At the Stroke of Madness Read online

  ALEX KAVA

  AT THE STROKE OF MADNESS

  This book is dedicated to

  Amy Moore-Benson,

  who believed and coached and encouraged

  and never gave up on me.

  And to

  Deborah Groh Carlin,

  who listened and inspired and cared

  and never allowed me to give up on me.

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  CHAPTER 71

  EPILOGUE

  COMING NEXT MONTH

  Acknowledgments

  My sincerest appreciation goes to all the professionals whose expertise has, once again, proven invaluable. And to my family and friends who put up with my long absences while I’m in writing marathon mode. Special thanks to:

  Patricia Sierra for the occasional swift kick in the pants, the numerous pats on the back and always, always being there.

  Leigh Ann Retelsdorf, Deputy County Attorney, who over lunch one afternoon helped me create an intriguing M.O. for a killer.

  Laura Van Wormer, fellow author and friend, for taking time out of your crazy schedule to show me around Connecticut and for sharing your enthusiasm for your adopted hometown of Meriden.

  Leonardo Suzio of York Hill Trap Rock Quarry Company for an interesting tour despite it being in the middle of a blizzard.

  Lori O’Brien for being my go-to person whenever I had a question about the area.

  Dianne Moggy and the rest of the team at MIRA Books, including Tania Charzewski, Craig Swinwood, Krystyna de Duleba, Stacy Widdrington, Kate Monk, Maureen Stead and Alex Osuszek.

  Megan Underwood and the crew at Goldberg McDuffie Communications, Inc.

  Mary Means for a friendship that includes loving and caring for my kids while I’m on the road.

  Tammy Hall for filling in the gaps and always being available at a moment’s notice.

  Sharon Car, fellow writer and friend, for once again helping me weather the good and the bad.

  Marlene Haney, Sandy Rockwood and Patti El-Kachouti for unconditional friendship that withstands absences, that knows no guilt and that celebrates strengths while allowing and unmasking vulnerabilities.

  Kenny and Connie Kava for listening and encouraging.

  And to the rest of my family and friends whose continued support is greatly appreciated: Jeanie Shoemaker Mezger and John Mezger, Patricia Kava, Nicole and Tony Friend, LaDonna Tworek, Mac Payne, Gene and Mary Egnoski, Rich Kava, Annie Belatti, Natalie and Rich Cummings, Jo Ellen Shoemaker, and Lyn and David Belitz.

  Also a sincere and humble thank-you to:

  The many book buyers, booksellers and librarians for recommending my books.

  The readers, who are truly the ones responsible for keeping Maggie O’Dell alive.

  The residents of Meriden and Wallingford, Connecticut, for welcoming me into your community. Please forgive me for any liberties I may have taken with the geography and for dumping dead bodies in your backyard.

  Last, to Mike Vallier. MIRA Books lost one of its brightest stars October 26, 2002. I always thought it was appropriate that Mike was the very first person I met from MIRA, because he genuinely exemplified its generosity, enthusiasm and dedication. We’re going to miss you, Mike, but your spirit will always be a part of this team.

  CHAPTER 1

  Saturday, September 13

  Meriden, Connecticut

  It was almost midnight, and yet Joan Begley continued to wait.

  She tapped her fingernails on the steering wheel and watched for headlights in her rearview mirror. She tried to ignore the streaks of lightning in the distance, telling herself the approaching storm was headed in the other direction. Occasionally, her eyes darted across the front windshield. She barely noticed the spectacular view of city lights below, more interested in getting a glimpse in the side mirrors, as if she could catch something the rearview mirror may have missed.

  “Objects may be closer than they appear.”

  The print on the passenger-side mirror made her smile. Smile and shiver at the same time. Not like she could see anything in this blasted darkness. Probably not until it was right on top of her car.

  “Oh, that’s good, Joan,” she admonished herself. “Freak yourself out.” She needed to think positively. She needed to keep a positive attitude. What good were all her sessions with Dr. Patterson if she threw out everything she had learned so easily?

  What was taking him so long? Maybe he had gotten here earlier and had given up on her. After all, she was ten minutes late. Not intentionally. He’d forgotten to mention the fork in the road, right before the final climb to the top. It had taken her on an unexpected detour. It was bad enough that it was pitch dark up here, a canopy of tree branches overhead so thick even the moonlight couldn’t penetrate it. What moonlight was left. The thunderheads would soon block out, or rather they would replace, the moonlight with what promised to be a hell of a lightning show.

  God, she hated thunderstorms. She could feel the electricity in the air. Could almost taste it, metallic and annoying, like leaving the dentist with a fresh filling. And it only added to her anxiety. It pricked at her nerves like a reminder that she shouldn’t be here. That maybe she shouldn’t be doing this…that she shouldn’t be doing this, again.

