Page 33 of Murder By the Millions
Jason:Need to talk. Really important.
I dialed his number, but he didn’t answer. Another text materialized.
Jason:Please come to the estate now. I’ve got to talk to you in person.
Now?What could he need to discuss at half past eleven? He hadn’t made a pass at me earlier. I doubted he wanted to pounce on me. Had something happened to his house? Had someone broken in? If so, why not call the police? Was he being overly dramatic?
A little weirded out by the tone of the message and loathe to go to the house of a man I’d recently met, I texted back that ifhe needed to talk more about the soiree and pin down details, I could come earlier than planned tomorrow morning.
Jason:Please. Come. Urgent.
Okay, I was losing it, big-time.Urgent?I should at least check on him. He could be in trouble. Perhaps someone who, like me, was against his plans of building a mall had trashed his place.
Me:On my way but not staying long. My cat is hurt.
In fact, Darcy was so drowsy from the sedative, I decided I couldn’t leave him home alone. I’d take him with me.
A few of the estates in Bramblewood were hidden behind gates or fences or stands of trees, but the Sugarbaker estate wasn’t one of them. Located at the top of a winding road, it was a sight to behold, all lit up with a gorgeous array of lights. A travertine fountain in a quatrefoil shape stood in the middle of the circular drive. Exquisite Doric columns buttressed the entry of the two-story home. Sprinklers—armed by timers, I guessed—were spraying the lawn to the right. Puddles bordered the gardens that had previously received a good watering.
I parked and trotted up the front steps, with Darcy in his carrier. The front door was ajar. I didn’t push on it. Instead, I yelled, “Hello! Jason? Anyone home? It’s Allie. I’m here.” I waited for a few seconds, but he didn’t reply.
I thought I heard a door close, but I didn’t detect the sound of footsteps. I recalled Jason saying his domestic helper was off for the night. “Jason, hello?” I glimpsed my phone. He hadn’t sent another text message, canceling his request. In fact, the messages were gone.
What the heck?I hadn’t imagined them. I was certain I hadn’t.
I pressed the doorbell. A melodious tune rang out. Still no response.
“Jason!” I knocked on the door, prepared to leave if he didn’t respond.
Someone moaned inside. Darcy roused and mewed.
I hushed him. “Jason? Are you all right?”
Another moan.
I inched open the door and gasped. Jason was lying on his side in the foyer.
CHAPTER7
So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.
—Nick Carraway in F. Scott Fitzgerald’sThe Great Gatsby
Iraced in while pressing 911 on my phone. It didn’t connect. I checked the bars for a signal. Weak. I put the cat carrier on the floor and bent on one knee to inspect Jason. His eyes were closed. His breathing was labored. His arm was outstretched, as if he had been trying to grasp the cell phone lying on the marble floor beyond his reach.
“Jason, are you okay?” I asked. I noticed blood pooling around his body and gagged. Had he tripped on the Persian rug runner and fallen? Had he struck his head? “Jason?”
“Duh …,” he rasped.
I shook my head. I didn’t understand.
“Duh … she …”
“Are you trying to say Delilah? Did she reach out to you? Is that why you needed to see me? You texted it was urgent.”
He inhaled sharply and wheezed.
“No, Jason. Stay with me!”
