Killjoy Read online

  “So she feigned her own death,” Sara said, nodding. “Clever.”

  “Oh, yes,” Carrie agreed. “Jilly was always sneaky and clever.” She got up and handed the letter to Sara. “She’s hired a hit man. That’s what she called him. Her hit man.”

  “Your own sister did this to you.”

  Sara didn’t sound surprised, just intrigued. Carrie wondered at her reaction. In normal families, if there really was such a thing, sisters certainly squabbled. Some might even hate each other, but how many would go to the extreme of hiring someone to kill a sibling?

  “You’re not shocked,” she said.

  “No, I’m not.”

  Carrie shook her head. “Jilly isn’t like anyone you’ve ever known.”

  “Want to bet?” Sara said dryly. “I’ve put away hundreds of men and women who committed heinous crimes. I believe I’ve heard and seen it all in the twenty-two years I’ve sat on the bench. Nothing can shock me now.”

  Carrie scoffed. “I wouldn’t count on that. So tell me, Sara. Who wants you dead?”

  Sara carefully adjusted the belt on her robe so that the bow was perfect, then folded her hands in her lap. “Who wants me dead? Oh, quite a few people, I would imagine.”

  She handed the letter to Carrie and watched as she unfolded the note and read it. It was short and to the point.

  Judge Collins:

  I told you I would get even, and I’m a man of my word. Now it’s your turn to suffer. I wish I could be there to watch . . . from a safe distance, of course. You’re going to die very soon now.

  Rot in hell, bitch.

  Carrie dropped the letter on the coffee table. Then she handed Jilly’s letter to Sara.

  “While you read her short but not-so-sweet note, I’m going to get another cup of coffee.”

  “I’d love a cup now,” Sara said.

  Carrie went back into the kitchen, and when she returned a minute later with two mugs, Sara had placed the note on the coffee table next to the one she’d received. Carrie handed her a mug, warned her the coffee was very hot, and sat down.

  “Your sister hates you.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “She accused you of stealing her child and turning her against her.”

  “That didn’t happen.”

  “She seems to believe that all of her failures were your fault and that your success was stolen from her.”

  Carrie nodded. “Jilly always had the unique ability to rewrite history. Once she said it, in her mind it was real.”

  “She sounds like a psychopath.”

  “She is,” Carrie said. “It was never officially diagnosed, but I’m sure that’s what she is.”

  Sara began to trace the worry line in her forehead with her fingertip as she listened to Carrie. Back and forth, back and forth. She was so deep in thought she probably wasn’t even aware of what she was doing. “What happened with the child?”

  “Avery,” she said. “Her name is Avery, and she’s an adult now, not a child. Jilly left her in the hospital. She told my mother and me that we could keep her, sell her, or give her away. She didn’t care what happened to her.” Tears sprang into Carrie’s eyes. She hated herself for showing such weakness in front of a virtual stranger, but she was powerless to do anything about it. “Jilly’s going after Avery too. Oh, God, she could already have her locked away somewhere now. My niece was going to join me at the spa . . .” She covered her face with her hand. “We’ve got to get out of here soon. We have to find a way.”

  “Your sister has gone to quite a lot of trouble to hurt you,” Sara said.

  Carrie told her about Jilly coming into her room during the night and how she had believed she was having a nightmare. Sara was a good listener and so calm Carrie was actually comforted.

  “Jilly could be very patient when she really wanted something, and, oh, how she loved complicated plans. Nothing could ever be simple.”

  Sara put her coffee cup down and leaned forward. “How much time do you think we have?”

  “She’s gone to a lot of trouble setting this up. She’ll want to prolong my agony.”

  Both of them kept glancing at the spiral staircase, expecting to see Anne coming down the stairs.

  “I’ve already checked every window I could reach. They’re all wired.”

  “Yes, I would expect so.”

  “I wish I could be calm like you.”

  “I’m not calm,” Sara protested. “I’m quite . . . discombobulated.”

