Page 55 of Accidental Murder
Craving normalcy, she set the cat on the floor, hung his collar on the doorknob, and padded to the kitchen.
While scrounging through her sister’s refrigerator, she regretted not having taken Trask up on his offer of split pea soup. She opted for a low-salt, vegetable stir-fry from the freezer and set the dish in the microwave oven to heat. She glanced at a half-drunk bottle of chardonnay in the refrigerator and winced. Her nervous stomach couldn’t take it. She emptied a can of tuna into a dish and snapped her fingers. Java zipped in and ate without complaint.
More important than food, Kayla determined as she downed her tepid meal, was a shower. Under pounding hot water, she scrubbed her face and rinsed the lacquer from the photo shoot out of her hair. Afterward she raided Ashley’s closet and chose a Victoria’s Secret nightshirt. Her sister might have modeled designer silk lingerie, but she’d loved sleeping in cotton.
Holding the shirt in her hands, Kayla flashed on finding Ashley beneath the desk. Waves of grief jetted through her.
No. Stop. Keep going.
Dwelling on what she’d lost would make her crash like an overworked computer.
After donning the nightshirt, she plopped onto the bed, pressed Enter on the new laptop, and waited. The page for the data mining program finally materialized, but the words at the bottom of the screen hit her in the gut:Search is complete. There are no results to display.
She squelched the urge to hurl the computer at the wall. “Why do people kill?” she rasped, while sorting through Trask’s analysis. The few additional reasons she could come up with were protecting one’s reputation, exacting vengeance, or hiding a secret obsession, like an addiction to gambling, sex, or drugs.Would any of those words or phrases show up in her client’s files if she instigated a new search? Unless they were writing spy thriller-type fiction, she doubted it.
Kayla recalled the other thing Trask had asked:Who profits most from your sister’s death?Ashley had been Kayla’s beneficiary. Based on that theory, did Hanrahan consider Ashley a suspect?
Rather than review every byte of data, she elected to finish her previous project of calling her clients. She selected the first name listed underPin her phone contact and dialed. When a man answered, she asked for Olivia Pei. Pei was a talented interior designer, specializing in Hawaiian chic. Kayla had built the woman’s web page and couldn’t fathom a reason why she might want her dead.
“She’s not here,” the man who answered said. “She’s in New York for a furniture show. Who is this?”
“My name is?—”
The cat collar jingled on the front door.
Kayla aborted the call, dropped the phone on the bed, and ran to the hall. She remembered the kitchen knife she’d hidden in the umbrella stand and plucked it out.
At the same time, someone pounded on the door.
Would someone who was trying to take her by surprise make so much noise? She lowered the weapon and peeked through the peephole. Eve stood on the stoop, overcoat hanging open, her diner uniform drenched. Her wet hair clung to her face and neck.
Kayla returned the knife to the stand and opened the door. “Why didn’t you return my calls?”
“I’ve been busy.” Eve pushed past her. “We’ve got to talk. And you need to get out of here.”
“Why?” Kayla closed and bolted the door.
“This morning I assumed it was a fluke two of your clients were dead, supposedly accidental. But a half hour ago, I discovered another client died.”
“What? Who? How?”
“Phyllis Appleton—drug overdose Wednesday night.” Eve pulled a notebook from her coat pocket, flipped it open, and read from her notes. “Fred Collins—car accident Thursday after the memorial. Mary Dorman—drowned in a gym swimming pool, also Thursday. And I’m only up to the letterF.”
“Mary? No, no, no. She was an accomplished swimmer. She almost made the Olympic team at sixteen.” Tears leaked down Kayla’s cheeks. A convulsive shudder ripped through her. “She couldn’t have had an accident in a pool. And Phyllis, drugs? Not a chance.”
“Is it possible they were all murdered? Are you the connection?”
“No. Not possible. I—” Kayla pictured Trask’s implacable face. He was trained in covert methods of death. Dennis was deft enough to have accomplished the same. “I was chased today. Twice. In the car. First, Blond Guy tore after me on the Golden Gate Bridge, and then a client’s husband rammed into me.”
“Blond Guy?”
“Suntanned, blond . . .” Kayla splayed her hands. “Blond Guy.”
“Got it. So you think you could be next on the hit list?”
“I don’t know.”
Eve prodded her. “Hurry. You’ve got to change and get out of here.”
