Dead Hunt

hoping she would let her guard down so that Diane could... do something... what? Outrun a bullet? The Beretta would make a much worse wound than Joey’s little gun. Iris’ gun hand never wavered.
‘‘Open the door,’’ she said. It sounded more like a request than an order. Diane complied. This room was completely different from the last one. It was done in black and shades of browns and tans. No ruffles, brocades, or tassels, just sleek, tailored designs. Diane didn’t like it either.
‘‘We’ve been very frank with each other,’’ said Diane. ‘‘Will you answer two questions for me?’’
‘‘Perhaps,’’ she said. ‘‘If it won’t take long. I have an escape to execute.’’
‘‘Did you have those stolen artifacts sent to the museum to get even with Vanessa Van Ross?’’ asked Diane.
‘‘I didn’t have anything to do with your museum problem. I was getting even with Vanessa Van Ross by targeting you. You mean more to her than the museum, according to my analysis, though I failed to uncover why.’’
‘‘So all that blood and my being accused of killing you was to get even with her?’’ said Diane.
‘‘No, that was to fake my death and poke you in the eye while doing it. I called Eric Tully on the phone pretending to be you and told him to send me fifteen thousand dollars or I would turn him in.’’
Diane frowned. ‘‘That explains a lot. He only sent four thousand and tried to kill me twice.’’
‘‘I suppose he was low on cash,’’ said Iris.
‘‘What about Grace Noel and Tully’s daughter? Were you just trying to con me?’’ said Diane.
‘‘No. I figured that whether Tully killed you or not, he would get arrested and Grace would see him for what he was. The kid would go to her to raise—or to another relative if they could find one. Grace isn’t the brightest, but she would be good to the little girl,’’ said Iris. ‘‘Now, if I’ve told you everything you want to know. Get in the damn room.’’
Diane walked in and Iris started to close the door. She hesitated and turned back to Diane.
‘‘Rich men are all the same. You may not believe that, but I know it. They are no different from my father. Power doesn’t corrupt so much as money does. Vanessa thinks her friend Archer was so good. We were walking on the beach in Malibu when these young girls passed by in their string bikinis. They weren’t much more than fifteen or sixteen. He said, ‘My, aren’t those nubile young things?’ That was my father’s favorite word, nubile . Men are all alike, and rich men are the worst because they can buy anything they want. You tell that to your friend Vanessa.’’
She slammed the door. Diane heard the key turn in the lock. She stood a moment and listened to Iris’ footfalls go down the hall. The first thing she did was start searching the room. The drawers were filled with linens, sheets, holiday tablecloths, and napkins— nothing hard that she could use as a weapon. Maybe she could tie the sheets together and climb down to the ground. She went to the window and threw open the curtain. The window was nailed shut and boarded up on the outside.
Diane looked at the curtain rod. Now, there was a possibility. She climbed up on top of the vanity and took the heavy metal rod off the brackets, slid the rod apart, and slid the curtains off. Now she had two weapons. It was sort of like a lance. The finials made fairly good points. Probably wouldn’t puncture the skin, but she could certainly knock the wind out of someone with it—hit them right in the solar plexus and they wouldn’t get up for a while.
She laid the rods on the bed, went to the closet, and threw the doors open. It was a large walk-in closet, large enough for a small bedroom or a large bathroom. She turned on the light at the switch just inside the doorway. Garment bags hung on the rods on both sides. More rods. She examined them, but they were permanently affixed to the walls.
Clear plastic boxes were stacked up under the clothes. Diane leaned down to see what was in the boxes. Guns and ammunition, she hoped. There wasn’t quite enough light, so she grabbed one of the lids and started to open it when a hand shot out and grabbed her arm, digging deep into the skin through the fabric with its nails. Diane yelped and jumped back. The hand held on. It looked mummified, but it was alive and grasping. Diane grabbed the arm with her other hand and pried the grip loose just as a shriveled face