For a good twenty minutes, the bride-to-be put on a good face for her luncheon guests, chatting with the Rayos, an Ecuadorean couple, before finally retreating to the ladies’ room.
I felt a touch of pity for the woman. After what just happened, I assumed she must be feeling terrible. I glanced at Madame, hoping the mother of the groom would take it upon herself to comfort her future daughter-in-law. But when I saw the expression on her face, I knew she wasn’t unhappy with the conflagration. Clearly, Madame continued to hold out hope that her son would say, “I don’t.”
But somebody should really check on Breanne...
When it was obvious that no one else was going to step up, I sighed, set my glass down, and followed Ms. Wonderful to the women’s room.
Twenty-Six
“Breanne?” I called. “Are you okay?”
There were three stalls in Machu Picchu’s ladies’ facility, only one of them appeared to be in use. Behind its closed door, I sensed movement then heard a muffled sound.
Was that a sob?
“Breanne, please answer me.”
No response, just more movement inside the stall.
With a sigh, I glanced around. The floor space in this restroom was bigger than some of my baristas’ studio apartments. The decor wasn’t half bad, either. An array of primitive masks continued the pseudo-Inca theme of the dining room. Andean wood flutes warbled from hidden speakers, and sweet-smelling incense burned in clay pots. Three sandstone sinks lined one mirrored wall. Three stalls stood opposite, their rustic wooden doors reaching almost to the terra-cotta floor.
I approached the only stall door that was closed and heard a choking gasp. “Breanne, are you crying?”
I didn’t relish playing girlfriend to the grand bitch of Trend. But the woman did sound like she was suffering; and if anyone knew what it was like to choke on tears over Matteo Allegro, it was yours truly.
“Come on now, Bree. It’ll be all right. Come out and we’ll talk about it—”
But the fashion maven didn’t want to talk. Instead, one of her thousand-dollar double-strapped Fen pumps flew through the small space between the bottom of the stall door and the floor, narrowly missing my ankle.
Great! First she dismisses my detective work, now she’s throwing shoes at me. Forget this! I was about to turn and leave when the stall door rattled and cracked open.
“What? Did you change your mind? You want me to come in now?”
I cautiously pushed the door wider—and froze.
Matt’s fiancée was choking all right, but not on prewedding tears. A man was standing behind her in the stall. I couldn’t see his face or much else to define him. He wore a black ski mask, a long black coat, and his thick black gloves were literally squeezing the life out of Breanne’s slender white throat.
“Help!” I cried at the top of my lungs. “Heeeeelp!”
I could see Breanne’s French-tipped fingernails were digging into her attacker’s black gloves, but it was no use, the strangling grip was firm.
“Helpppp!”
My voice echoed hollowly in the tiled space, and I feared the remote bathroom was too far away from the loud party for anyone to hear. Bree’s eyelids were fluttering; her long, lithe limbs were going limp; she was losing consciousness!
I feared leaving her to get help so I lunged into the stall myself, pulled on the man’s gloved fingers, tried to break his merciless grip. It began to work, until the attacker’s body turned enough to kick out and slam me backward.
“Dammit!”
I landed on the floor, my whole side throbbing. The sloppy fall had dispersed the contents of Breanne’s handbag. Makeup, credit cards, a red leather wallet with hundreds of dollars falling out—my gaze quickly scanned the scattered items. Finally, I spied something usefuclass="underline" a small can of Mace.
Yes!
I grabbed the pepper spray, aimed the nozzle, and pressed the trigger. The burning stream struck the man point-blank in his ski mask. The attacker howled, and his gloved hands released Bree’s neck. I grabbed Matt’s half-conscious fiancée around her waist, yanked her backward with all my strength, and we tumbled together onto the floor.
Coughing, the man stumbled out after us. Breanne was thinner than I was, but she was also much taller, and I was trapped for a minute under her large, limp form. I squirmed, trying to turn my head, get a decent look at her attacker. I glimpsed brown pants and shoes under the long black coat. He wasn’t a giant, but he wasn’t small, either. From the floor, I had trouble estimating his height; and with the ski mask on his head and the gloves on his hands, I couldn’t even be sure of his race!
I only had a second to make an ID, and I couldn’t do it. Howling and clawing at his saturated mask, the man bolted for the exit. I heard the door swing shut, then an eerie silence.
With a groan of pain, I rolled over to check on Breanne. She was already sitting up and clutching at her long white neck, now bruised with angry red marks. Her necklace snapped off, the silver and turquoise tumbling from her throat like a dead serpent.
I faced Breanne, my heart still racing. “Are you okay?”
Breanne was gasping for air. “No,” she rasped. “Dizzy. Sick. Need a minute.”
“I’ll be back,” I said.
One of my wedge platform sandals was half off my foot. I quickly fixed it, ran out the door, and madly scanned the corridor. But no one was there. The ladies’ room was in the very back of the restaurant, beyond the kitchen entrance and even remote from the men’s room, which was off the building’s front bar. I noticed the fire exit door was hanging open, and I guessed the man had escaped through the back alley.
I could have risked running after him into that alley, but it wouldn’t have been smart. I was small, unarmed, and I didn’t want to leave Breanne alone for long. Since I’d left my cell phone in my bag, which was still sitting in the dining room, I hurried toward it. On the way, a waitress nearly collided with me coming out of the busy kitchen. I grabbed her arm.
“Call 911,” I said. “Be quiet about it. Don’t cause a panic, but a woman was just attacked in your ladies’ room. When the police and paramedics arrive, tell your manager, okay?”
I went back to the restroom and found Breanne still on the floor. There was a lingering smell of burning pepper from the Mace, and I hit the switch on the room’s powerful fans. The air cleared quickly.
“You’re bleeding.” I pointed to the hollow of Breanne’s shoulder.
She looked down. “My necklace... while he was choking me. The metal dug into my skin...”
Her voice was still raspy, and I worried about damage to her vocal chords. I pulled a wad of paper towels from the dispenser and dampened them in the sink. Then I sat back down on the bathroom floor and gently pressed her bleeding wound. She winced.
“Just hold that on there, okay?”
With an exhale, she nodded. Then she regarded me. “Are you okay, Clare?”
“Oh, sure... the scumbag kicked me pretty good.” I rubbed my aching hip where the jerk had slammed me. “But I’ll survive. I’ve got pretty good padding down there, as you already know.”
I gave her a little smile, glanced down at myself, and frowned. I’d worn a new dress of pearl-pink silk to the party (a name designer at outlet prices, thank you very much). But part of the wrap dress had unwrapped during the struggle. I stood up to secure my dress back around my body and tighten the matching belt.
“So what the hell happened?” Breanne’s voice was a lot less raspy now.