  Her choice of words made Carrie smile. “So am I,” she said.

  “I’m thinking . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “How curious it is that the three of us are in this house together. What is it that we have in common?”

  “I don’t know,” Carrie said. “And I don’t know that we’ll have the time to find out.”

  “We will get out of here.”

  Her resolve bolstered Carrie. “Yes, we must, and we will.”

  “I wonder what’s keeping Anne.”

  “She’s going to be a problem.”

  “Oh?”

  Carrie nodded. “She won’t admit she received a letter.”

  “Perhaps she’s in shock.”

  Carrie thought Sara might be right about that. “And denial,” she said.

  “We’re going to all have to work together, but I don’t know how much help I can be. I’ll do whatever I can. I’m sixty-eight years old.” Sara shrugged. “And I’m terribly out of shape. When I received the invitation for a free two-week stay at the spa as a promotion, I thought to myself, why not? The experts say it’s never too late to turn your life around. I decided to get into better shape. As you can see, I’m overweight, and once we get outside—and we will find a way to do that,” she said with conviction, “I won’t be able to walk far. I should have had both of my knees replaced several years ago. I’m walking with bone on bone now.”

  “Then Anne and I will hide you somewhere . . . somewhere safe in the woods while we go get help.”

  They heard a door close and both looked up. Anne had finally decided to join them. Carrie’s mouth dropped open when the frail woman started down the stairs. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Anne was all dressed up in a hot pink St. John pants suit. Her gold earrings matched the buttons. She had taken the time to put on makeup and curl her hair. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she smiled, and then crossed the living room to join them. Her high heels clicked against the marble floor. Where in heaven’s name did she think she was going? A formal brunch?

  “Oh, dear,” Sara whispered.

  “Good morning, ladies,” Anne said. “Or rather, good afternoon.”

  She sounded so cheerful. Had her mind snapped? Carrie wondered. She was about to ask the woman what the hell was the matter with her when Sara suggested Anne sit down.

  “Did you sleep well?” Anne asked Sara. Then, before she could answer, Anne continued on. “I can’t believe I slept so long. It must be this wonderful mountain air. Coming from Cleveland, it’s a delightful change.”

  “Would you care for some coffee?” Sara asked. She was watching her closely, as though she was trying to interpret the woman’s bizarre behavior.

  “Not just yet. I’ll ring when I’m ready.”

  Carrie turned to Sara. “I told you she was going to be a problem.”

  “I’m sorry. What did you say?” Anne asked. She carefully sat down and crossed one ankle over the other.

  Carrie turned to her. “It wasn’t the wonderful mountain air that made you sleep so long, Anne. We were all drugged.”

  “That’s nonsense. Look where we are,” she said. “Who would do such a thing in this beautiful—”

  Carrie cut her off. “Did you bring your letter down?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “See what I mean?” Carrie asked Sara.

  The judge took over. “Anne, Carrie and I each received a letter. They’re there on the coffee table. Please
read them.”

  Carrie noticed that Anne’s hand was violently shaking as she reached for the letters. She picked them up and then quickly placed them back on the table. “I don’t need to read these.”

  “Yes, you do,” Sara gently asserted. “You’ll see that we’re in trouble here. Someone has wired this place to kill us.”

  “What rubbish,” Anne muttered. “I will not have my day ruined with this ridiculous game you two are playing.”

  “We’re locked inside this house,” Sara told her.

  “We are not.”

  “It’s no use,” Carrie said. “I tried to tell her all of this upstairs.”

  “You’re lying,” Anne said.

  Carrie considered punching the woman. She thought she’d probably kill her if she did because Anne was so painfully thin and sickly. A good wind could have done her in.

  “If any of us opens a window or door, the house will blow up,” Sara patiently explained.

  Neither she nor Carrie anticipated Anne’s reaction. The woman bolted from her chair and ran across the living room. “You’re only lying to get me upset. The house isn’t wired, and I’m going to prove it to you.”

  She was headed for the front door.

