My Gal Sunday by Mary Higgins Clark Page A

I wanted. But this was just as good, really. This way I not only punished you but that dreadful woman as well.”
    “Then you
did
kill Arabella?” Tommy exclaimed.
    “Of course I did,” she snapped impatiently. “It was so easy, too. You see, I didn’t leave that evening. I showed her to this room, woke you up, said good night, shut the door, and hid in the coat closet. I heard it all. And I knew the pistol was there, ready for use. When you staggered upstairs, I knew it would be only a matter of minutes before you lost consciousness.” She paused and smiled mischievously. “My sleeping pills are much more effective than the ones you were used to, aren’t they? They have special ingredients.” She smiled again. “And a few interesting viruses as well. Why do you think your cold has improved so much since that night? Because you haven’t let me in to give you your pills. If you had, your cold would be pneumonia by now.”
    “You were
poisoning
Tommy?” Sunday exclaimed.
    Lillian West stared indignantly at the younger woman. “I was
punishing
him,” she said firmly. Then she turned again to Shipman. “Once you were safely upstairs, I went back into the library. Arabella was rummaging around on your desk and was flustered at first by having me catch her. She said she was looking for your car keys, said that you weren’t feeling well and had told her to drive herself home, that she would be back with the car in the morning. Then she asked me what I was doing back there, since I had told you both good night. I said I had come back because I had promised to turn your old pistol in at the police station but had forgotten to take it. The poor fool stood there and watched me while I picked it up and loaded it. Her last words were, ‘Isn’t it dangerous to load it? I’m sure Mr. Shipman didn’t intend that.’   ”
    Lillian West began to laugh, a high-pitched, almost hysterical cackle. Tears ran from her eyes and her body shook, but through it all she kept the gun trained on them.
    She’s working up to killing us, Sunday thought, for the first moment fully realizing that there was little hope for escape. Tommy’s finger was still jabbing the back of her hand.
    “   ‘Isn’t it dangerous to load it?’   ”
West repeated, mimicking Arabella’s last words, her own voice cracking with loud, raucous laughter.
“   ‘I’m sure Mr. Shipman didn’t intend that!’   ”
    She rested her gun hand on her left arm, steadying it. The laughter ended.
    “Would you consider opening the draperies?” Shipman asked. “At least let me see sunlight one more time.”
    Lillian West’s smile was mirthless. “Why bother with that? You’re about to see the shining light at the end of the tunnel,” she told him.
    The draperies, Sunday thought suddenly. That was what Tommy had been trying to get across to her. Yesterday when he had lowered the shade in the kitchen he’d mentioned that the electronic device that worked the draperies in this room was defective, that it sounded a lot like a gunshot when it was used. Sunday looked around carefully. The control for the drapes was lying on the armrest of the couch. She had to get to it. It was their only hope.
    Sunday pressed Tommy’s hand by way of indicating that she finally understood. Then, as a prayer raced through her mind, she reached out and with a lightning-fast movement pressed the button that would open the drapes.
    The sound, loud as a gunshot, just as promised, made Lillian West whirl her head around. In that instant, both Tommy and Sunday leapt from the couch. Tommy threw himself at the woman’s lower body, but it was Sunday who slammed West’s hand upward just as she began to pull the gun’s trigger. As they struggled, several shots were fired. Sunday felt a burning sensation in her left arm, but it did not deter her. Unable to wrest the gun from the woman, she threw herself on top of her and kicked at the chair so that it toppled over with all three of