Flowers for Her Grave - By Judy Clemons Page 0,103

we can’t do anything about that.”

“You’re right. Let’s just have a peek and see if she’s still there.”

Casey and Death walked back toward the Flamingo from the Pelican, where they’d made their last drop off. Sissy was not in sight at the pool, and neither was Marcus.

“Well,” Death said. “The man does quick work.”

“They probably just went somewhere quieter to talk.”

“Whatever you want to think.”

“I know what I don’t want to think, and that’s about them going off to do something else.” Casey shuddered. “I’ve had enough close up viewing of that this week.”

“So what now?”

“I really don’t feel like going back to the Palm and figuring out where she lives. Let’s check her office.”

It was after midnight now, but the bar was still hopping. Open till two on the weekends. Krystal and Andrea’s parents were gone, but Laurie still sat at the end of the bar. Jack filled some orders, then sauntered back to talk with her. Casey couldn’t help but feel just a little proud they seemed to be hitting it off.

“Office is dark,” Death said.

“Let’s see where we could leave it.”

Her key got her into the receptionist’s area—where Maria would never return—but not into Sissy’s office.

“Well, I guess shoving it under the door will have to do. I really don’t want to keep this until morning.”

“Go for it.”

Casey squeezed the pack under the door, using a ruler from Maria’s desk to make sure it was all the way under. “There.” She brushed her hands against each other. “Mission accomplished.”

“Now can we go to bed?”

“Either that or pack.”

“We’re leaving?”

“On a jet plane.”

“Really?”

“No, not really. But that’s how the song goes. I’m leaving—”

“—on a jet plane. I know, I know. I’m the one who’s good at these things. Not you. That’s why you have to use such an old reference.”

“Goodnight. Go away. See you tomorrow.”

Death clapped. “Is that an invitation?”

“No.” Casey tromped up the service stairs to her room—sans Death, thank goodness—and unlocked the door. She stepped into the entryway, slid her shoes off, and turned to flip on the light.

“Freeze!” someone yelled.

Casey did. She held her arms out in front of her, hoping whoever was there would hesitate before shooting her. At least that’s what she assumed they were going to do. Usually the command to freeze was given when the person was holding a gun.

“Take three steps back.” It was a woman’s voice, shaking and low.

Casey considered the distance to the still-open door. Could she make it out before bullets ripped into her back? She was at least five feet from the hallway. Plenty of space for someone to shoot her. The woman wouldn’t even have to have good aim, not at that distance. Run, Casey told herself. She turned her head slowly, trying to see what was going on behind her.

“I said freeze! And take three steps back!”

Kind of contradictory, but Casey was in no position to argue. She stepped back, hoping the woman’s nervousness wouldn’t cause her to pull the trigger without meaning to.

Casey tripped, steadying herself on her table. The table’s chair was upended, its leg in Casey’s way, and the entryway rug had been crumpled and tossed to the side. Casey took the last two steps, ending up at the front of the living room, even farther from the door and freedom.

“Now, turn around, nice and slow, hands up.”

Casey turned, and as she did, she saw that her apartment had been torn apart, reminiscent of Maria’s house, only far worse. The furniture was overturned, the curtains ripped off their hangers, and silverware and broken plates littered the little she could see of the kitchen. Casey’s eyes flicked to her hidey-hole vent. The cover still lay unmolested against the wall.

Her eyes finally landed on Sissy, who stood in the middle of the living room, pointing a gun at Casey.

Sissy? But she was with Marcus, being charmed by his love and enthusiasm.

Wasn’t she?

Casey held her hands out in front of her. “It’s okay, Sissy. It’s all right.”

“No, Daisy. It’s not.” Her hand shook.

“Sissy. Let’s talk a little bit.”

“I’m done talking! Move over here!” She jerked the gun toward the overturned couch, and Casey picked her way slowly across the floor, over and around chairs and kitchen utensils. She should run. Take off. Like she’d told her class. But she couldn’t, not with Sissy holding a gun four feet from her face. And not with Casey’s things—her ID, Omar’s hat, her other treasures—held hostage. Not with the high likelihood that Sissy would bring attention here to