Kill Jill Read online

  She recognizes the voice. Heard it three hours ago, in her home, before he masturbated on her underwear. What a charmer.

  But he’s not being charming now.

  The term “seething with anger” comes to mind. As does drunk. And redneck. And…did she mention angry?

  “Emma Wilson?” he repeats, through clenched teeth.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Darryl Rhodes. Invite me in.”

  “Last time you were here you left some DNA in my bra and panties.”

  “I won’t ask you again.”

  “Good. Because you’d get the same response. No! Now fuck off, Darryl.”

  Darryl doesn’t like her response. Likes it so little, he looks ready to lunge at her. Emma tenses, ready to sprint. Suddenly the passenger door opens, and a young lady who can’t be more than twenty gets out. As she does, the interior light allows Emma to see extensive cuts and bruises on her face.

  “You must be Abbie,” she says.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Why are you here?”

  Darryl looks across the car at his young wife, curls his lips into a sneer as ugly as a puss wound. “Tell her, Bitch.”

  Abbie gives him a pleading look, then gives up and says, “I had sex with your fiancé.”

  Darryl says, “Tell her when.”

  “Last month.”

  “You hear that?” Darryl says. “Your fiancé was cheatin’ on you last month with this whore! What do you think about that?”

  Emma says, “I don’t approve of your tone, nor do I tolerate drunks on my property.”

  “Is that right? Well, it ain’t your property, though, is it?”

  “Not yet. Which is all the more reason not to let you stay. You’ve delivered your message. Jack cheated on me. Anything else?”

  “Yeah, I got somethin’ else. Are them tits of yours real?”

  “I can’t think of a single reason to answer that question.”

  “I got one. Your fiancé fucked my wife!”

  Emma pauses a minute, then says, “If you’ve got more to say about that, you’ll have to sit on the porch to do it. Otherwise, leave.”

  “Where will Abbie sit?”

  “Wherever she likes.”

  He gives Abbie a look. “Guess you’ll be sittin’ beside me on the porch, Sugar Plum.”

  She reluctantly walks toward him, follows him up the steps, takes a seat beside him.

  Emma knows beyond a doubt she can outrun this giant hillbilly at any distance. The fact he’s twenty feet away, drunk, and sitting down, makes her safe as Fort Knox. Nevertheless, she reminds herself to remain alert in case things turn ugly.

  “You didn’t answer me, Emma,” Darryl says. “How does it make you feel that the man you exchanged solemn promises with was fuckin’ a married woman no more’n a month ago?”

  Emma says, “Is that true, Abbie?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m real sorry.”

  “I believe you. Do you plan to do it again?”

  She looks at her husband, then back at Emma. “No ma’am.”

  “You promise?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. I forgive you.”

  “You do?” Abbie says.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Darryl says, “What? You what?”

  “She’s young. She made a mistake. I forgive her.”

  “You don’t give a shit?”

  “Not much reason to be upset at this point. Whatever brought them together was obviously beyond my control. If it’s not going to happen again, Abbie and I can still be friends.”

  “Friends?” Darryl yells. “You want to be Friends?”

  Abbie gives her a hopeful look.

  Emma says, “I mean that, Abbie. But I’ll hold you to your promise about Jack.”

  Abbie nods.

  Emma notices a tiny red dot dancing on the wooden column by the porch steps. Some sort of miniature Arkansas firefly. Then, just as suddenly as before, it’s gone.

  “Well, if this don’t just beat the fuckin’ band!” Darryl says. “What the hell kind of liberal bullshit is this? Do you know what him and her did?”

  “No. And I don’t care. It’s in the past.”

  “She fornicated with your fiancé. She had oral sex. That means she put her mouth—”

  “I’m quite aware what it means. I also know what it’s like to be beaten by a man who gets all his confidence from a bottle. Whatever she did, it’s clear she’s paid for it a hundred times over by having to deal with you.”

