Death by Sarcasm - By Dani Amore Page 0,64

the living room.

Later, Mary was never able to quite figure out what Whitney Braggs’ plan was. Because she was already raising her gun when he stepped out from behind Aunt Alice, who was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, held upright by Braggs. Had he planned to negotiate with Mary, using Alice as a human shield? Was it in his mind to kill her immediately?

She never knew.

Because she shot him.

It wasn’t that difficult. With Alice tied up, Mary knew she wasn’t going to make any sudden moves. So it wasn’t so much that she aimed at Braggs, she simply aimed up and over from Alice. If Braggs was there, great. If not, she’d try again.

But Braggs didn’t move. He only moved when the .45 slug ripped out his throat. He staggered back, his grip on Alice loosened and she sagged to the ground. The gun in his hand fired, and Mary felt a hammer blow to her left leg. It spun her sideways, but now she poured the bullets at Braggs in a tight pattern, high. She shredded his upper chest and he crashed into the wall, sliding down to the ground. His gun dropped at his feet.

Mary limped over to Aunt Alice and freed her. She sat up, rubbed her wrists and surveyed the destruction in her living room. “I knew I should’ve gotten Scotchgard for the carpet!”

Mary went to Braggs and knelt beside him, her left leg screaming in pain, her sock and shoe filling with blood.

She put the smoking barrel of the .45 against his temple.

“Tell me where she is,” Mary said. “Where is she?”

Braggs tried to answer, but blood gurgled in his mouth and then his throat made a horrible sound. Mary saw the damage her first shot had done.

She reached out and wrapped her hand around his throat and squeezed slightly, to compress what was left of the vocal cords.

“Where is she?” she asked.

He made another garbling sound but this time, she understood.

“The house.”

Thirty-seven

She should have known. Really, she couldn’t let herself off the hook for this one. Mary should have known that Marie Stevens would have taken up residence at the house where she’d been violated.

Because that’s what had happened, Mary was sure of it. It just wasn’t the typical form of violation most people experienced. It was the kind that could drive a person insane, and plant the seeds of revenge that would take on a life of their own.

The house was a ramshackle structure just off of PCH, north of Malibu. ‘Ramshackle’ being the operative word in this region of overpriced real estate. The sprawling, dilapidated ranch style beach house was still worth millions, despite its condition. And despite the Porsche parked in the driveway.

Mary pulled in behind it and went to the door. It opened before she could knock. The sight of the woman shocked Mary. Not because of any unsightly appearance or violent apparition, it was simply because Mary had met her.

“Hello, honey,” Marie Stevens said.

“Hello, Janet,” Mary said. Mary had reloaded the .45 and tied a makeshift bandage around her leg with a kitchen towel from Alice’s. It hurt like hell and Mary didn’t know how much blood she’d lost, but her head felt funny.

“How’s my favorite talent agent?” Mary said. So stupid. Janet Markowitz had been the sarcastic, but very funny, talent agent in the comedy club. The same comedy club where Mary had been looking for the fat witness who’d had a crush on a female comic who was known for her leather pants. The old lady had acted half in the bag, but her wit had been razor sharp.

“Come in, Mary, I promise I won’t bite,” the old woman said.

Mary recognized the face in the picture with the face now in front of her. In the comedy club, it had been dark and smoky. Now, in the unforgiving light, Marie Stevens actually looked better. Beneath the wrinkles and yellowed skin and eyes that spoke of a road filled with nasty crashes, were the bones of a very beautiful woman. Mary could see why her uncle and his cronies would have liked to have her around.

Mary slipped her hand inside her coat and when it came out, it had the .45 resting in its grip.

“The lack of trust is hurtful, dear,” the old woman said. “Very hurtful.”

The place was just as uncared for inside as out. There was detritus scattered here and there, as well as empty beer cans, cigarette butts and fast food wrappers.

The only place