Saturday Evening
"I was starting to wonder about you," Brad Ellington said as he opened the front door. A petite young woman with curly brown hair stepped tentatively into the house.
"I had to wait until no one could see me park my car," she replied in a high-pitched, girlish voice. "Are you sure we have to go through with all this?" she pleaded.
"It's a little late to be worrying about that now, baby," he replied mockingly. He led her through the house into the music room, holding her arm tightly when she almost collapsed at the sight of the blanket-wrapped body. Realizing he needed to give her some encouragement, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She softened against him.
"Christine, I know this is going to be hard for you, but I really need your help. Please don't let me down."
She nodded in agreement and followed him to one of the occasional tables, which had two framed pencil sketches leaning against it. Brad removed the pictures from their frames and laid them on the table. He then walked over to a half-emptied packing crate and picked up some discarded brown paper and twine.
"Why is that crate still here?" Christine asked.
"It just came back from a traveling exhibit, and I hadn't finished unpacking it." Brad wrapped the two pictures securely with the brown paper. "I think that's everything. Now, you're sure you know what to do?"
She nodded. "I'm sure."
"Remember to fire into the air, all right?" He took her in his arms again and kissed her. His hands ran down along her back and rested on her hips. She responded by trying to pull him closer. He indulged her for a moment and then pushed away.
"In a little while we'll have plenty of time and plenty of money to do whatever we want, baby. We just have to be a little patient until then." He grasped her shoulders to hold her in place. "Now remember, don't call me! I'll contact you in a couple of days when it's safe."
"But, baby …" she whined.
He shook her gently. "I mean it! Once everything is set, I'll let you know. I promise!" He kissed her on the forehead and released her. "Now, I have to get going or I'll be late."
Ellington walked out the door, locking it behind him. He had to hurry, or he would not make it to that tacky little gallery in time.
Once at the Frederickson Gallery attending a soiree for a supposedly up-and-coming new artist, Ellington played his usual role of irascible art critic to the delight of his social climbing hostess and gathered material for his next scathing review. He had to stop himself from checking his watch every few minutes; between his nervous tension and the boorish artist, it felt as if he had been there for hours already.
Christine also checked her watch frequently, waiting for the appointed time. She easily convinced herself that there was no need to wait in the same room as the body. She got up to pace several times, trying to keep from jumping out of her skin. Finally, it was 11:25 – time to get moving!
Just knowing that the end of her work was in sight gave her the fortitude to go back into the music room and remove the electric blanket. She quickly refolded it, took it upstairs, and replaced it where Brad said it should go. She hurried back down and, telling herself that wasn't really a dead body lying there, removed the garbage bag, folded it up without looking to see if there was any blood on it, grabbed the wrapped bundle of pictures, and dashed out of the room to stand by the jimmied back door. Now she had to wait again.
After only a minute or so, Christine heard the sound she was waiting for: the security guard's patrol car. She heard him park his car, followed by the slam of his car door. Next, she heard him jiggle the locked front door. She pulled out the gun. As soon as she heard him open his car door, she went into action: she walked out the back door and fired one shot into the air. A few seconds later, she heard the guard's keys jingling at the front door. When she heard him open the door, she trotted out the back door and down the long flight of stone steps leading to the street below. The sound of her heels clicking against the stone seemed even louder than she had expected, but Brad had been insistent – she had to wear some sort of heel so that the guard would know she left out the back way. Brad would not tell her why, but he was so smart, she was sure he had a good reason.
By the time Christine reached the end of the steps, she was ready to scream! Between her heels and the uneven steps, she was unable to run down them; in addition, she could not turn to see if anyone was following her without stopping. Finally, she found herself on the street that ran behind the large houses where she had parked her car. Sighing in relief, she got in her car and looked back up the hill. The guard had turned on all the exterior floodlights, and in the distance she could hear the beginnings of sirens. She smirked at the confusion, started her little car, and drove away.
Alfred sighed as he drove the Jaguar up to the house where Jessica was staying. He really did not want the date to end, and he was fairly certain Jessica felt that way as well.
"I have enjoyed this evening so much!" she exclaimed as he turned into the driveway.
Anything Alfred was going to say in reply was swallowed by his surprise at seeing a Gotham City police car in front of the house.
Jessica gasped, "Oh my goodness! I wonder what has happened!"
Alfred made quick work of parking the car, and he just managed to open Jessica's door for her before she walked purposefully toward the police car. Just as she reached it, the front door opened, and a fragile-looking woman about Jessica's age descended the steps accompanied by a uniformed police officer. Jessica met her at the bottom of the stairs.
"Oh, Jessica!" cried the woman. "It's just too horrible!"
"What's wrong, Janice?"
"It's Monty! He's dead!"