Who is Maud Dixon?(89)
She’d had to improvise in Semat, but now, in Greta’s hotel room, Florence worked slowly and methodically. She checked her watch. She had plenty of time.
She went into the bathroom and poured the powder into a glass on the counter. Then, from her purse, she took the box of rat poison she’d bought on her way to the hotel. She sprinkled that into the cup too. She’d learned through her research online that rodenticide was one of the most common—and deadly—substances with which street heroin was cut.
No more half measures.
She added a splash of water and swirled the cloudy mixture around in the glass.
She peeked inside a marble canister on the counter and found a wad of cotton balls. She took one out and held it over a second glass while she filtered the gritty liquid through it.
That afternoon, she’d watched a YouTube video containing step-by-step instructions on shooting up, which had been uploaded by a needle exchange program in Columbus, Ohio.
She dipped the tip of the syringe into the cloudy mixture and pulled up the plunger. With the needle still in the glass, she tapped the syringe to draw any air bubbles to the top.
She went back into the bedroom. Greta’s mouth was slack and her breathing sounded thick and phlegmy.
Florence tentatively picked up Greta’s right arm and dropped it. No reaction. Florence tied the elastic tightly around Greta’s bicep until a purple vein popped out. Florence pushed the needle into it, but the vein scooted coquettishly to the side. She took a breath to steady her hand and tried again.
This time the needle found its mark. Greta moaned and fluttered her eyes. Florence pushed the plunger down slowly, watching the liquid descend. She stopped when the syringe was half empty and pulled the needle out. Then Florence moved to the other arm and repeated the process. She did this several times, refilling the syringe again and again, until there were nearly a dozen puncture wounds all over Greta’s body. She wanted them to tell a story of habitual drug use, though she hoped the investigation wouldn’t even get that far. She was counting on the hotel and the police sharing an interest in hushing up the incident. Tourism, after all, was important.
When Florence had the syringe between two toes, Greta’s body suddenly seized up. It started jerking wildly and a yellowish liquid oozed from her mouth. Greta’s eyes shot open and sought feverishly for something to gain purchase on. Florence instinctively ducked.
When Florence stood up, feeling sheepish, Greta’s eyes were still open, but her body was still.
Florence held two fingers to Greta’s wrist. She didn’t feel anything. Just in case, she brought the vanity mirror from the bathroom and held it in front of Greta’s mouth. It was an old-fashioned method, but Florence had to be sure. She couldn’t have Greta waking up and telling tales.
When she was confident that Greta was dead, she placed the mirror back in the bathroom. Then she pressed Greta’s fingertips onto the syringe and the glass of liquid. She found Greta’s phone and entered a phone number into the contacts list.
Finally, Florence inspected the room until she was confident that it looked just as it had when she’d entered it. Except for the dead body on the bed.
She hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob and slipped out. In the hallway, she peeled off the plastic gloves and shoved them in her back pocket.
It was done.
As she waited for the elevator, she looked at her watch. Ten minutes to seven. The dealer that Liam had connected her with would be arriving soon. She’d told him to ask for Greta Frost at the front desk. He’d wanted the room number, but Florence had been firm. He was an integral part of the story. His phone number would be found in Greta’s phone, but Florence also needed a hotel employee to register his arrival.
Florence passed quickly through the busy lobby into the dark, warm evening. On the street, the plastic gloves landed soundlessly in an overflowing trash can.
49.
Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve reached our cruising altitude of thirty thousand feet. It’s a beautiful evening, so just sit back, relax, and don’t hesitate to let us know if there’s anything we can do to make your journey more comfortable.”
Florence took another sip of Champagne and stretched out her legs.
“May I get you anything, Ms. Darrow?” A flight attendant with impeccable eyeliner smiled down at her.
Florence smiled back. “Another blanket, please.” Then she pressed a button and her seat reclined to a completely flat position. She pulled down the complimentary eye mask.
Now this was the way to travel. It didn’t even rankle her, being called Ms. Darrow. She’d had to take up her old name again, but the three million dollars she’d inherited—along with the house—did offer some consolation. Quite a bit, actually.
Technically, the money and the property wouldn’t be transferred into Florence’s name for a couple more months, but she’d leave the small print to small minds. Besides, she hadn’t even had to pay for the upgrade; she’d just switched Helen Wilcox’s and Florence Darrow’s seats when she got to the airport.
The flight attendant returned with a blanket and laid it gently over Florence’s body.
As she lay there listening to the drone of the engines, Florence prodded her conscience for any tender spots. She found none.
She knew she could have let Helen live. She’d only have had to wait another five minutes for Idrissi to arrive. But Florence suspected that Helen would prefer death to the indignities of prison. Plus, there was no point in her fortune going to waste.