Murder at the Villa Maria-Sedona Retirement Home Page 3
Chapter Two
Huddled amid the branches of the cedar hedge bordering the boundary of Villa Maria-Sedona, Harold Dunn sat back on his haunches and took a break from watching the Thornhill suite. A look around ensured no one could see him.
He was not a man who stood out in a crowd, or a man anyone would give a second glance to, but he took precautions nevertheless.
Prudence demanded it.
Success depended on it.
They all had to die for robbing him of his inheritance. Only then would he feel vindicated.
He wanted to think he killed for a noble reason, but the truth of the matter was that his motive for killing was as commonplace as he: revenge. His uncle often described him as a weak and useless no good son-of-a-gun. Not anymore he wasn’t. If only his uncle could see him now.
Strangely enough, killing seemed his calling, what he was destined to do. When this was over, he might look into contract killing as a living.
Through the lens of his birding binoculars, he saw Frederick, dressed in a white shirt and pinstriped tie and neatly pressed pants, enter the dining room.
The bastard. There he was, strutting himself and living in luxury on money that didn’t belong to him. It’s my money. My money! Mine, mine, mine.
His temper flared. He pressed his nails into the meaty flesh in the palms of his hands until he drew blood. Pain, hot and pure, seared through him. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the ache, savoring the delicious sensation. His groin tingled. He held onto the feeling until his breathing slowed. Within seconds, the need to rush across the finely manicured lawn and pummel Frederick to death left him.
He blew out a whopping breath and opened his eyes. When the time was right, Frederick would get his just desserts.
Soon you will pay for your sins, Frederick. Soon...very soon.
He watched as the thief took a seat at the oak table and stuffed a corner edge of a white linen napkin in the collar of his shirt.
Something in his peripheral vision caught his eye. He moved his head a few inches to the right and peered at Grace setting bacon, eggs, and toast onto a plate. Yawning, he watched as she poured coffee into a china cup, then pluck four sugar cubes from the crystal sugar bowl and drop them one by one into the cup. He noticed her fingering a medallion that hung from her neck as she looked over her shoulder.
He perked up. Curious to know the reason for her apparent anxiety, he leaned in closer, feeling but paying no mind to the brush of a cedar branch against his cheek and the dampness of the morning dew on his knees where he knelt. He observed her looking into the coffee, hesitating, then dumping a liberal splash of cream into the cup. After another glance over her shoulder, she opened the medallion that he recognized now as a locket and reached inside with her thumb and forefinger. A second later, she withdrew her tightly clutched fingers and sprinkled a fine, powdery substance into the coffee. With a silver teaspoon, she vigorously stirred the steaming coffee.
What was that all about?
Damned if he knew.
Harold continued his surveillance of the Thornhill suite.
Moments later, the door opened. Grace, dressed in a floral housedress and fuzzy yellow slippers, stepped onto the deck and took the hummingbird feeder from the holder. She paused a moment and turned, looking directly at his hiding place as though she sensed him staring at her.
He doubted she could see him, but leaned back anyway.
After a moment, with a cocking of a brow and a shrug of shoulders, she turned and went back inside.
Five minutes later, the door opened again and Grace, without a glance in his direction, returned the feeder to its place.
Harold looked through their living room window and watched as Grace cleaned Frederick’s reading glasses then handed him a newspaper. Frederick settled back into a recliner and read the Star while Grace cleaned the kitchen.
For reasons he couldn’t explain, Grace touched his heart. Perhaps she, too, was a victim of Frederick. If possible, he would spare her life.
He set the binoculars on the ground and took his coiled pad from his back pocket. He licked the tip of his pencil and wrote: Day One: Grace rises at seven o’clock. Showers and dresses, then makes Frederick’s breakfast. At seven forty-five, she retreats through a hallway. Five minutes later, Frederick enters dining room and eats breakfast. Without so much as a word to his wife. Frederick then moves to the living room where he reads the morning newspaper while his wife cleans the kitchen.
The day would soon come when he would look into Frederick’s eyes and see the same fear he saw in the lawyer and judge’s eyes before he plunged crucifixes through their hearts.