Dead In The Water (Rebecca Schwartz Mystery #4) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

and women. Beside his sangfroid, Marty’s anger looked childish. “Hi, Rebecca. Libby.” He ruffled Libby’s hair.
    Marty had reached the rest of us by now. “What did you mean going through my desk?”
    “I took some things out for safekeeping. I knew you’d be gone a few days. I was trying to help, that’s all.”
    She looked at her watch. “You weren’t, damn you. God, I’m late, thanks to you—I had to search your desk as well as mine—and I still have to drop Libby off… .”
    Time, time, time. It seemed all she ever thought about. I loved the way she’d simply dropped the idea that she’d “had to” search his desk, as if such trespasses were an everyday occurrence.
    “Let me,” said Warren. “Is she going to Don’s? I’ll be happy to drop her. Can I drop you, too, Rebecca?”
    Marty said. “I’ll almost forgive you if you’ll do that.”
    He smiled. “Glad to. That is, if nobody minds waiting a minute, I’ve got to get something from my office.”
    Right. He probably wanted to lock his desk.
    Marty was all smiles, too. Why not? She’d won. She had her things back. “By the way,” she said, “how did your meeting go?”
    “You knew about it, did you?”
    “Of course, Warren. I knew I might have to search your desk. I picked a time when you’d be busy.”
    And she would have sashayed off in semi-triumph if Libby hadn’t wailed, “Mo-o-m! My backpack’s in the car.”
    All three of them scattered, leaving me with the fish and the caterers.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
     
    If I called the police now, they might make me wait for them. But if I called from the Pelican Inn, they’d come to me there. The pearl could wait another ten minutes.
    Libby came back first, looking slightly forlorn.
    Warren arrived a few minutes later, now with his briefcase. “Everybody ready? Let’s go.”
    As we drove up to the motel, he glanced at his watch. “I’d better call Mary Ellen—the meeting took longer than I thought. Could I use your phone, Rebecca?”
    The two of us got out and Libby stayed. Warren said, “Why don’t you come in? I might be a few minutes.”
    Oh, great. Just what Libby and I needed—an impromptu party with a self-important, just-promoted hunk of passivity suddenly converted to Type A. He was probably going to make business calls with an audience.
    He brought his briefcase in, no doubt containing a sheaf of messages he simply had to return before he could even take Libby home.
    Libby said, “Can I go to the bathroom?” and headed toward it.
    Warren picked up the phone before I could even see if my message light was flashing, but he didn’t dial, just checked it out; for what, I didn’t know.
    He started to rummage in his briefcase. Oh, well, this was obviously going to take forever. I picked up a T-shirt and started to fold it.
    “Turn around slowly,” said Warren. His voice sounded higher now, slightly excited, I thought, stretched to cover something unusual.
    He was pointing a spear gun at me.
    “This is what I went back for,” he said.
    The toilet flushed.
    He held out one hand. “Walk toward me.”
    Feeling like a sleepwalker, I did. When I was close enough, he grabbed my arm, roughly, and held me in front of him, the spear gun close to my rib cage. Libby came out of the bathroom.
    “It’s all right,” I said, hating myself for lying so egregiously.
    Her eyes were blue Frisbees. “What’s happening?”
    “Rebecca is going to tie you up,” said Warren.
    “No!” Libby and I spoke together.
    “Yes,” said Warren, his mouth turning up at the corners. He was smiling. “Sit on the bed, Libby.”
    Silently she obeyed. He pulled me closer, then heaved me onto the bed and grabbed Libby’s arm, squeezing.
    “Ouch!”
    “Don’t touch her!”
    “Rebecca.” He spoke with the air of a doctor addressing a mental patient. “Don’t be stupid. You do what I say or I’ll hurt her.”
    I didn’t move; couldn’t. Could this be happening?
    “You saw Katy, didn’t you?”
    Was he confessing to killing her? I couldn’t ask him in front of Libby.
    Yes, I’d seen Katy; and if Warren had killed her, that wasn’t all he’d done to her. I said, “What do you want me to tie her with?”
    Libby gasped, betrayed.
    “The curtain ties,” he said. “First close the curtains very tight. And that’s how you’re going to tie this young lady. Very tight. You’re going to pull the ties until the circulation stops at her wrists.”
    Libby turned terrified, unbelieving