  Those stupid, distracting thunderclouds had even caused her to lose her sense of direction. Or at least that’s what she was blaming, though she knew full well all it took was getting into a rent-a-car. As soon as she closed the car door her ability to tell direction flew right out the window. It didn’t help matters that all these Connecticut cities were made up of streets that ran every which way except at right angles or in straight lines. She had gotten lost plenty of times in the last several days. Then tonight, on the entire trip up here, she kept taking wrong turns, despite telling herself over and over that she would not, could not, get lost again. Y
et, if it hadn’t been for the old man and his dog, she would have been driving around in circles, looking for the West Peak.

  “Walnut hunting,” he had told her, and she hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, because she was too anxious, too preoccupied. Now, as she waited, she remembered that he wasn’t carrying a bag or bucket or sack. Just a flashlight. Who went walnut hunting in the middle of the night? Odd. Yes, there had been something quite odd about the man. A lost, faraway look in his eyes, and yet he didn’t hesitate in giving her animated directions to the top of this wind-howling, branch-creaking, shadowy ridge.

  Why in the world had she come?

  She grabbed her cell phone and punched in the number from memory, crossing her fingers, only to be disappointed when the voice-messaging service picked up after the second ring. “You’ve reached Dr. Gwen Patterson. Please leave your name and phone number and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

  “As soon as possible might be too late,” Joan said in place of a greeting, then laughed, regretting the words because Dr. P. would try to read between the lines. But then wasn’t that what she was paying her the big bucks for? “Hey, Dr. P., yes, it’s me again. Sorry to be such a pain in the ass. But you were right. I’m doing it again. So no, I guess I haven’t learned my lesson, because here I am in the middle of the night, sitting in my dark car and waiting for…yeah, you guessed it, a man. Actually Sonny is different. Remember I told you about him in my e-mail? We’ve been getting together to talk, just talk. At least so far. He really does seem like a nice guy. Definitely not my type, right? Not like I’m a good judge of character when it comes to men. For all I know he could be an ax murderer, huh?” Another forced laugh. “Look, I was just hoping. I don’t know. Maybe I was hoping you would talk me out of this. Save me from…oh, you know…Save me from myself, like you always do. Who knows, maybe he won’t even show up. Anyway, I’ll see you Monday morning for our usual rendezvous. You can yell at me then. Okay?”

  She hung up before the string of prerecorded options, one of which would have allowed her to review her message, revise it or even delete it. She didn’t want to be faced with any more choices, not tonight. She was sick and tired of making decisions. That’s all she had done the last few days: The Serenity Package or the Deluxe-in-case-you’re-feeling-guilty Premium Package? White roses or white lilies? The walnut casket with brass trim or the mahogany with silk lining?

  Good heavens! Who would have thought there were so many stupid decisions involved in burying someone?

  Joan tossed the phone into her bag. She drew her fingers through her thick blond hair, batted impatiently at damp strands to push them off her forehead. She glanced in the rearview mirror, turning on the overhead light to get a look at her dark roots. She needed to take care of those soon. Being a blonde sure took a lot of work.

  “You’ve become high maintenance, girlfriend,” she told the eyes in the mirror. Eyes she hardly recognized some days with new ravens cutting into what were once cute little laugh lines. Would that be her next project? A part of the new image she was creating for herself? God! She had even visited a plastic surgeon. What was she thinking? That she could re-create herself like one of her sculptures? Mold a new Joan Begley out of clay, dip it in brass, then solder on a couple of new attitudes while she was at it?

  Maybe it was hopeless. Yet she did seem to be gaining control over the yo-yo dieting. Okay, control might not be the right word, because she wasn’t totally convinced she did have control, but she had to admit that her new body felt good. Really good. It allowed her to do things she could never do before. She had more energy. Without the extra weight she could get back to maneuvering around her metal sculptures and didn’t get winded every five minutes, waiting like her blow torch for more fuel to pump through before she could get going again.

  Yes, this new slender self had an impact on her work, too. It made her feel like she had a whole new lease on work, on life. So why in the back of her mind was she unable to stifle that damn annoying little voice, that constant nag that kept asking, “How long will it last this time?”

  The truth was, no matter how wonderful things were, she didn’t trust this new person she was becoming. She didn’t trust it like she didn’t trust sugarless chocolate or fat-free potato chips. There had to be a catch, like a bad aftertaste or chronic diarrhea. No, what it came down to was that she didn’t trust herself. That was it. That was the real problem. She didn’t trust herself and that was what got her into trouble. That was what had brought her to the top of this ridge in the middle of the fricking night, waiting for some guy to make her feel good, to make her feel—Jesus, she hated to admit it—waiting for some guy to make her feel complete.

