The Ladies Killing Circle Anthology 4-Book Bundle. Barbara Fradkin
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early forties. She had a nice smile, and I decided she might be just the one to get my dad away from solitaire.
“It would be better if you could make him see how important it is to you.”
We agreed we’d both try to talk to him. As I was leaving the room, I noticed the snapshot of Debbie Simpson sitting on the arm of Russ’s chair. I picked it up to have another look at it.
Helen frowned. “I hope Russ didn’t upset you, Jill.”
I shook my head and studied the snapshot. I sure liked the way the photographer had angled the light on her cheekbones.
Helen held out her hand. “Here. I’ll give it to him next week”
“Could I borrow it? It’s got good composition. I’d like to show it to Mr. Jones in my photography club.”
Helen looked a little unsure, but then her briefcase started ringing, so I stuffed the photo in my backpack and left her rummaging around for her phone.
I showed the photo to Dad the next morning, pointing out the lighting and how the camera had captured her bone structure. I could tell he wasn’t really listening, and that didn’t surprise me. He’d been pretty spacey ever since Mom died.
What did surprise me was when he looked over and said, “How did you get a picture of her?”
“What do you mean? Have you seen her before?”
“I think so. I don’t know her name, but she’s often at the gym, and she takes part in most of the charity runs.”
I guess my mouth was hanging open, because he tapped it shut with his finger and laughed, “What’s this about, Jill?”
I told him about Russ Simpson and his dead wife.
He held the photo up to the light by the window and shook his head. “She looks older now, but I’m pretty sure it’s her.”
“But this woman is dead.” My head was spinning.
He was looking at his watch. “I’m going to be late for work.” He picked up his briefcase and keys and opened the door. “I’ve registered for the 10K race on Saturday. Why not come along and see if she’s there.”
I wasn’t sure I’d be able to pick out the woman in the photo from a whole field of runners, and I realized Dad would see even less from inside the pack, so I called Helen to see if she’d go with me. I was pretty sure she’d been seriously spooked by Russ and would be curious to see the woman Dad thought resembled the one in the snapshot.
I stuffed my camera and tripod and some high-speed film into my backpack ready for Helen to pick me up at eight-thirty the next morning. Barriers were already up along the Parkway, so we left the car near the university and walked back through campus. We found the registration tent and grabbed a printout of runners’ names and registration numbers. Then we pushed our way through the crowd to the starting line. There were already several hundred spectators on the sidelines and twice that number dressed in shorts and stringy tops with numbers pinned to them, stretching and jogging in place, waiting for the starter’s pistol.
I looked for Dad and pointed him out to Helen. Then I scanned the front-seeded women. I looked at the photo again and stopped short on Number 36. She had short gray hair and her face was tanned and lined, but other than that, she was a ringer for the woman in the snapshot. I nudged Helen and she nodded, then ran her finger down the list and said: “Number 36. Amber Thompson.”
I was studying the woman’s profile when I heard Helen gasp.
“Look!” She was pointing at a man climbing up a grassy slope near the bicycle path that runs alongside the Parkway. He was dressed in a bright yellow rain suit, rubber boots and work gloves and he was holding a glass mason jar out in front of him.
It was Russ Simpson. He lifted his head, and I saw the weirdest look on his face. I turned to see what he was staring at and sure enough, there was Amber Thompson, right in the cross hairs.
I dropped my backpack to the ground, scooped the tripod out of it and took off running as fast as I could, trying to cover the distance between Russ and me before he got to the top of the hill. The grass was still slick with dew, and I almost slipped, but I got to him just before he made it to the road. I came up on his right side, crouched down and thrust the tripod in front of his ankle. It snared the plastic pant leg, and he went down with the whooshing sound of air going out of a tire.
He twisted around and kicked out furiously, his boot catching me square on the nose. The bottle fell from his hand and bounced, splashing its contents over him and the grass. I got a couple of drops on my hand and they burned like mad, but that was nothing to what the stuff seemed to be doing to him.
I could hear him screaming as the fluid burned into his scalp and face. The grass around him sizzled and steamed, and I rolled away down the hill. Finally, I came to rest on my back, and by the time I got my bearings, Dad was leaning over me. He looked pretty worried, so I reached up and touched my nose with my hand. It came away covered with blood.
“You’ve lost your nose stud,” Dad said, handing me a wad of tissues.
“No problem. It’s time I lost it, anyway.” I struggled to my feet and looked over to see the race officials trying to coax Russ into the First Aid Tent. He was still shrieking and flopping around on the grass. The exposed skin on his head and neck was turning a sickening red.
Helen came up beside me carrying a big plastic cup of water. I plunged my sore hand into it. It sure felt good. “So, I guess you two have met, eh?”
Dad shook Helen’s hand. “Jill tells me I’ll be coming to your grief session next week.”
I grinned at Helen and she gave me a thumbs up.
I turned and looked up the hill then, to where Amber Thompson was standing stock still, staring at Russ. She caught my eye and walked stiffly over to where we were standing. I hoped she wasn’t going to pass out.
“I want to thank you,” she said, and her voice sounded wobbly and weak. “That acid was intended for me.”
“I figured.” I said. “Did you know he came to our bereavement group and he was carrying a picture of you?”
“Bereavement group?” She closed her eyes and sighed. “So he’s still grieving for Debbie Simpson.”
“Did you even know he was in town?”
“No. I had no idea he’d managed to track me down. It’s been years since I got away, changed my name, my appearance, everything. I thought I was safe.”
“I’ve been wondering,” I said, “if you’re the woman he told us about, the one he says killed Debbie Simpson.”
She looked puzzled. “Is that what he said?” Then she nodded without waiting for my answer. “That would make some kind of sense, I guess.”
“It would?”
“Absolutely. I did kill Debbie Simpson, and she deserved to die. She was a pathetic, frightened little girl, totally controlled by her abusive husband.”
“I see,” I lied.
There was a long pause. Then she held her hand out to me.
“I think I’d better introduce myself,” Amber Thompson said. “I am Debbie Simpson.”
SUE PIKE doesn’t own a camera but she greatly admires anyone able to capture mood and meaning in a single snapshot. She limits her hobbies to writing and has had stories in all of The Ladies’ Killing Circle anthologies. “Widow’s Weeds” from Cottage Country Killers won the Arthur Ellis Award for best short mystery story of 1997.
RETURNING THE FAVOUR
JOAN BOSWELL
Finished with the day’s training and back in my dorm, I flipped through