How to Leash a Thief
Page 26
Gertie munched with her mouth open. “Beans, beans, the musical fruit. The more you eat, the more you—”
“Mother!” Pop said, his face beet red.
Welton’s face scrunched up, and he put a hand over his nose.
Pop frowned. “Steels, a funeral home is no place to bring Cuff.”
“Sorry, Pop. I know, but I didn’t want to leave him in the car,” I said. “I’ll get him out of here. See you at Nick’s. 4:00 PM?”
“Yes.” His blue eyes softened. “Do you want me to come now?”
I shook my head. “I need to do this alone. See you after the services are over.”
“I’ll be there.” He planted a whiskery kiss on my forehead.
I high-tailed it out of there, leaving my Pop with the tenacious, and possibly, a murderous agent. But I knew he wouldn’t do anything here at the funeral home, in front of all these people. He may be crazy, but he wasn’t an idiot.
What I couldn’t figure out was how did Mr. Schirmack tie into all of this.
Chapter 22
On mental autopilot, I drove across town and over the old steel truss bridge of Pebble Creek, which led me out of Buckleville. I was having a difficult time wrapping my head around everything. The murders, the bank robbery, and the dog-nappings. I knew one thing for sure; it involved both the Schirmacks and Agent.
I’d tried calling the police department, but their answering machine reported everyone was out on a case or at Flora’s funeral, and in case of an emergency to call 911. That’s a small town PD for you.
This is an emergency. Cuff put a paw on my hand as it rested on the gearshift.
I shook my head. “As soon as we get to the house, I’ll call Officer Jackson’s cell phone.”
I ran the whole scenario I’d concocted by Cuff. “So, we know from Flora, the Schirmack’s were having money issues. Equipment at the bakery needed replacement, they’re way behind on their mortgage, and Mr. Schirmack’s hay-cutting side business is also down because of the summer drought. So, maybe for some crazy reason, they or he devised a plan to rob the bank. When they caught Samson watching them staking out the bank from the upstairs apartment, they killed him. How does that sound so far?”
Pretty good. But what about my friend, Virgil?
“I’m guessing they took him. Only I can’t imagine why.” I really hated to think they’d done something awful to the poor dog. “As for how or why Welton’s involved, I haven’t figured either out yet. But, after robbing the bank and burning the truck, it’s possible the Schirmacks were out at the Hollick pasture to make sure they had left no evidence, and somehow Flora died, or Mr. Schirmack killed her. Maybe they argued and her death was an accident. And once he caught us digging around, he made it look like someone murdered her, and he stashed her body in the shop to scare us off. Or to make us look guilty.”
That’s some good Sherlocking, Chiquita. You should call the handsome officer right now and tell him your suspicions.
“Look, we’re here,” I said. As I slowed and downshifted into second gear to make the turn into Nick’s driveway, a white blur whizzed past us, a train horn blaring. I closed my eyes and nearly ran us nose first into the cavernous ditch on the side of the road.
“Jeez!” I shouted.
Jamming on the brakes, the car skidded into the mouth of the driveway, spitting up gravel behind us. I caught sight of a beat up white truck, an older model Ford with an extra cab. With a roar and black smoke, it zoomed down the road, as if it hadn’t nearly caused an accident. I swear the truck seemed to have appeared out of nowhere; I never even saw it behind me. I shivered at the thought of nearly being flattened.
With the Bug now facing the house, I peered out the driver’s side window as the white truck raced down the road, its brake lights flashing as it neared the severe S curve, and then, it disappeared.
I swallowed hard. Calm down, Steely. This is no time to freak out.
Cuff blinked up at me and panted. You got this, Chiquita.
I motored down the gravel driveway for what would be the last time. I thought this place would be my home forever. Boy, was I wrong.
Before I got out of the car, I called Jackson’s cell, but it went straight to voicemail. I pulled up a text box and sent him a message. We NEED to talk. It’s about Agent Welton and the Schirmacks. Out @ the house now to pick up my things. Call me ASAP.
I hit send and opened my Google app. What I still couldn’t figure out was who this William Clemons person is, and how did his name end up on the paperwork for the black Buick.
I searched William Clemons. I scrolled through pages and pages, coming up empty at first. Then, an article popped up about William Clemons from the Atlanta Sentinel about money laundering, fraud, and bank robberies. It also mentioned the name Seth Welton. There on my phone was a picture of Agent Welton. Under his photo was the name Seth Welton, alias William Clemons. None of this made sense.
