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“Oh my goodness, Jack!” Nora’s sudden cry pulls me from my perusings with a jolt of sharp panic.
“What is it?” I whirl around to find her striding toward me, an orange pill bottle in her hand.
“Look at this,” she exclaims, pushing it toward me. I read the label and my mouth drops.
“It’s a prescription for Minoxidil,” I say. “So, does that mean no one was giving him samples after all? He had a prescription all along?”
“It appears that way. But look at the prescribing doctor.” Her finger slides over to the black writing. Sven Karlsson.
“But how? His license got revoked.”
“It must’ve been before that happened,” she says, staring thoughtfully at the bottle. “This says it’s refill five of five. That means the original prescription was probably from six months ago.” She shakes the bottle. “Also, this bottle is empty.”
“What do you think that means?” I ask, deferring to her pharmaceutical expertise.
“Well, did he get more from another doctor or are we back to the theory that he started stealing samples?” she says. My head is spinning with all of these questions, all of the unknowns. “I think the important thing to note,” she goes on, “is that Sven knew Ian was on Minoxidil because he’s the one who initially prescribed it, and if he didn’t tell him to take a diuretic along with it, then that’s physician negligence which is absolutely a crime.”
“Which means,” I say with a burst of clarity, “that he would want to blame the Minoxidil on someone else.”
“Which would explain the incriminating picture he took of Cleo giving a sample to Ian,” she adds, stepping toward me, eyes alight with comprehension. “If he could prove that she was giving him samples under the table, he could pin Ian’s death on her.”
“Of course an even better solution would be to blame the murder on you.” I step toward her too, finally feeling as if I’m getting a handle on what’s been going on.
“Yes,” she breathes, raising a hand to her face. “That’s why Sven moved the body! He must’ve thought he completely lucked out when I stabbed Ian with my knitting needle. But how did he know?”
“Funny how much you can learn when you bug someone’s car.” The sound of a woman speaking from behind me makes my blood run cold. My hand automatically goes to my gun, but she cuts off the motion with a warning.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Detective. Grab that gun and I’ll be forced to shoot you.” I hear her gun cock, and my heart sinks. My only comfort is that I’m standing in the doorway, blocking Nora from any bullets fired. “Hands up where I can see them.” I have no choice. Even if I could grab my gun quickly enough, I’d still have to turn around before I could shoot. So I drop my hand from my gun and lift my hands up over my head.
“That’s right. Good boy,” she purrs. “Now turn around so I can make sure you’re not going to try any funny business.”
“Stay behind me,” I mouth firmly to a horror-stricken Nora before doing as she says. I already know who I’ll be looking at when I turn around, but even so shock reverberates through me at the sight of Stella standing there with a gun aimed directly at my chest.
Chapter 30
Nora
I’M NOT SURE if it’s deep-seated betrayal or abstract horror that’s rooting me in place, as I watch Jack rotate to face the woman I thought was my friend. The woman who–though I can’t see much of her with Jack blocking my vision–I know is holding my husband at gunpoint. My husband! The very thing she told me just yesterday that I needed to get myself and now she’s trying to take that away from me!
I surge forward, suddenly ready to confront her face-to-face, but there’s no getting past Jack. He blocks my path as easily as if I were a toddler attempting to rush an NFL defensive line. Impossible man with his overly broad frame and big muscles. Bullets can hurt people with big muscles just as easily as they can hurt people with smaller ones. In fact in my opinion they can hurt them more easily because they’re bigger targets.
Tell me I’m wrong.
“Stay back,” Jack growls at me. Typical. Overprotective caveman.
“Aww, how sweet,” Stella croons. “Of course it won't matter in the end, since I plan on shooting you both. Doesn’t matter to me who I shoot first.”
Okay, so maybe overprotective isn’t a fair assessment. Stella does have a gun aimed our way. Still, why does he get to die first? I don’t want to watch him die!
Ladies first. That’s the principle we should be applying here.
Or better yet, neither of us could die.
That would definitely be the ideal scenario.
“Surely you’re not going to shoot us without at least giving us an explanation,” Jack reasons. His voice is calm and even, and I feel a spurt of hope. Perhaps this situation isn’t as dire as I think. Jack is trained for scenarios like this, right?
“An explanation,” Stella echoes, sounding enthralled by the idea. “I suppose I do have a bit of time to kill before the others arrive. No pun intended.” Through the gap between Jack’s arm and his side I see her check her watch, then reposition her grip on her gun. “I suppose I should start by saying that you were really never supposed to be involved in all of this, Nora. I actually like you, consider you a friend even. I never intended for you to be a part of this whole nasty affair.” She laughs. “Again, no pun intended—even if this did all start with an affair. The one my very first husband had ten years ago with his assistant at the time. A woman named Constance Dupree, or as you know her, Connie Wharfman.” She pauses, as always clearly relishing being the one with information to share. My stomach twists. “That’s right,” she goes on, “I was married to Ian once, back when I was Estelle Goldin, a naive 20-something who thought catching the eye of a successful older man was going to be her big break in life.”