  Dr. P. said it was because she didn’t think she deserved to be happy. That she didn’t feel worthy, or some psychobabble crap. She had told Joan over and over again that it didn’t matter that there was a new improved exterior as long as the old interior didn’t change.

  God! She hated when her shrink was right.

  She wondered if she should try calling her again. No, that was ridiculous. She glanced at the rearview mirror. He probably wouldn’t show up, anyway.

  Suddenly Joan realized she was disappointed. How silly was that? Maybe she really did think this guy was different. He was different from her regular fare—quiet and shy and interested. Yes, actually interested in listening to her. She hadn’t imagined that part. Sonny did seem interested, maybe even concerned about her. Especially when she gave him that load of bull about her weight problem being caused by a hormone deficiency, like it was something out of her control that made her overeat. But instead of treating it like the gutless excuse it was, Sonny believed her. He believed her.

  Why kid herself. That’s why she was up here in the middle of nowhere, waiting in the dark. When was the last time a man had taken an interest in her? A real interest in her and not just in her new slender exterior with the artificial blond hair?

  She shut off the overhead light and stared out at the city lights below. It was quite beautiful. And if she would relax, she might be able to see that it was quite romantic, despite that annoying rumble of thunder. Was that a raindrop on the windshield? Great! Wonderful! Just what she needed.

  She tapped her fingernails on the steering wheel again and went back to her vigil, checking the side mirrors, then the rearview mirror.

  Why was he so late? Had he changed his mind? Why would he change his mind?

  She grabbed her handbag and searched inside, digging to the bottom until she heard the crinkle. She pulled out and ripped open the bag of M& M’s, poured a handful and began popping them, one after another, into her mouth, as if they were Zoloft tablets, expecting the chocolate to calm her. It usually worked.

  “Yes, of course, he’ll come,” she finally announced out loud with a mouthful, as if the sound of her voice was necessary for confirmation. “Something came up. Something he had to take care of. He’s a very busy guy.”

  After all he had done for her in the last week…. Well, surely she could wait for him. She had been kidding herself to think that losing Granny hadn’t had a tremendous impact on her. Granny had been the only person who truly understood and supported her. She was the only one who had stood up for her and defended her, insisting Joan’s predicament of still being single and alone at forty was due to her independent nature instead of just being pathetic.

  And now Granny, her protector, her confidant, her advocate, was gone. She had lived a long and wonderful life, but none of that could fill the void Joan was feeling. Sonny had been able to see that loss in her, that void. He had gotten her through the last week, allowing and encouraging her to grieve, even encouraging her to “rant and rave” a little.

  She smiled at the memory of him, that serious look creasing his forehead. He always looked so serious, so in control. It was strength and a sense of authority that she needed in her life right now.

  Just then a pair of headlights magically appeared as if they were her
reward. She watched the car weave through the trees. It rounded the twists and curves with a smooth, steady ease, finding its way to this hideaway far above the city as if the driver knew the dark road. As if the driver came here often.

  She felt an unexpected flutter in her stomach. Excitement. Anxiety. Nervous energy. Whatever it was, she chastised herself. Such emotions befitted an immature schoolgirl and not a woman her age.

  She watched his car drive up behind her, feeling on the back of her neck the startling, powerful glare of his headlights as though they were his strong hands, hands that sometimes had just the slightest scent of vanilla. He said the vanilla removed the other pungent odors he worked with on a regular basis. He had said it as if embarrassed by it. She didn’t mind. She had come to like that scent. There was something comforting about it.

  The thunder rumbled overhead now and the droplets grew in number and size, splatting on the car’s windows and blurring her vision. She watched his shadow, a hat-brimmed, black silhouette, get out of the vehicle. He had cut the engine but left on the headlights, making it difficult for her to see him against the glare and through the wet splotches.

  He was getting something out of the trunk. A bag. A change of clothes? Perhaps he had brought her a going-away gift? The thought made her smile again. But as he approached, she noticed the object was long and narrow. Something he could carry by a handle…a duffel bag, perhaps?

  He was almost at her car door. In a flash of lightning she caught a glimpse of metal. She recognized the chainlike mechanism around a blade. She saw the dangling pull cord. She had to be wrong. Maybe it was a joke. Yes, a joke. Why else would he bring a chain saw?

  Then she saw his face.

  Through the flickering lightning and now a steady rain, his features looked dark and brooding. He stared at her from under the hat’s brim. He wore an angry scowl, piercing eyes she didn’t recognize, eyes that held hers despite the rain-streaked glass between them. There was something wrong, horribly wrong. He looked as though he were possessed.