Death by Sarcasm - By Dani Amore Page 0,63

the door, so Mary used the solid brick wall to shield her body as she rang the bell. She heard the resulting chime in the house and waited. Mary looked around the small neighborhood, no one seemed to be out and about. Further down at the intersection, she saw a woman walking a Great Dane. Can you imagine the size of that dog’s deposits, Mary thought. What’s she pick it up with, a catcher’s mitt and a grocery bag?

Mary turned back and rang the bell again, but still no answer. She reached across the door and rapped hard, three times. No one answered, but the door did open slightly.

Now her heart started beating even faster. Ducking into a strange house with no idea of who or how many people might be inside wasn’t one of her favorite things to do. Came right after knitting a quilt and just before the hot new thing in Hollywood: anal bleaching.

But that name, J. Markowitz. Mary knew it meant something. So she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Thirty-six

Even in the dim light, it was easy to make out the bodies.

One just four feet or so from the door. One sprawled in front of a wingback chair. Another slumped against a sideboard. And one halfway into the kitchen, only the legs were visible.

“Maybe this is some kind of modern art piece” Mary said softly. “Four old dead guys in living room. Artist unknown.”

She bent down to the nearest old guy.

Nope, it wasn’t art. It was blood. The kind that pours out of a body.

The bullet hole in the side of his head kind of confirmed it as well.

The .45 was Mary’s hand as she silently walked into the middle of the room.

The killer had come from the hallway, Mary thought. Had somehow distracted the guys and then silently appeared and started shooting.

Popped the guy in front of the hallway, near the chair. Then probably took out the guy standing near the kitchen, and the guy by the sideboard. And then the last shot took out the guy who’d almost made it out the front door, but not quite. Four fast shots. Four old guys, dead.

Mary went into the kitchen, stepped carefully over the dead guy.

Nothing there but a wide pool of dark blood. And there truly was nothing there. No soap by the sink. No salt and pepper shakers, grocery lists, food on the counter. It was as barren as North Dakota.

Mary went upstairs and found the same thing. Rooms, with furniture and working electricity, but no evidence that anyone lived there.

She went back downstairs into the living room and thought it through a little more. Mary studied what was left of the faces of the dead men and quickly realized that she recognized all of them.

Prescott. The tall one.

Mark something.

Frank or maybe Franklin. A chubby little bowling ball of a guy.

And the white-haired guy. His last name was Castro.

The last time she’d seen them, they’d all been snickering in Aunt Alice’s living room about Mary. Making bad jokes and lewd suggestions.

Well, they were still putting on a show, just not the kind they would have liked.

Talk about escalation of violence. All four of these guys, and then Mitchell.

Christ, there was no one left.

The phone rang and Mary traced it to the kitchen. It was hung on the wall and had a built-in answering machine.

Mary waited, wanting to get the hell out of the kill zone, but she desperately wanted to hear who was calling.

There was no answering message, just a beep.

And then a voice came on.

It was a voice Mary recognized.

“Mary, please…”

There was a crash and then the machine beeped. But Mary didn’t hear it because she was already out the door halfway to her car.

She had to get there fast.

Or Alice would die.

She drove like Stevie Wonder on crystal meth.

On the sidewalk when necessary, running red lights, blasting the horn nonstop. She managed to take out a couple city waste containers, a bike and a newspaper kiosk.

The Accord would definitely require some body work by the time she was done.

When she got to Alice’s house, Mary was pouring sweat and her car’s tires were smoking. But it didn’t matter, because she pulled off of the street and drove straight into the yard, at an angle. She hit the front door with the corner of her bumper and it crashed inward. Mary’s car shook with the impact, and then she was out of the car, gun in hand, sliding across the hood into