Rough Trade

back into the interior of the garage, frantic to get Chrissy out of the car. I made my way to the driver’s side of the Lexus. With the light from the open garage door I could now see Chrissy slumped over the steering wheel. Feeling nauseous with fear, I yanked open the handle, sobbing in frustration to find that it was locked. I ran around the back of the car to the other side, noting that the exhaust pipe had been neatly covered over with duct tape. I tried the passenger door, too. It was locked, as well.
    I raced to the back of the car and clawed desperately at the tape until I was finally able to pull it off only to receive a lungful of exhaust for my trouble. I briefly contemplated going back into the house to look for an extra car key but immediately discarded the idea.
    I had no time.
    Instead, I looked frantically around Chrissy’s immaculate garage, searching for something to use to break the windows. Unfortunately, it was not the usual repository of tools or garden supplies, but rather a yuppie car hotel. There were no rakes or shovels, instead a truckload of landscapers arrived for the yard’s weekly manicure and departed again when they were finished, taking their tools with them. I opened cupboards and looked on shelves, searching for a hammer or a brick. Instead I found neatly labeled storage boxes containing flower-arranging supplies and bundles of old clothes labeled for the Salvation Army.
    Finally, I spotted Jeff’s golf clubs in the comer, each in its own furry shroud. I grabbed the first one that came to hand, ripped off the ridiculous cover, and swinging it like an ax, brought it down with all my strength on the windshield of the Lexus. I felt the shock of the impact reverberate up my arms, but the window remained intact and Chrissy did not stir. I continued beating against the glass, shouting with frustration. Suddenly the windshield gave way all of a piece and came raining down on Chrissy in a glittering hail of broken glass.
    Immediately, I dropped the club and reached back through the shattered windshield to unlock the door. Then I opened the driver’s door and reaching across the body of my unconscious friend I switched off the ignition. Without stopping to think about her still-wet hair or the fact that she was dressed in only a T-shirt and a pair of lace panties, I grabbed her by her shoulders and dragged her from the car and laid her down on the driveway. I pushed the wet hair off of her face and noticed with relief that she was still breathing. I examined her face carefully, struck by something and hard-pressed to decide what it was.
    I looked again, closely. There was no doubt about it; there was something funny about her lips. She’d applied her foundation and her lipliner, but that was all. She had not yet begun to fill them in with lipstick. Chrissy Rendell had not tried to commit suicide. No one as disciplined about her appearance as she was would elect to kill herself halfway through her makeup routine. What I was seeing, like Beau’s crumpled body at the bottom of the stairs, was a carefully staged scene.
    I stood up and immediately saw Bennato coming at us slowly. He had a gun in one hand and a roll of duct tape in the other. I suddenly realized that I felt no satisfaction in having been right.
    All I felt was fear.
     

CHAPTER 27
     
     
    “What a shame about the Rendells,” Bennato said, gesturing with the gun for me to step away from Chrissy. “They seem to be dropping like flies.”
    “Let me see if I get how you mean this to play out,” I replied, moving slowly, unable to take my eyes off the hole at the end of that gray barrel. “Jeff, thinking that he’s going to find his wife in bed with Jack McWhorter, stumbles upon a homicidal burglar instead. Then, distraught, his wife takes an overdose of pills and tries to take a ride to oblivion.”
    “Oh, she’ll do better than try,” he assured me.
    “How did you get her to take the sleeping pills?” I asked.
    “How does a man with a gun get anyone to do anything?” he replied coolly, waving me back into the house.
    “Luckily for you Jeff remembered his father’s gun in the drawer and shot Fredericks,” I pointed out. For some reason the talking seemed to help keep me calm. As long as I was talking I was breathing.
    “Fredericks would never have talked. Still, you know what they say. It’s better to be lucky than good.”
    “You’re right. This way is less messy. All the loose ends tied up.”
    Even