  Chapter 8

  JOHN PAUL HAD TO HANG AROUND UTOPIA LONGER THAN HE’D anticipated, but the wait was worth it. He was sitting, or rather sprawling, in an easy chair half hidden behind a couple of limp palm trees inside the lobby’s bar when Avery Delaney walked inside. One hard look and he had her all figured out. She was a typical California blonde. No, maybe not typical. She was unique, he’d give her that. But she was definitely all about her body. Why else would she want to spend a week at a spa? Why would anyone?

  The Delaney woman wore a short white T-shirt that fit snugly across her full breasts, and tight jeans, obviously intending to show off her long legs and her tight ass. Her long, straight, blond hair shimmered in the light. It looked natural, but he doubted that it was. Probably came from a bleach bottle. Her sunglasses hid her eyes, but he figured she was probably wearing colored contact lenses. Her T-shirt hid her belly button, but he wouldn’t have been surprised to find that she’d had it pierced. Wasn’t that the fashion these days?

  She was hot, all right. In fact, Avery Delaney was a beautiful woman, but she wasn’t his type. She was a little too perfect for his tastes. Sexy as sin, though. As he watched her stop and take in her surroundings—pretending she didn’t notice how the other guests had stopped to stare at her—John Paul wondered how much of her was real and how much had been cosmetically “enhanced.” The breasts, definitely. And maybe even the ass.

  She wasn’t the kind of woman he’d want to have a lasting relationship with, but then he didn’t want a lasting relationship with any woman. One night with her, however, sounded like a damned good idea. Hell, the woman probably had the IQ of a tsetse fly, but in bed, brainpower really didn’t matter.

  Miss Airhead couldn’t seem to figure out where check-in was. Was she waiting for someone to take her hand and lead her across the lobby? She was looking up at the golden sphere slowly rotating like one of those old disco balls. Had the thing hypnotized her?

  Avery knew she was gawking like a tourist. She couldn’t help it; Utopia was incredible. The lobby was gigantic, the floors a shiny, ebony marble. Above her, hanging from the gilded dome was a glistening orb. She couldn’t take her gaze off it. Was it real gold? It must have cost the owners a fortune, she thought.

  She turned to her right and stopped again. One entire wall was a waterfall, and in the center of the gathering pool was a statue of Atlas. Another smaller sphere was perched on his shoulder. Both the sculpture and the bubbling waterfall were meant to impress the guests willing to pay a fortune to be pampered in such an environment, and in Avery’s estimation, the owners got the job done.

  Shaking her head over the expense of it all, she pulled up the strap of the old, hand-me-down Gucci backpack Carrie had given her, and crossed the lobby to the reception desk. A man about her age wearing a name tag labeled “Oliver” stood behind the granite counter waiting to welcome her. His smile was dazzling, his teeth astonishingly white. Freakishly so. He or his dentist had obviously overdone the bleach job, and his artificially tanned face only made his teeth more prominent. She tried not to stare as she gave him her name and leaned against the cool counter while he pulled up her reservation on the built-in computer screen.

  Oliver’s smile blessedly vanished. “Oh, dear.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He wasn’t looking at her now, but stared intently at the screen when he said, “Your reservation was canceled, Miss Delaney.”

  “No, that has to be a mistake. I didn’t cancel.”

  “According to my computer, you canceled. It’s noted right here,” he added, pointing to his screen, which she couldn’t possibly see unless she pole-vaulted over the countertop.

  “That’s wrong.”

  “The computer’s never wrong. You called Utopia at . . .” He was trying to pull up the exact time she called in.

  “Oliver,” she said. Her impatience was brimming in her voice. “I didn’t cancel. In fact, I called to tell reception I would be a day late.”

  “Yes, you did,” he agreed, pointing to the screen once again. “But then you called again and canceled.”

  “No, I didn’t,” she insisted.

  “But my computer—”

  She interrupted him before he could tell her his computer was infallible again. “Why don’t you just book me into another room. Anything will do.”