Oh, Chiquita. You’d better tell the good officer.
“Right.” I sent another text to Jackson about my Google search discovery of Welton and tossed the phone on top of my bag in the passenger seat. “I hope he checks his messages sooner rather than later.”
Maybe we should go straight back to town, Chiquita.
“No, let’s get this over with,” I said. “Nick isn’t here, and it’ll only take me about an hour to pack up. After Pop and Daniel finish loading the heavy things, we’ll go straight to the authorities. I promise.”
Cuff raised a tiny paw. Okay, Chiquita.
We bumped a paw to fist and clambered out of the car.
I let Trigger out of his kennel and he and Cuff ran around outside while I packed, my mind reeling the entire time. After stuffing the rest of my clothes into my two large suitcases, I headed to the kitchen to get a glass of water. That’s when I noticed Gertie’s cast iron hanging on the wall near the pantry. I removed it from the nail and used a paper towel to dust it off before I packed it. As I rubbed the backside, I noticed a small blackish substance on the paper. Was it grease?
And then, I remembered.
“Oh my God.” Dried blood?
I shivered and stared at the pan in horror, then at the paper towel in my hand. Someone had hit Samson over the head with a heavy object, but they had never found it. The murder weapon hadn’t been located because... I’d taken it.
It all came flooding back to me. On the night of Samson’s murder, I’d taken the skillet from Gertie’s apartment. It’d been hanging on the apartment wall in the kitchen with several other pots and pans. I recalled Tripp had told me no. He said everything had to remain there, so they could gather evidence. But when no one was looking, I took it anyway.
Had Mr. Schirmack taken the time to hang it back up after he struck Samson? If so, I needed to get it to the police department. I’d unknowingly tampered with evidence, and I had to right my wrong.
I ran to the pantry and grabbed a baggie and shoved the wadded Bounty inside.
Outside, the dogs began barking, and I tossed the baggie on the counter next to the cast-iron skillet. I peered out the kitchen window and saw the white Ford truck from earlier barreling down the driveway, spitting up gravel in its wake. The dogs broke into a wild frenzy.
My guts squirmed. My heart pounded and my arms broke out in goosebumps. Something was wrong.
Like broken blips from a fading radio station, scattered thoughts from Cuff raced through my head. I got several messages all at once. Danger! Run! Hide!
The digital clock on the microwave read 2:33. Still an hour and a half until Pop and Daniel would arrive. I patted my pockets, hunting for my phone. Crap! I’d left it in the car. Along with my pistol I’d promised Pop to carry. I took one more quick peek out the window.
Cuff and Trigger harassed the truck, yapping at its tires, until it disappeared around the corner of the house and out of sight. I sprinted to the living room, my mind whirling. Heavy footfalls stomped across the back deck. I had a sinking feeling. Someone was hunting me.
A sickening yelp stopped my heart, but propelled my feet forward into motion.
Trigger!!! Cuff came through, loud and clear. Oh, Chiquita! He’s coming! Hide!
The backdoor slid open and slammed shut. I could hear Cuff’s muffled barking outside.
My survival instincts kicked in and I skittered down the long hallway, my back flattened against the wall, moving toward the master bedroom. I needed to get my hands on the shotgun Nick kept under the bed. It wouldn’t matter if I shut my eyes when I pulled the trigger; the pellet spray would take whoever it was down.
Feeling my way along the wall, I realized I hadn’t heard so much as a bump or a scuffle since the intruder entered. Had he even come inside? When my hands reached the doorframe of the master bedroom, I turned and dove underneath the bed, my hands skimming over the wood floor, searching in desperation to locate the gun.
It had to be here! I flipped the bed skirt up and spotted the 12-gauge deep in the cavernous underneath. Scurrying further in, I reached for the steel barrel. Got it!
Something heavy landed hard on my back, pinning me to the floor, squeezing the breath from my lungs. Hands gripped my waist and yanked me out from under the bed, twisting my hands behind my back.
“Let me go!” I squirmed, writhed, and bucked.
“I warned you to back off!” a voice growled. “But then you figured it out. I saw it on your face back at the funeral.”
Seth Welton.
Rough hands jerked me from the floor like a rag doll, smacking my head against the metal bed frame. Pain shot through my skull, my vision blurred as my life flashed before my eyes.
“Hold still!” he yelled.
