by Laura Childs
Just when Suzanne figured the party couldn’t get any more crowded, Mayor Mobley and Allan Sharp showed
up. They weren’t in costume per se, although their bad golf shirts and shiny double-knit slacks probably counted as a kind of small-town politico costume.
“You see that?” asked Petra, sidling up to Suzanne. “They’re passing out campaign buttons. Doesn’t that just frost your pumpkin?”
“But look,” said Suzanne, as a woman laughed at Mobley and turned away, “people are pretty much ignoring them. They know it’s a Halloween party and not a political rally.”
“And thank goodness for that,” said Petra, taking a sip of amber liquid.
Suzanne’s mouth crinkled in a quirky smile. “And just what are you drinking, my dear?”
“Hennessy,” said Petra, with a look of feigned innocence. “Junior gave it to me, said it would help calm my nerves.”
“Or have you partying like a rap star.” Suzanne laughed.
“Still,” said Petra, “it’s kind of tasty.” She dropped her voice. “Did you see that Sasha and her husband, Mike, showed up?”
Suzanne nodded.
“Think there’s going to be trouble?”
Suzanne thought for about half a second. “The potential certainly exists.”
“Oh dear. And I thought all I had to do was keep Doogie away from Jane.”
“That and feed everyone,” said Suzanne.
Petra took another small sip. “Probably time to set up my dessert bar.”
“Need help?”
“That’d be great,” said Petra. But when they got inside the Cackleberry Club, Suzanne noticed that more than a few people had made their way into the Book Nook. She hadn’t expected book business tonight, but no way was she going to complain. Slipping behind the counter, she reminded herself that all book sales would be a welcome addition to their bottom line.
“Who are you supposed to be, Suzanne?” asked Lolly Herron. Even though Lolly was dressed as a witch, she slid a very non-witchy cookbook across the counter for purchase. Pasta for Deux.
“Big secret,” Suzanne told her. “All will be revealed later.”
“Do you have any more of these alphabet books?” Snow White asked, as two of her dwarfs, really children, clung to her voluminous skirt.
“I do,” said Suzanne, “but I’ll have to dig them out. Can you give me a few minutes?”
“No problem,” said Snow White. “We’ll go bob for apples and come back.”
Suzanne rang up a copy of Blackwork and a copy of The Teaberry Strangler, loving the extra business, but worrying about who was entertaining Sam. Not Carmen, she hoped.
When there was a break in the action, she dashed into her office to try to unearth that children’s book.
As she pawed through a carton of books, Suzanne noticed a man in a Davy Crockett costume sidle slowly into the Book Nook. Since his back was turned toward her, she couldn’t quite make out who it was. But, out of the comer of her eye, Suzanne noticed the man select a book, then browse through it for a few moments. Then he glanced around, set the book down, and slipped away. It was doubtful he’d even noticed her watching.
But something about the man’s furtive gesture had registered with Suzanne. She drew a breath and hesitated.
Something about him...
Maybe she was jumping at shadows, but a low-level vibe had insinuated itself in her prefrontal cortex.
Suzanne thought for a few moments, then clambered to her feet and hurried over to grab the book the man had just abandoned.
She stared at the cover—Spain’s Gilded Riches—and opened the book, glancing quickly at color photos of armor, helmets, breastplates, gold chalices, and coins. Treasure to be sure.
What the...?
And like a slow-moving galleon, the word Tortuga swam into her brain.
Suzanne blinked, spun toward her computer, and typed in Tortuga.
Chapter Thirty One
And came up with something like four million hits. There were Tortuga T-shirts, Tortuga rum cakes, and Tortuga maps, as well as games, knick-knacks, and hundreds of Tortuga resorts scattered all across the Caribbean.
So an impossible search, really.
But Tortuga was the note Peebler wrote to himself and Tortuga seems to synch nicely with Spanish armor and coins, doesn’t it?
Suzanne chewed on that notion for a few minutes, wondering where it might lead her.
To Lester Drummond, with his turtle tattoo and stash of vicious fighting dogs? Had Drummond murdered Chuck Peebler?