  She lifted her backpack and placed it on the counter. She began to dig through it looking for her billfold so she could give Oliver her credit card. Against her wishes, the week had been paid for by her aunt, but Avery wanted the charges transferred to her card.

  Oliver, she noticed, had stopped typing. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  He coughed delicately and finally looked at her. “I’m afraid it won’t be possible to book you into another room, and unfortunately, the room you canceled has already been assigned to another guest. We’re at a hundred percent occupancy,” he continued. “I’ll be happy to put you on our waiting list, but I must warn you. There’s little chance of an opening. Our guests book months in advance.”

  “I’m certain my aunt was able to reserve a room for me here,” she protested. “If there had been a problem I’m sure she would have told me.”

  He was frantically typing again. Then he stopped and nodded. “Yes, we were able to accommodate you because of another cancellation. That is peculiar,” he added. “Our guests rarely cancel at the last minute.”

  He frowned as he said the last, as though by canceling, he thought she had committed a terrible breach in etiquette.

  “But I didn’t cancel,” she said. Lord, this was frustrating. “I’m joining my aunt here,” she explained. “She checked in yesterday afternoon or early evening. Could you give me her room number? Her name’s Carolyn Salvetti.”

  “I’m sorry, but we aren’t allowed to give out the room numbers of our guests.”

  Of course he couldn’t. She knew that. “Please call her room. I’m sure she’ll be able to clear up this misunderstanding. She might have decided that I should stay with her.”

  Oliver looked relieved that the problem would be solved and he could get rid of her. Fortunately, there weren’t any other guests waiting in line to check in. He flashed her another startling smile and said, “I’m sure that’s what must have happened. Guests simply do not cancel at the last minute the way you did.”

  She had the sudden urge to grab him by his shoulders and shake him until he admitted the spa had screwed up. Gritting her teeth to keep from saying something she would regret, she spelled the name Salvetti and waited.

  “I know that name,” he said.

  “You do?”

  He nodded. “A gentleman was in here yesterday asking for your aunt. He was very disappointed she wasn’t here.” He started typing, but a cou
ple of seconds later, he was frowning again.

  “Is there a problem?” she asked, knowing full well there was.

  “There are no problems at Utopia,” he said, and it was such a quick, automatic response she thought he’d been programmed to say those very words. “We do occasionally have minor inconveniences.”

  Give me a break. “All right. Explain the minor inconvenience.”

  “Mrs. Salvetti canceled.”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  Oliver’s shoulders slumped. She knew what he was thinking. Here we go again.

  “I’m afraid Mrs. Salvetti did cancel. It is odd, I’ll agree. It’s so rare to get two last-minute cancellations like this. Of course, you’re both members of the same family, so I guess we could say it was really only one last-minute cancellation for two rooms.”

  “Listen to me. My aunt didn’t cancel. She called me from the Aspen airport yesterday.”

  “Perhaps something came up at the last minute and she had to return home,” he suggested.

  “Something’s very wrong.”

  “It’s right here in my computer, Miss Delaney. Your aunt called yesterday afternoon.”

  What in the world was going on? As much as Avery wanted to continue to argue with Oliver, she knew it wouldn’t solve anything. She wasn’t sure what to do now. If an emergency had come up at work and Carrie had had to return to Los Angeles, she would have called. She wouldn’t have left Avery hanging like this. Oh, God, what if something had happened to her or Uncle Tony? What if there had been an accident?

  Calm down, she told herself. If anything bad had happened to either Carrie or Tony, one or the other would have called her.

  Avery began searching her backpack for her phone. She would get hold of Carrie on her cell phone right this minute and find out what was going on.

  She pulled out her Day-Timer and her billfold, clutched them in her right hand, and kept searching for her phone with her other hand. The damned thing always ended up on the bottom. “My aunt didn’t cancel,” she muttered. Then, more to herself than Oliver, she added, “There must have been a crisis at work. That’s all I can think of to make Carrie turn around and go back home.”