doorknob and burst back out into Mary Lee’s sugar-scented lair.
Ha! She had officially outwitted the Pink Princess. But she’d get back up to go after her this time.
She ran to the kitchen to call 911. There had to be a landline in there.
Bingo. She reached for the old-school phone mounted on the wall next to a row of hanging oven mitts that read: Live. Laugh. Love.
Looked like the one for “Kill” was missing.
“Just a moment, dearie.” Mary Lee popped up like a maniacal puppet from behind the cluttered kitchen island.
Summer startled, but recovered quickly. “Forget it, Mrs. Messinger.” She twirled the “9” on the rotary dial. Jeez, old phones were slow.
“You’re making this very difficult, young lady.” Mary Lee placed what looked like a beat-up brass oil can on the butcher-block counter.
Summer dialed the first “1.” Was that weird, hissing noise behind her coming from the can or Mary Lee?
She jumped again as a burst of bright blue flame shot out beside her. Searing heat and the stench of gasoline filled the kitchen. “What is that?”
“It’s a 1949 Craftsman blowtorch. Isn’t it lovely?” Mary Lee smiled. “It belonged to my father, but it’s perfect for toasting my crème brulées and meringues. So much better than the pricey pastry torches they sell in those high-end kitchen stores. It works nicely on cheese toppings, too. Lasagna, French onion soup—”
“Thanks, I get the idea.” Summer edged back toward the phone.
“Wonderful.” The tiny woman beamed and fired up another ball of flame. “Now put your hands up and start moving toward the door. Very slowly, or you’re toast.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“I already told you greedy ambulance chasers, I’m not going anywhere without Dorothy Westin.”
Dorothy hesitated in the darkness beyond the cabana area. In the midst of all the hullabaloo, she’d nearly made her getaway from Gladys and the ever-growing crowd at the pool.
Admittedly, poor Gladys had been through a terrible ordeal, nearly drowning like that, but she was surrounded by medical personnel and supporters now. Summer had no one. At this very moment her partner was probably having a very difficult conversation with Mary Lee.
She could be in grave danger.
Dorothy slipped out the back gate. It was quite a hike to Tower B. Should she alert Hibiscus Pointe security to the situation?
No, she decided. She’d arrive at Mary Lee’s condo long before they showed up. They hadn’t even made it to the pool yet. But she did have Detective Donovan’s card in her purse. She could use the phone in the Towers lobby.
She quickened her pace, thankful again for her AeroLites, but stopped short when she spotted a Hibiscus Pointe golf cart parked at the curb.
The key was in the ignition.
Dorothy had never driven a golf cart, not even on the few occasions when she’d accompanied Harlan on the course. But this was an emergency. It wasn’t as if she were stealing a car, for heaven’s sake.
Swinging herself behind the wheel, she dumped her flashlight, purse and Summer’s oversize bag beside her and reached for the key. A sudden blast of music—if one could call it that—sounded from the passenger seat.
Summer’s cell phone. Should she answer it? It might be her.
Red for stop, green for go, Summer had instructed her. Dorothy fumbled in the bag for the brightly lit, still-blaring phone and selected the green button. “Hello?”
“I think I have the wrong number.” The young male voice sounded confused.
“This is Summer Smythe’s answering service,” Dorothy said. Did anyone besides doctors use those anymore?
“Okay, can you tell her Scotty from Chameleon called? Esmé said—”
“Oh, yes,” Dorothy broke in. “Summer wanted to know if you recalled serving fruit tarts to an older woman in a blue dress at Mia Rivera-Jones’s party?”
“Uh, maybe,” Scotty said, after a telltale pause. “I heard what happened. I guess I thought they were peach tarts. I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t worry, Scotty, no one is to blame,” Dorothy said. “I just wondered—well, Summer wondered—whether anyone suggested you to bring those tarts over to that particular guest?”
Scotty hesitated again. “Yeah. A really short old lady with a black bow in her hair. She said the other woman really loved peach tarts.”
So Mary Lee had set her up, after all. That meant Summer was definitely in trouble. “Thanks, Scotty. Have to go.”
She hit the red button, tossed the phone back in Summer’s bag, and turned the key in the ignition. There were two choices on the dash: “F” or “R.” Goodness, all these buttons. She selected “F” and hit the gas. The golf cart burst forward, at full speed.
