Zoe shuddered. “But why in heaven’s name did she come here, and why would he let her in on his scheme?”
“She felt, logically I suppose, that he owed her and was in a position to pay off. He took her on because she threatened to blow the whistle on him. She’d unearthed the truth about the Florida fire, including how it was started. Fortunately for us, she knew nothing about fire behavior. When Regina decided to strike, she mimicked his first fire by setting it in the second floor packing room. Clement had refined his approach. If she’d known, it would have been harder to solve this.
“Of course,” McLean smiled across the table, “you threw a wrench into her plans with that will. Regina’s plotting was for nothing if the money went to cleaning up after Clement.”
Mort pushed away from the table. “So, no money for Regina now. Insurance companies don’t pay people who kill the insured.” A hint of admiration crept into his voice. “Clever way she planned on doing the four of you in, though. Sort of a dial-a-bomb.”
A shiver coursed through McLean. “She expected the gas to knock everyone out, including Eric. Then she’d skip across town and dial up a remote control appliance switch she’d rigged to short out.”
Tina looked out the window, down the street toward the brick shell of her inheritance. “Grandmother and I stand to collect a bundle after all is said and done, but there’s no joy in it. What’s more, I don’t see why he signed the will.”
A knowing light glowed in Zoe’s eyes. “Petty revenge. To get back at the woman who fought him tooth and nail every step of the way in what he considered legitimate inheritances. Perhaps, too, as life insurance. He knew how much she hated him. But it seems he forgot to tell her. Poor old Clement, he never did get this cashing in on death thing right.”
Strangle, Strangle
by Jacqueline Freimor
“Tiffany’s beautiful naked body was shining in the firelight. No, change it to: Tiffany’s beautiful naked body was shining in the tub. She sat up and saw the doorknob starting to turn. It was her husband! But he wasn’t supposed to be home until eight. Today she told him...” Alicia stops talking and looks at me accusingly. “I hope you’re getting all this down.”
“I’m up to the naked body part,” I say.
“Wil-liam,” Alicia says. Not Will, but William, emphasis on the first syllable. “Now I’ve lost the flow.”
“You could just use your tape recorder,” I point out. “I don’t write fast enough.”
She doesn’t say anything but flops down on the maroon leather sofa and covers her eyes with her hand like she can’t stand looking at me. It’s not so bad. At least it’s not The Look. I can’t stand The Look. Sometimes when Alicia gives me The Look I feel like my head is a balloon just about to bust into a million limp little pieces.
We’re in her father’s study because Alicia is writing a blockbuster bestseller so she can become a millionaire before she gets to college, maybe even before she gets out of ninth grade. She’s not doing it for the money, though, but to get famous. Alicia’s biggest wish in life is to be famous by the time she hits twenty-one. I tell her if anyone can do it she can. As for me, I’m just happy to go along for the ride.
“Okay, I’ve got it,” says Alicia now, sitting bolt upright on the sofa. “Ready?” She closes her eyes and speaks very fast. “Tiffany didn’t even have time to scream before he was on her like a wild animal. Her naked, glistening body flopped as helplessly as a dying fish as he squeezed her neck harder and harder. He wouldn’t stop no matter what she did. Something terrible was happening to her. She couldn’t breathe. She was passing out. She thought, he’s trying to strangle me, I can’t believe he’s trying to strangle me.”
I am writing as fast as I can. When I look up, Alicia’s face is a little pink. “Did you get it all?” she says.
“Yeah,” I say, “it’s great.”
Later, in my room at home, I try to read it back and see that I was writing too fast. Most of it is just a squiggle, but two words leap out at me, the only two I can read: strangle, strangle.
Sometimes in school I time out the teacher and remember things about Alicia. Like:
Alicia spits into her right palm, and I spit into mine. We grind our palms together to mix the spit, then wipe our hands on the grass of her lawn.
“Now we’re really married,” she says. We run into her house, where the cook gives us lemonade and sugar cookies.
Today, in Mrs. Hennessey’s English class, one of the bad ones is starting, but I know by now that I can’t do anything to stop it. I just have to let it play out and out until it’s done. It’s the one where Alicia and me are six years old and playing hide and seek. Alicia’s It, and I have a really good hiding place under her parents’ bed.
“Shh,” I tell Suki, Alicia’s new Siamese kitten, who’s rubbing against my head and purring so loud I am sure Alicia can hear it. Suki meows loudly, twice, then streaks across the room. I see Alicia’s bare ankles and her new red Keds start to walk past the doorway, then stop. I freeze. My heart is pounding hard, and I’m trying not to sneeze as a dust ball tickles my nose.
“I know where you are,” Alicia says, almost singing it, her feet coming slowly toward the bed. “I know where you are, and I’m gonna get you.” I’m so scared I fling up my head and hit it hard on the wooden frame. Tears spring out of my eyes. All I can think of is to get away. I scuttle over to one side of the bed, but Alicia’s hanging over it, her face upside down and red, her pigtails hanging to the floor.
“Boo,” she says.
I yell and crawl over to the other side. Her face is there, too. Her eyes are crossed, and she’s sticking out her tongue.
Back and forth we go. She doesn’t get tired, and I can’t fake her out. I can’t stand it under the bed. It’s hot and itchy, and I feel like I can’t breathe. Finally I just give up and start to cry.
“Crybaby,” Alicia says, and jumps off the bed. She gets down on the floor and reaches toward my hand. I look at her face, at her hand. “Come on,” she says, smiling.
I put out my arm, thinking she’s going to pull me out from under the bed.
She laughs a nasty kind of laugh and smacks my wrist with her palm, hard. “You’re it,” she says. She runs from the room, away from me, fast.
“William,” Mrs. Hennessey says, “have you heard a word I’ve said?” I look up, and my vision starts to clear. I see Mrs. Hennessey’s face all splotchy, the fat under her chin wiggling with every word. I start to laugh. And then, right in front of the whole class, she sends me to the guidance counselor because she says I have problems concentrating. As I leave the room, Alicia gives me The Look. I know she won’t speak to me for the rest of the day.
Basically, The Look is a mixture of things. Part of it is the face you make when you step in something soft and squishy in the street. And part of it is pity, like when teachers give you the textbook when everyone else in the class has to buy it.
Mostly, though, it’s hate.
You don’t want someone giving you The Look. Trust me, you don’t.
And what did I do that was so bad? I really ask myself that sometimes. That first time I got The Look, it was an accident. I swear.
I mean, it happened so quick. One minute I’m in the playroom with Suki, and the next minute Alicia’s crying and the kitten is lying on the carpet all broken and still.
“It was an accident!” I say. “She was scratching me, and I had to pull her off. I guess I squeezed too hard. I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”