“On a dare, I’ll bet.”
“Of course. I was about eleven. Nowadays I can think of plenty of better uses for luscious dark chocolate.”
The lights of the car following seemed to grow bigger in the rearview mirror. Tricia stepped on the accelerator a little harder, but the too-close car kept pace. A growing anxiety caused her to press down even more.
“Should we be going this fast on this road?” Angelica asked.
“Someone’s playing with me,” Tricia said, and eased up on the gas.
The car following them bumped her.
“Hey!” Angelica called, bracing her hands against the dashboard. “That’s not playing. That’s serious stuff.”
Tricia steered for the side of the road, the spinning tires sending gravel flying.
The car behind did the same thing.
“What do they want from us?” Angelica cried, grabbing for her purse.
“Playing chicken. But it’s not a game, and I won’t play.”
Tricia slowed even more, and the car rammed the back end of her vehicle.
Angelica withdrew her cell phone, frantically pushing the buttons. “Why is there never a cell tower around when you need one?”
“Keep punching those buttons,” Tricia hollered as the car bumped them again, harder this time. The driver meant business.
“Do something!” Angelica wailed.
“What?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one who reads all those mysteries. What would Miss Marple do now?”
“She never drove a car,” Tricia said, and swerved to the left, hoping to shake their tail, but the car swerved right behind her like a shadow.
Tricia wrenched the wheel again, desperately hoping they wouldn’t go into a spin. The road was some four or five feet above the surrounding terrain, drainage ditches running along both sides of it.
“If mysteries won’t help—think of what James Bond would do.”
“James Bond?” Tricia repeated, grimly holding onto the steering wheel while flashing on a sexy, young Sean Connery. Yes, James Bond would’ve gotten out of this easily—by dumping oil on the road, or nails to puncture the bad guy’s tires. But Tricia didn’t drive an Aston Martin; she’d purchased the white Lexus without the “licensed to kill” package.
As she struggled to maintain control, a dark shape came whizzing overhead— Canada goose—and then another.
“We’re going to die!” Angelica wailed, shielding her face with her hands.
Tricia’s gaze bobbed from the road to the rearview mirror. The car behind swerved—and Tricia heard the screech of brakes.
“It’s falling behind!” she hollered.
“Behind what?” Angelica wailed, her hands still plastered to her face.
“The car, it’s—”
But their pursuer regained control, the car’s headlights growing bigger and bigger.
It rammed them, this time sending the Lexus careening off the road and into a ditch with a shuddering crash.
Nineteen
The flashing lights of the police cruiser cast weird shadows against the pines. Tricia watched as the winch on the back of the flatbed tow truck pulled her car up the makeshift ramp. The Lexus might’ve been drivable, but she wasn’t about to take the chance. While Angelica had called nine-one-one, Tricia had extricated her own cell phone and called the one person in Stoneham she knew would mourn her.
Russ stood beside her, collar pulled up around his neck, his hands thrust deep into his jeans pockets, his ears already beginning to go pink. It wasn’t until he’d shown up that she’d stopped shaking.
“I should have listened to you when you said Zoë’s killer might come after me,” Tricia said.
“And I should have insisted on driving you to Nashua.” He withdrew his right hand from his pocket and wrapped his arm around Tricia’s shoulder, pulling her close. She allowed herself to rest her head against his chest.
If it hadn’t been for that goose . . . Russ had found its remains by the side of the road some hundred or so feet behind them.
Her gaze drifted to where the Lexus had come to an abrupt halt, the tall brown grass flattened and grooves cut into the thawing earth where the wheels had dug in from being towed out. Beyond that was Miller’s Pond, with a lone mute swan, silhouetted by moonlight, serenely sailing across the still water. Not a goose in sight.
“This stupid thing,” Angelica growled, shattering the quiet moment. She leaned against the tow truck’s bumper as she stabbed the buttons on her phone. “I still can’t get hold of Bob.”
“Maybe his phone is turned off,” Tricia offered.
Deputy Placer ambled up, clipboard in hand, pen poised to write. “And you said you couldn’t identify the make of the vehicle?” he asked, as though their conversation hadn’t taken a ten-minute break.
Tricia shook her head. “I told you. The car’s headlights were on bright.”
The deputy turned his attention to Angelica. “What about you, ma’am?”
“I was too shook up to notice anything—except that we were probably about to die.”
“Check the collision shops in the morning,” Tricia suggested. “I’m sure it hit a low-flying goose. That’s the only thing that saved us.”
“Right,” the deputy said, his voice filled with sarcasm.
“Hey, Jim, what’s going on with the Carter murder investigation?” Russ asked.
“What’s that got to do with this accident?”
“Tricia’s the common denominator. She was there at the murder; there at the scene of Kimberly Peters’s attack. And now this.”
Placer shook his head. “No link that I can see,” he said, jotting something down on the paper on his clipboard.
“No,” Tricia muttered, “and I don’t suppose Wendy Adams will, either.”
Placer looked up, distracted. “Huh?”
“Nothing.” It was all Tricia could do not to lose her temper.
The tow truck driver from the Stoneham Garage hooked chains to the bashed and dented Lexus, securing it to the truck. He dusted off his hands and turned to Tricia. “Just tell your insurance adjuster where to find it.”
“Thank you.” Tricia made a mental note to call the shop in the morning to see if anyone brought in a car needing a new windshield or other damage repaired. She doubted the Sheriff’s Department would.
The trio stood back as the driver got back into his rig and pulled onto the highway.
Placer stepped forward. “Tell your insurance company to call on Tuesday or Wednesday for the accident report. We’re always backed up with paperwork after a busy weekend. This is my third accident today.” He shook his head and muttered, “Women drivers.”
He made the accident—and what Tricia and Angelica had gone through—sound so trivial, the chauvinist pig.
“Come on, girls, I’ll take you home,” Russ said.
“No way,” Tricia said. “I want to visit Kimberly.” She turned to her sister. “That is, if you don’t mind, Ange.”
“Not at all. And I really do want to try out that new French bistro. I’m not letting a little thing like attempted murder spoil my dinner plans for the evening.”
Tricia winced: the phrase “attempted murder” hit a little too close to home.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I brought the pickup, so it’ll be a snug fit,” Russ said.
“I only worry about those things after I eat a fabulous meal—not before,” Angelica said.
Russ opened the passenger side door and Tricia piled in, with Angelica squeezing in beside her. After buckling up, they were back on their way to Nashua.
As Russ had predicted, a uniformed deputy stood outside Kimberly Peters’s private hospital room. “Uh-oh,” Tricia muttered, clutching the vase filled with colorful tulips. “Do you think he’ll let us in?”
“Probably not,” Russ said.
The deputy’s name tag read BARCLAY. His broad shoulders and imposing height made him look more like a former linebacker for the New England Patriots than a cop.
Tricia strode up to face him. “Excuse me, sir, we’re here to visit Kimberly Peters.”
He looked down at her from his six-four or six-five height. “No visitors. Sheriff Adams’s orders.”