Or was Jane Buckley involved, after all? During his rant at the read dating event, Peebler had pressed Jane about stolen antiques. And Jane worked at a museum, so she had firsthand knowledge about antiquities. Was mild-mannered Jane really a stone-cold killer?
And what about Mayor Mobley and Allan Sharp? Were they so obsessed with winning that they’d kill an opponent? But how did antiques come into play?
And then there was Mike O’Dell, the man with a crossbow and a wife who’d been hassled by Chuck Peebler. Was
O’Dell a spurned man or a common thief? Could he have stolen antiques from Peebler’s aunt and then fenced them?
Suzanne felt her mind spinning like a centrifuge. Where was she going with all of this? Where were the answers?
She pressed the book to her chest, as if she could absorb critical information through osmosis. And puzzled some more.
The next step was so simple it made her laugh.
Find Davy Crockett.
Maybe if she found the man in the buckskin jacket and coonskin cap, she’d also find a semblance of an answer. Or at least a clue.
Rushing outside, Suzanne was startled to see that Petra had already started the costume contest She was standing on an orange crate, head and shoulders above the crowd, holding a microphone and introducing the evening’s finalists.
Suzanne glanced at her watch. Petra would be introducing her shortly. So ... first things first. She’d better stay on schedule and do her Headless Horseman thing. Then she’d grab Doogie and go on a Davy Crockett hunt.
Ducking back into her office, Suzanne scrunched up her jacket and inserted a couple of foam shoulder pads, making her shoulders high enough and broad enough to rival any NFL linebacker. Then she tied a black do-rag over her hair and hiked up her collar so it came just below her eyes. She checked herself in the mirror. With the black scarf covering her head, it really would appear as though she was headless. So far, so good!
She pinned on a black wool cape, perfect Sleepy Hollow couture, and grabbed the fake head that was sitting on her desk. It was really a plastic foam wig head she’d purchased from a beauty supply store. But with a bit of brown spray paint, it now looked like a head that had just flown in from a sunny weekend in Boca Raton.
Suzanne slipped through the kitchen and out the back door.
Mocha was tied to a fence at the back of her property. He turned his handsome head and nickered when he saw her approach, almost as if he’d been waiting for her. Knew in his horsy mind that the two of them were going to make a grand entrance at tonight’s big party.
With a tingle of anticipation, Suzanne untied the reins, put her left foot in the stirrup, and swung up onto Mocha’s broad back.
And that’s when the world tilted crazily on its axis.
That’s when Arthur Bunch came strolling out of the woods wearing his coonskin cap and buckskin jacket. Suzanne would have laughed out loud at how authentic Bunch looked—except for the gray snub-nosed pistol he held in his hand—the pistol that was pointed directly at her heart.
“Bunch!” she cried, startled.
“Get down, Suzanne,” Bunch said through clenched teeth. “We need to talk.”
‘Talk?’ said Suzanne, suddenly realizing Arthur Bunch was deadly serious. “Sure, Arthur, whatever you say. Just don’t point that thing at me, okay? Go easy.” She knew for a fact she wasn’t going to get off her horse. Right now, her horse was the only advantage she had.
“You bet I am,” Suzanne gibbered, using her apparent fear to buy her time to think. “So just take it easy, I’ll do whatever you say.”
“I thought you might,” Arthur said, a thin smile on his face, his attention relaxing for just a split second.
That’s when Suzanne dug her heels into Mocha’s flanks and drove her horse directly at Bunch.
The big horse’s chest struck the man hard, spinning him around. Bunch, his arm suddenly flung up over his head, fired one shot into the sky, then the pistol flew from his hand. Still driving at him, one of the horse’s metal shod hooves ground down hard on top of Bunch’s left foot, eliciting a scream and sending Bunch reeling in pain.
“How do you like that, Bunch?” Suzanne taunted, suddenly grabbing the upper hand. “Want to mix it up some more? Want to tell me why you killed Charlie Peebler? Why you shot Wilbur Halpern?” Still hanging on to the wig head, she threw it at him with all her might
But Arthur Bunch wasn’t having it. He ducked the flying head and flung himself away from Suzanne and her horse. Stumbling, cursing at her, he picked himself up and took off running around the side of the Cackleberry Club.