Dorothy quickly applied the brake, swerving the wheel away from the bushes in the nick of time. She hadn’t expected quite as much pick up. But she quickly got the hang of things, and pointed the cart back on course. She’d have to drive this baby as fast as it would go.
She reached Tower B in record time and jumped from the cart in front of the entrance. “This is Mary Lee Messinger, from 32-13,” she said into the night intercom, trying to make her voice sound high and squeaky. “I’ve misplaced my key card again. Could you let me in, please?”
Immediately, the glass doors slid open. Apparently, no one was watching the monitor, or the staff person at the desk didn’t know Mary Lee. Another minus for Hibiscus Pointe security, but a big plus for her.
Avoiding the reception desk, Dorothy pretended to check a box in the mailroom area, in case anyone was watching. No time to call Detective Donovan now. She headed straight to the elevator banks.
The thirty-second floor was eerily silent, but that was to be expected at this hour. Ignoring the flutters in her chest, she followed the arrows on the little gold plaques toward 32-13. Reaching the door with the pink lilac wreath, she lifted the ornate brass knocker.
No answer. Dorothy put her ear to the door. All seemed quiet inside the condo. Perhaps Mary Lee was sleeping soundly after all, and Summer had already left. She was about to try the buzzer, just in case, when she spotted an unmistakable white plastic rectangle on the carpet. It lay directly in front of the door to the stairs.
Summer’s key card. Had she dropped it by mistake? Or was she trying to let her know where she had gone?
Dorothy pushed down on the door bar very slowly, to create less noise, and climbed the stairs with growing trepidation. They led to the Events Room, she knew. She had been up there on several occasions, for various lectures, bridge and Hip Hip Hibiscus Nights. The panoramic view, day or evening, was quite spectacular from the floor-to-ceiling glass windows and sliding doors that opened out onto the rooftop balcony.
Creamy moonlight filtered into the huge, silent room, casting the formal furniture and cascading floral arrangements with a faint peach glow. No sign of Summer, or Mary Lee.
Her eyes still adjusting to the darkness, Dorothy resisted the temptation to use her flashlight. She moved carefully against the wall until she reached the community kitchen, which doubled as a wet bar. Edging along the counter, she felt her way past the powder room area, and stopped by the grand piano.
Suddenly, Harlan was holding her in his arms, as he had just a few years ago, before he’d become ill. The tuxedoed pianist played “Moon River,” their favorite song, and she gazed up into Harlan’s eyes.
Stop! Dorothy commanded herself, as the grief counselor had instructed.
Still, she saw Harlan’s handsome, lined face. His expression was filled with love and—something else. You’re in danger, sweetheart, he told her silently.
No. She was imagining things. She broke out in a cold sweat, shaking so hard that she grabbed for the piano. A near-deafening crash of dissonant chords filled the room as she hit the keys.
Oh dear. Dorothy’s hands flew instinctively to her chest. Even the darkness couldn’t hide her presence now.
Then she saw the stream of blue flame shoot into the darkness beyond the window, illuminating Summer’s ashen face as she leaned back against the balcony railing.
Behind the flame, wielding what appeared to be a large can with a spray gun on top, was Mary Lee. She was grinning like a tiny Cheshire cat.
Mom, go for it! urged another voice.
Maddie? Dorothy spun away from the piano. Clearly, fear was causing her to hallucinate again. She may not have been able to save her daughter when she’d needed her most, but she certainly wasn’t going to desert her partner.
She rushed toward the windows. Which ones were the sliding doors?
Desperately, she searched for a handle. The blue flame disappeared, and then, just as quickly, sprang back to life as Summer sidestepped both her assailant and the torch.
Mary Lee spun to face Summer once again. Dorothy could tell her partner was weighing her chances of disarming the crazed woman as Mary Lee backed her down the balcony with the powerful flame.
They couldn’t be good.
Dorothy’s fingers finally found the indentation of a handle. With a rush of strength she didn’t know she possessed, she slid back the heavy door and stepped onto the breezy balcony.
“Dorothy, go back!” Summer called. “Don’t come out here!”
Mary Lee whirled around and aimed the blue flame between them. “Don’t you dare move, Dorothy Westin!”
The wind abruptly died and the overwhelming odor of gasoline fumes hung over the balcony.
Dorothy took a step forward. “Put the blowtorch down, Mary Lee,” she said, with a calmness she didn’t feel.
