Chapter 10 #2
In her bedroom, she was relieved to find her cell where she’d left it, flung onto the bed in her hurry as she got dressed. Right next to Princess, who stared at her with wide, blue eyes. Mavis scooped up the phone, recognized the number on the screen, and sighed heavily.
Her mother.
Just what she needed.
Blanche was in a private home, where Mavis paid the women who watched after her a small fortune.
Yet still her mother called. Maybe with the help of one of the aides.
Maybe by herself. Having just celebrated her eighty-fifth birthday, Blanche still had the wherewithal to hit the speed-dial number for her daughter. And only to complain.
“Fabulous,” Mavis muttered sarcastically.
She thought about answering, then decided against it. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with Blanche’s resentful comments about her care.
Not today.
She had her own problems.
Mavis would call back later.
Tonight—no, tomorrow.
She let the phone ring and sipped her drink as the call went to voice mail.
“She’s your mother. My daughter.” Grammy’s reproachful voice was haunting her still.
Well, too damned bad.
Tomorrow morning was soon enough to listen to Blanche’s litany of complaints about the food, the caregiver, the house, her aches and pains … “Ugh,” Mavis whispered just as she heard a noise.
From downstairs?
But she was alone.
Except for Princess, who was still on the bed.
And it was the maid’s day off.
She cocked her head toward the open door of her bedroom and the landing beyond, but the house was still. And getting dark. Shadows of the late afternoon crawling across the floor.
Could Archer have come home?
At the thought, her skin crawled. He was an appalling man who had let himself go to seed. While Mavis toned herself with a personal trainer and worked out with hand weights, took a Pilates class, and even spent an hour a week doing tai chi, Archer satisfied himself with rounds of golf.
Still, though she found him reprehensible in so many ways, that didn’t mean she would let some little whore come sneaking into his bed as well as his heart and, most likely, his wallet.
And, to be honest, he’d been starting to trim down a bit, probably because of that girl!
And, of course, the horseback riding! Honest to God!
“Hello?” she called down the stairs, still straining to listen.
Nothing.
She ignored the uptick in her pulse.
Was that a soft footfall on the first floor?
“Archer?” she yelled a bit louder, the fading light from the skylight high overhead offering little illumination.
It was times like these when she wished they still had the dog.
A Labrador retriever like the one Archer took hunting when they were first married, but Buddy was long gone, and Mavis had refused to have another dog in the house.
She didn’t need the dirt tracking in, and then there were the fleas and ticks …
no, thank you. Princess was enough of a pet.
But now, feeling edgy, she would have liked the dog with his sharp nose and ears.
“Honey—are you home?” she said, forcing the endearment out.
The house remained still as a tomb.
And yet she sensed someone or something in this sprawling manor. She and Archer were long past playing cute little tricks on each other—like surprising each other. That playfulness had only lasted a few months into the marriage.
So …?
Best not to take any chances. These days, you couldn’t be too careful.
Just last week a local man had been murdered.
At least, that’s what Mavis had read. In two separate articles in the paper, written by Charlene Gillette’s snippy little reporter of a daughter.
Even though she didn’t know the man who had been killed; he lived outside the city.
Still within several miles. Close enough to be worrisome.
One had to be aware. And cautious. And armed. She walked to her bedside stand and opened the drawer. There, nestled on its matching pillow was her pink pocket pistol. Cute. Compact. But deadly.
And loaded.
Always.
She swept it up and clicked off the safety, then moved stealthily from the bedroom to the wide landing at the top of the staircase.
She squinted down the curved steps.
Nothing moved.
But did she feel a draft?
Had a window or a door been left open?
Every muscle in her body tensed. Every nerve ending came alive.
She glanced across the landing to the opposite wing of the house. Archer’s domain. But the double doors to his suite were closed tight.
And then something clattered to the marble floor below.
She didn’t hesitate, but started down the stairs.
The marble was imported. From a quarry in Italy. Rare. Gorgeous. Beyond expensive. If anyone was marring it, they would pay for it, and—
Wait!
Was that a shadow on the landing just above her?
But how—?
She spun quickly, pistol raised, and saw him.
A looming figure.
She gasped!
No!
He lunged.
Pushed her, big hands on her shoulders.
Her feet went out from under her.
She fired.
Just as the gun flew from her hand.
The shot went wild.
Tumbling backward, she saw the chandelier, with its dimmed lights, swirling above her, then she hit the stairs. Hard. Something cracked. She mewed in pain as she tried to catch herself, but momentum kept her rolling, over and over. Slamming into each step.
Her shoulder.
Her pelvis.
Her head.
Bam!
Bam!
Bam!
With each hit, a new pain erupted to scream up her body.
Her chignon unraveled.
The vaulted ceiling whirled overhead.
Crack!
She landed hard, the side of her face slamming against the glorious marble, a horrible crunch assuring her that her cheekbone had shattered, momentum throwing her onto her back.
Agony rippled across her face, pain searing through her body. Her legs were tangled on the stairs.
Could she move? Not yet. And her phone … oh, God where was her phone?
She heard him.
Felt the vibrations of his footsteps as he slowly descended.
She had to get away. To escape!
Lying on her back, her skirt bunched at her waist, her legs untangled of their own accord. Now her feet pointed to the landing above. She needed to turn over, to crawl away, but couldn’t make herself move.
Come on, come on, come on!
She willed her legs to shift, even just an inch. To push herself backward, away from his slow but determined advancement.
Nothing.
Oh. Dear. God.
Her mouth turned to dust, and her eyes widened in dread.
She tried to scream but was unable. All she could do was to turn one blurry eye up at this monster who had invaded her home.
She blinked. Tried to focus. But only saw the image of a man in black and something in his hand.
It glinted in the fading illumination from the chandelier, and her heart stuttered.
A knife?
He had a knife?
Or …
He raised the glittering weapon as he approached.
Mother of God—No!
She let out a weak croaking sound just as he reached her.
“Meet your maker,” he whispered, before … before … spouting some kind of Bible verse, or was it a song? Her brain was too dazed to think clearly. But she knew she was about to die, about to feel the puncture of that wicked blade into her eye or nose or throat or wherever he chose to thrust it.
“No, please—” she forced out in a gurgle of salty blood, but was saved from the pain as she blessedly lost consciousness.