“Doggone!” cried Suzanne. The last thing she wanted was for Arthur Bunch to find refuge in the big crowd that mingled out front. He could easily grab a different mask or costume and melt into the crowd. Or worse yet, try to take someone hostage!
Suzanne kicked Mocha again and took off after him. Cantering around the side of the building, the horse’s hoofbeats rang out in the still, cool air.
“Do you folks hear that?” asked Petra’s voice over the microphone, right on cue. “Do you think we might have a special visitor this Halloween night?”
Coming at full gallop, Suzanne rounded the corner, just in time to see the crowd part for her and Arthur Bunch duck
past the tent. She spurred her horse on as she bent low, galloping swiftly past the row of flickering jack-o’-lanterns that Toni had planted on wooden stakes.
Grabbing the last jack-o’-lantern, Suzanne galloped through the crowd, holding the lighted pumpkin high, her cape trailing out behind her. There were appreciative oohs and aahs from the crowd.
Raising the pumpkin high above her head, Suzanne flung it with all her might. The orange missile went tumbling through the air, sparks flying, glinting jack-o’-lantern eyes winking, crooked pumpkin mouth grinning at me crowd. Then the pumpkin struck Arthur Bunch in the middle of his back, knocking him to the ground as it exploded into a hundred pieces, splattering everyone nearby with orange pumpkin goop!
“Holy bull dingers!” Doogie cried. Darting toward Suzanne, he held his hands up as if to stop her, as the crowd roared its approval at such a dramatic tableau.
“Grab him!” Suzanne yelled, as she reined her horse back hard. “Grab Bunch. He’s the one who killed Charlie Peebler and Wilbur!”
Chapter Thirty Two
But the crowd’s instantaneous burst of applause blocked the sound of Suzanne’s plea to the sheriff! She sat atop the dancing horse as the crowd surged around her, staring out at Sheriff Doogie’s quizzical face, feeling terrified and enormously frustrated.
“Bunch!” she cried again. “Grab him!”
Doogie spun about, but was trapped by the crowd and unable to make a move or get a bead on Bunch. He whipped his head back and forth frantically, but to no avail.
Suzanne, perched atop Mocha, could see Arthur Bunch just fine. The rogue killer was still on the ground writhing in pumpkin goop, gripping his knee in pain.
“Stop him!” Suzanne shouted again. “Arthur Bunch is the killer!”
Struggling to his feet, Arthur Bunch seemed dazed but determined to make his escape. He flashed a look of triumph at Suzanne and began limping away.
“No!” Suzanne shrilled.
That’s when a comical red figure with white pearly horns stuck on the sides of his head jumped out from the crowd and poked Bunch in the backside with his pitchfork.
“That’s it, Junior, do it!” Suzanne screamed.
Abruptly poked and jolted, Arthur Bunch fell forward and landed flat on his face.
“Got him!” screamed Junior, letting loose a high-pitched war cry.
The crowd turned, en masse, to witness Junior poking his pitchfork in Bunch’s rear end and roared their approval!
“What an act!” someone yelled.
“Like vaudeville!” cried a voice.
“Wonderful,” another voice cried. “I didn’t know these gals had it in them!”
Then, as if Arthur Bunch and Junior Garrett were an acting troupe, as if the Cackleberry Club was the new theater-in-the-round, the crowd surged forward and formed a circle around the two men.
Buckshot Benoit’s group struck up the first couple bars of Devil Went Down to Georgia and the crowd screamed again, loving it.
“Hang on to him!” Doogie yelled, as he thrashed his way through the crowd of revelers.
“Junior, be careful!” cried Toni. She was on the sidelines, hopping up and down.
“I got him, I got him!” yelled Junior, as he prodded Bunch one more time, shoving him to the ground.
The crowd, still thinking it was a wonderful slapstick play, cheered wildly. Even Carmen Copeland was laughing and giggling like a schoolgirl.
Junior, playing broadly to the crowd now, planted his right foot on Bunch’s rear end and held the writhing man firmly in place. Then he grinned wickedly, brandished his pitchfork, and took a deep bow.