  “He pulled her panties down. He saw…everything! Every damn thing she’s got. He touched her. Kissed her privates! And was that enough for him? Hell no! He bent her over and—”

  Emma holds up her hand. “That’s enough, Darryl.”

  “Your fiancé fucked my wife!”

  “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. My fiancé, Jack Russell, fucked your wife. Saw her private parts. Touched them. They had oral sex.”

  “And anal!”

  Emma looks at Abbie. “You did?”

  Abbie hangs her head. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Emma says, “Ouch.”

  “That all you got to say?” Darryl yells.

  “It’s what comes to mind.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what comes to my mind. I got a free pass comin’. You know what that means?”

  “You want to fuck Jack Russell, too?”

  “What? Hell no!”

  “Then I shudder to think what’s rattling around in your head.”

  “You’ll be shudderin’, all right. It means fair is fair. I get a free pass to ride the ride. Your man soiled my woman, and turn about’s fair play. I’m gonna have my way with you, Emma, and Abbie’s gonna watch. She’s gonna sit there and watch every damn thing we do.”

  Emma says, “Abbie, you’re forgiven. Please feel free to visit me any time. You can spend the night tonight if you like. In fact, I recommend it.” She turns her gaze to Darryl and says, “I hope I don’t have to explain that legal sex requires consent, even in Arkansas. Anything outside that is rape.”

  “I got a free pass. I’m gonna ride my ride.”

  “Your free pass doesn’t work at this carnival, Darryl. Go home and sleep it off.”

  “You think you can talk to me like that?”

  “I must be crazy, right?”

  As Darryl tenses, Emma glances behind her to make sure there’s nothing to trip over if she needs to turn and sprint. She hears a click, turns back to see Darryl holding a gun on her.

  Shit!

  She didn’t see that coming.

  What are the chances he could shoot and miss?

  On the one hand, he’s pretty wasted. On the other, he’s got the porch light behind him, which makes her a highly visible target. He’s also a redneck, and in Emma’s experience, most rednecks are pretty adept at drunken night-shooting.

  Darryl staggers down the steps. They’re twelve feet apart. Emma’s moment of opportunity—if there was one—has passed.

  She’s a sitting duck.

  “Take off your clothes,” he says. “Every stitch. Then we’ll go inside and party.”

  “Fuck you, Darryl,” Emma says.

  She takes a step back.

  He closes the distance to eight feet. Props his left hand under the butt of his handgun and eases into a shooter’s stance.

  “I will fucking blow you away,” he says. “And kill Abbie right where she sits. You know why? ’Cause I don’t really give a shit. I got nothin’ to live for. Jack Russell seen to that. Now peel them clothes off or I’ll pistol whip the shit out of you and rip ’em off myself.”

  Emma pauses a moment, then lifts her jog bra, exposing herself. As it clears her shoulders, it momentarily blocks her vision. She can’t see Darryl’s reaction, but hears him make a strange sound, like all the wind suddenly escaped his body. By the time her jog bra’s above her head, Darryl’s on the ground.

  “Omigod!” Abbie screams.

  Emma ru
shes toward him, delivers a hard kick to his face. And instantly realizes the reaction his body makes is all wrong.

  She kneels beside him, checks his pulse.

  “Holy shit!” she says. “I think he’s dead!”

  Abbie screams and runs down the road. Emma considers chasing after her, but decides the neighbors will find Abbie soon enough.

  Sheriff Cox frowns, puts his TV on mute, sets his bourbon on the coffee table, checks his caller ID, and sighs.

  “What’s up, Nelda?” he says. “Bobcats again?”

  “No, Sheriff. This time I’m callin’ about Abbie Rhodes.”

  “What about her?”

  “She was runnin’ down the road just now, screamin’ bloody murder.”

  “In your neighborhood?”

  “Yup.”

  “Darryl been drinking again?”

  “Can’t say for sure. She ain’t makin’ a whole lot of sense right now.”

  “What’s she saying, exactly?”

  “Somethin’ about the new lady killin’ Darryl.”

  “What?”

