The Ghost and the Dead Deb

CHAPTER 20

The Getaway

I’m the sucker in this deal. You’re the smart guy.

—Raymond Chandler, “Blackmailer’s Don’t Shoot,” Black Mask magazine, 1933 (featuring Philip Mallory, the precursor to Philip Marlowe)

I WAS SICKENED, horrified, panicked. I picked up the flashlight and blindly ran. Branches clawed my head and arms, scrub brush tore my slacks, stones invaded my sandals.

Baby, wait! Slow down!

Jack tried to stop me, but I wasn’t a hardened ex-cop turned P.I. with a hundred crime scenes in my past and a gun strapped under my shoulder for protection. I was a widowed single mother completely lost—and in over my head.

Penelope!

The sound of my own name finally broke through. I couldn’t remember the last time Jack had called me anything but doll or baby. My steps slowed.

“Jack . . . it was . . . Victoria Banks . . . ,” I rasped, trying to catch my breath. “She was strangled, just like Angel . . . with yellow rope . . .”

I want you to calm down, go back to that body, and take a closer look.

“No, Jack. I have to get out of here. I have to call the police.”

But . . .

Jack kept talking, but I wasn’t listening. I continued moving along the path, not sure where I was going, just as long as it was away from those grotesque remains. My heart was beating faster than moth wings against a porch light, and my palms were so slick with sweat I almost dropped the flashlight.

When it felt to me as if I’d run far enough, I began sweeping the milky beam in wide arcs to either side of the trail, looking hard into the woods until, thankfully, I caught a glimpse of Bud’s red pickup about twenty feet away. I jogged through the trees toward it. From there, I made my way back to my Saturn.

I opened the trunk, ripped a section of paper towel off the roll I kept there, carefully transferred the bullet into it, put it in my pocket, and threw my blouse back on. Inside the car, I pulled out the small silver cell phone I had thrown into my purse earlier.

Baby, what are you doing?

I opened the phone. The display screen’s neon green lit the pitch dark interior of the Saturn with an eerie glow. “What do you think I’m doing?” I snapped aloud. “I’m calling the police. Then I’m waiting right here until they arrive and I’m going to tell them everything.”

I understand why you want to do that, but take my advice. Don’t.

“Why?”

You hid Johnny in your back room when you knew the police were looking for him, that’s why. You withheld evidence to protect him, you’re in the middle of the woods after having tampered with more evidence and you don’t have a get out of jail free ticket—

“What are you talking about? This is murder, not Monopoly!”

Listen up, doll. A ‘get out of jail free ticket’ is a private investigator’s license. Something you don’t possess, the last time I checked, and if you’re not careful, they’ll start looking at you with accessory and obstruction charges.

“But you were the one who suggested we come out here!”

Don’t go soft on me now, sister. You were the one who asked for my help on this case—even employed a little emotional blackmail as I recall. I was the one said you better take a few swimming lessons before you jumped into the deep water. Well, it’s too late to turn back. You’re not just involved, you’re in over your head, and there’s only one thing to do when you get on a ferry like this . . . ride it all the way to the other side of the river.

“What river would that be, Jack, the river Styx?”

Don’t get cute.

I collapsed backward against the car seat and closed the cell phone. “I’m not going back out there. I mean it.”

A long silence followed.

“Jack?”

Start the engine.

I did.

Now drive.

AT A DESERTED rest stop along the highway, I pulled up to a pay phone and called the State Police. Doing my best to disguise my voice, I told them I saw a dead body in the woods behind the Comfy-Time Motel, gave them a good idea of where to look, added that I didn’t want to get involved, and hung up.

Then I drove home, checked on my sleeping Spencer, and went to bed. It would be many hours, however, before I could calm down enough to go to sleep.

“Jack? I don’t know what to do with this . . . Victoria was strangled so close to Johnny’s truck . . . and with that same yellow rope he’s been carrying in his pickup . . . but Johnny’s not some sort of a sick killer who strangled Bethany, Angel, and Victoria. He just can’t be!”

My head was pounding. In my sleeveless cotton nightgown, I rose from the bed and went to the bathroom. In the mirror, my shoulder-length reddish-brown hair looked a tangled mess. My arms were covered with unsightly scratches, and the expression in my bloodshot green eyes appeared crazed. I took two aspirin, knocked it back with tap water, and groaned.

Take it easy, kid . . . you’re making yourself sick.

“I’ll be fine.” I doused the cuts on my arms with antibacterial spray.

You see why my racket ain’t for the faint of heart? You see why I didn’t want you involved?

I ignored that and went back to the bedroom. “All three of these young women had been strangled,” I continued reasoning as I sat down on the mattress, “and what Milner said earlier was right . . . I’ve also read enough thrillers to know that light strangulation during sex is a kinky turn-on for some individuals, which can lead to a form of auto-erotic death.”

That’s right.

“There was a case in New York City some years ago involving a wealthy East Side debutante and a prep school classmate—the sexual experimentation had gotten out of hand and the girl had ended up dead. I want to believe Johnny’s innocent . . . he has to be for Bud’s and Mina’s sake . . . but, Jack, how do I prove it?”

The room went quiet. Too quiet. Then the ghost said, Maybe you don’t.

“I can’t accept that.”

I know.

“So who killed Victoria, Jack? Who killed Angel? Who killed Bethany?”

You aren’t going to figure that one out tonight. And that’s an angle you’ve got to master in this game, baby. It’s like a trick knot. The harder you pull, the tighter it gets. Listen up now, are you listening . . . ?

“Yes, Jack.”

You’ve got to learn to relax. Let your troubles make a getaway for a night.

“I can’t.”

You can.

“I don’t think I can . . .”