“Thank you, thank you all,” shouted Suzanne, pulling off her head scarf with a flourish and suddenly gaining the attention of the crowd. “I’m so glad you all enjoyed our little theatrical presentation,” she said, winging it. “And now, if you’ll kindly follow Petra into the Cackleberry Club, we’ll be serving dessert and hot cider for everyone!”
Looking slightly stunned and unsure at what had just transpired, Petra gamely led me crowd inside for dessert. Amazingly, the crowd moved after her, still chattering about the wonderful show.
“You miserable piece of filth!” Suzanne screamed, as she jumped from her horse. She dashed up to Arthur Bunch and angled one cowboy-booted foot at him. “I ought to kick your...”
“No, Suzanne,” cautioned Doogie. “We’ve had enough of that for one night I’ll take care of him.”
Bunch groaned miserably on the ground.
“He’s a stone-cold killer,” Suzanne cried, unable to curb her anger. “He even pointed a gun at me!”
“What!” said a stunned Sam, as he suddenly rushed up to join Suzanne.
“Threatened me,” Suzanne muttered, aiming a foot at Bunch again. This time Sam pulled her away.
Doogie grabbed a set of handcuffs from his belt and quickly secured Bunch’s hands. Then, grabbing Bunch by the scruff of his neck, Doogie yanked him rudely to his feet “You and I are going to do some talking!” Doogie commanded.
Junior was suddenly jumping around, waving his hands in everyone’s faces. “Can I help drag him to the car? Can I? Huh?”
“You can drag him into the swamp and leave him there for all I care,” snorted Doogie. Then he pulled himself together and said, “Okay, Junior, tonight you’re a deputy.” “Deputy devil,” muttered Toni. “Seems fitting.” Sam was still staring at Suzanne. “He threatened you? With a gun?” He shook his head in amazement. “Holy Christmas.”
Twenty minutes later it was all over. Bunch had spilled his guts. Well, most of them anyway.
Doogie climbed out of his cruiser and stumped over to where Suzanne, Sam, Toni, and Junior were standing.
“You were right about that Tortuga thing,” said Doogie. “Bunch talked the old lady into donating an old conquistador helmet and some gold coins to the historical society. Then Bunch turned around and sold them to some outfit in Florida. Tortuga Trading Company, he says.”
‘Tortuga,” said Suzanne, feeling vindicated.
Sam
let out a low whistle. “Those kind of antiques must have been worth a fortune.”
“I’m thinking that’s exactly right,” said Doogie.
“So Peebler was on to him,” said Suzanne.
“Peebler must have found some kind of donation papers in his aunt’s house after she died,” said Doogie. “As well as some reference to Tortuga. And I suppose Peebler’s first thought was of Jane Buckley.”
“When it was really Arthur Bunch,” said Suzanne.
“But Bunch knew Peebler would keep nosing after the antiques,” said Doogie. “So before Peebler could do anything more, Bunch shot him.”
“Did Bunch kill Wilbur, too?’ asked Toni, wide-eyed at this tale of greed and murder.
“Bunch hasn’t copped to that one yet, but my guess is yes,” said Doogie. “Since I was the one who sent Wilbur over to Peebler’s house to investigate.”
“And Bunch didn’t realize Wilbur hadn’t found anything,” said Suzanne.
“Bunch gave Wilbur the benefit of the doubt and then killed him for it,” said Doogie, his voice tightening. He swept his hat off his head, murmured, “Doggone it.”
“But it’s over,” said Toni. “That’s what’s important.” She turned toward Junior, still in his devil costume, and gazed at him with unabashed love in her eyes.
“It’s over for now,” said Doogie. “Thanks to Suzanne and, I guess, Junior.”
Grinning from ear to ear, Junior thrust his pitchfork above his head and crowed, “The devil made me do it.”
Gazing up at the sky, breathing a sigh of relief, Suzanne saw that the clouds had lifted and that the church spire next door was silhouetted against a full moon. She smiled, slipped her hand into Sam’s, and whispered, “But it’s the angels who lend wings to our prayers.”