  “You know the new lady in town? The one stayin’ at Jack Russell’s place? We ain’t met her yet, though we saw her joggin’ the road a few minutes ago.”

  “Emma Wilson?”

  “I reckon that’s her name. Anyway, Abbie says she done killed Darryl just now.”

  “He probably passed out drunk in Jack’s yard. But just to be on the safe side, stay put till I get there, okay?”

  “No problem. You probably already know how much I hate corpses. ’Specially after buryin’ Jimmy last week.”

  “Jimmy?”

  “Our possum.”

  “I’m on my way. Are you home?”

  “Yup.”

  “Abbie with you?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And Emma Wilson?”

  “She’s at Jack Russell’s, far as I know. With Darryl’s body, if Abbie’s to be believed. ’Course, she’s been known to take drugs. I sent Harlan over to check it out.”

  “I wish you hadn’t done that. It could be dangerous.”

  “Harlan’ll be fine. He took his turkey gun.”

  You just knew he would, Sheriff Cox thinks. He switches the call to speaker, rushes to his car, climbs in, fires the engine.

  “I’ll check Jack’s place first, then get to you soon as I can. Meanwhile, do me a favor and put Abbie on the phone.”

  He covers a mile while waiting for Abbie to pick up. When she finally does, she yells, “Emma Wilson kilt him, Sheriff!”

  “She killed Darryl? You’re certain?”

  “I ought to be! I was right there, sittin’ on the porch when it happened!”

  “You saw Emma kill Darryl?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You witnessed the murder.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you’re certain he’s dead?”

  “Yes, sir. Emma took his pulse and declared him dead on the spot.”

  “Darryl’s a big man.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was he drinking?”

  “Darryl’s always drinkin’.”

  “Could he have passed out, maybe suffered a heart attack?”

  “Nope. This is somethin’ she done to him, all by herself.”

  “Did she shoot him?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Stab him?”

  “No, sir.”

  Sheriff Cox reminds himself that talking to Abbie Rhodes is like talking to a slow-witted eight-year old.

  “Abbie, try to concentrate,” he says, making an effort to keep the frustration out of his voice. “You’re claiming that Emma Wilson, who stands five-six, weighs a hundred-twenty pounds, killed your husband, Darryl, who’s six-six, and weighs three hundred pounds.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, if she didn’t shoot or stab Darryl, how the hell did she manage to kill him?”

  “She flashed her tits at him.”

  Emma Wilson’s far and away the prettiest woman Sheriff Cox has ever seen in person, and he’ll freely admit that interviewing her without glancing below her neck was tough duty. But he seriously doubts the woman’s tits are lethal. Nor does he intend to include Abbie’s claim in the police report. Doing so would make him the laughing stock of the Little Rock Law Enforcement Convention next month.

  He tries it out in his head: “Sheriff Cox, did you conduct a thorough search before uncovering the murder weapons?”

  I can honestly say I did my breast work on this case.

  “Were the nipples actively involved?”

  I left tit to the boobs at the coroner’s office to make that determination.

  “How did you secure the crime scene?”

  With a giant bra.

  “Did you personally handle the murder weapons?”

  Not to my complete satisfaction.

  Emma raises her flashlight from Darryl’s body, trains the beam toward the sound she hears in the road. Sees a man with a shotgun, moving toward her at a fast clip.

  She jumps to her feet, runs to the porch, but stops when he yells, “Ma’am, I’m Harlan Doody, your neighbor. Are you all right?”

  “This man’s been shot,” Emma says.

  “By you?”

  “No, of course not!”

  By the time these words have passed between them, Harlan’s standing over Darryl’s body. He says, “Can you come down here and shine your flashlight on him?”

  Emma can see Harlan’s an old man. Then again, he’s holding a shotgun.

  She says, “Will you put your gun down?”

  Harlan can see Emma’s not armed. Then again, someone shot Darryl.

  He says, “Anyone else here with you?”

  “No.”

  “Then who shot this ugly bastard?”

  “I have no idea, but I’m glad they did. He tried to rape me.”

  “That sounds like Darryl, all right,” Harlan says.

  He places his shotgun on the grass. Emma walks down, shines the light on Darryl’s corpse.

  “Looks like a high-powered rifle shot to the forehead,” Harlan says. “He was dead ’fore he hit the ground.”

  “The shot came from up there,” she says, pointing behind Harlan. “On the hill.”

  Harlan turns to look. “That’d be a helluva shot. You sure it came from up there?”

  “It had to.” She points her flashlight about ten feet behind them, toward the road. “I was standing there, Abbie was sitting on the porch. If someone was holding a rifle on Darryl from the road, I would have heard him, and Darryl and Abbie would have seen him.”

  “Well, this don’t appear to be the work of a local rifle.”

  “No one here has a high-powered rifle?”

  “Not with a silencer.”

  “Silencer?”

  “Did you hear the shot?”

  She pauses a second. “No.”

  “Neither did Abbie. Not to mention Nelda and me were on the porch when all this happened. If a shot was fired, we’d of heard it. Unless..—”

  “Unless the shooter used a silencer.”

  He points to the road and says, “We can tell that much to Sheriff Cox, I reckon.”

  Emma looks up, sees the flashing lights of Sheriff Cox’s cruiser turning onto Leeds Road from the highway.

  Assuming there are no suspects to apprehend, or victims needing medical assistance, the police procedures manual says the first arriving officer at a possible homicide should call for backup, protect the crime scene, and document all observations. Specific personnel should be contacted as soon as possible, including immediate supervisor, crime scene investigator, evidence technicians, homicide detective, coroner, and enough patrolmen to properly secure and manage the crime scene, interview witnesses, and canvass the area.

  Since Sheriff Cox has but three deputies, two of which are on vacation, he’s clearly in over his head. He calls those he can reach, and presses Emma, Harlan, and the rest of the neighbors into service, including Abbi
e Rhodes, who keeps insisting Emma’s breasts are responsible for her husband’s death. Even after being told Darryl was shot with a high-powered rifle.

  “Aren’t you gonna arrest her, Sheriff?” Abbie asks.

  “Did you see Emma Wilson holding a high-powered rifle?” Sheriff Cox asks. “Or any rifle at all?”

  “No. But that don’t change the fact that one minute she’s standin’ there showin’ her boobs, and the next minute Darryl’s dead.”

  “I can’t have this discussion right now.”

  “Don’t look at her tits!” Abbie shouts to anyone who’ll listen.

  More than an hour passes before the proper personnel show up from neighboring cities and towns, and by then half the citizens of Willow Lake have descended on the crime scene, each with a theory and suspect firmly in mind.

  But the only theory that sounds credible to Sheriff Cox is the one proposed by Ellwood Fillmore.

  Sheriff Cox takes notes while questioning him. “You’re saying Emma’s cab driver threatened your parents at the grocery store yesterday morning? Then grabbed you by the ear and threatened you with bodily harm?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You remember his exact words?” Sheriff Cox says.

  “He said, ‘Normally I’d go ahead and kill you.’ Then he said, ‘As long as I’m in a position to keep Emma safe, I will.’”

  Sheriff Cox finds Emma and says, “Tell me about your cab driver. And don’t leave anything out, or I’ll arrest you for obstruction of justice.”

  He removes the pen and notebook from his pocket and says, “Start with his name.”

  “Frank Sturgiss.”

  “And where’s he from?”

  “Memphis.”

  “We’re a long way from Memphis.”

  “Do you expect me to confirm that?”

  He sighs. “Nothing’s easy with you, is it, Emma?”

  “No. And don’t forget it, Sheriff.”

  He takes a deep breath, then says, “How long have you known Mr. Sturgiss?”

  “I met him two nights ago at the Memphis airport. He was the next cab in line.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Darn.”

  “Why would a cab driver you barely know feel protective enough to threaten Ellwood Fillmore for parking near your house?”

  “Here’s an idea. Why don’t you ask him?”