“Help!” I managed a pathetic scream as I thrashed around, attempting to free myself from his grip. But who was I trying to fool? Nobody would come, at least not anytime soon. Invisible vise-like hands clamped around my lungs. I sucked in a ragged breath, choking out a wheezy cough.
“I was gonna leave town and let you live, but I turned around. Ain’t no one gonna rescue you. The whole damn town’s at the funeral. Even your new lover boy,” he said, his gravelly voice hissing in my ear. “And next week, they’ll be attending your funeral!”
A full-fledged asthma attack threatened with every inhalation. And like the phone and gun, my inhaler was in the car. I had the worst freaking luck. Fuzzy white clouds danced in my sight. The sound of my drumming heartbeat filled my head. I could almost feel the blood pumping inside my veins. This was how I felt the other day, right before I passed...
SOUNDING AS IF HE WAS a million miles away, Cuff barked, rousing me from my stupor. His thoughts far away, but coming through.
Wake up, Chiquita! Please!
I had the odd sensation of floating. No wait. Dragged. Yes, that was it. With my arms above my head, my body slid along a smooth surface. I pried my eyes open. Oak cabinets whizzed past me.
I recalled the events before I’d passed out. Someone attacked me, in Nick’s home, by the driver of the white truck. Seth Welton. And now, the lunatic would kill me.
Fight hard, Chiquita! Cuff barked again, pleading with me inside my head.
Thanks to Cuff, I found a renewed strength. I struggled, kicked, and flipped over, breaking free from my assailant’s grip. I low-crawled a few inches when he pounced on my back, pinning me to the floor.
“Uuuggghhh!” I screamed.
“Hold still!” he growled, grabbing me by the hair.
“Let go of me!” I said, struggling under the weight of him. “My Pop will be here any second!” I choked, my wheezing intensifying.
He cackled, jerked my head up, and rammed it against the floor. My world went black. Again.
Chapter 23
I came to and gazed up at the strained face of Agent Welton as he tried dragging me through the sliding glass door. He cursed my limp body with every breath. Everything ached.
“It was you, the whole time?” I croaked.
He laughed, his eyes wild and crazy. “Surprise!” He ripped a red dog leash from his back pocket.
The son-of-a-gun planned on tying me up with one of my own leashes! I thrashed. Not happening. “I thought... the Schirmacks were involved somehow,” I said between ragged breaths. “But it was you?”
He gripped my wrists and tried to flip me over on my stomach. I fought with every ounce of strength I had left.
“If you would’ve kept your big nose out of it, you wouldn’t have to die today.” He struggled with my hands. “Aunt Flora insisted that Uncle Dale rob the bank. She nagged and nagged him until he snapped. Then they killed the homeless dude, and I had to come and save their asses. The two of them couldn’t even follow through with the bank job, so I did it for them. They raised me as a kid. Said I owed them. Now, hold the hell still!”
So, he was the Schirmack’s nephew. Flora told me the day after Samson’s murder he’d come to visit. But in reality, he’d come to town to clean up their mess.
I resisted and thrashed. I needed some time to figure out how to get free. I needed to stall him.
“So, they killed Samson to keep him quiet? What’d they do with Virgil?” I asked him.
Cuff nipped, tugged, and pounced on the lower half of his legs. Welton kicked at my canine hero. Thankfully, he didn’t make contact.
“The old man caught them snooping around the bank one night. They saw him go into your place, so they broke in and off’ed the guy. Who the hell is Virgil?” Welton roared.
My buddy, that’s who! Cuff sunk his teeth into Welton’s ankle.
With a yelp, Welton released my arms.
I flipped over and scrambled back away from him. “The big black dog, Samson’s dog. You better not have hurt him!” I shouted.
“I would’ve shot him if it’d been me, but my aunt’s a sucker for dogs. The damn mutt’s out at their place, now, quit your whining!” he yelled and lunged for me.
Thank goodness Flora had been a dog person. At least she and I had that in common.
Cuff sucker-fished to his pant leg, tripping him. Welton fell to the deck, and Cuff scrambled up the length of his body and locked onto his nose with needle-like canines. Welton howled, pawing at Cuff.
While my pup occupied the assailant, I scrambled back into the kitchen. I clawed my way up the wood cabinet, steadied myself on wobbly legs, and grabbed the cast iron by the handle. I focused on my target. Swing batter, batter... swing!
Cuff and I made eye contact.
BITE HARD, I thought.
You got this, Chiquita! My pup clamped down one more time on Welton’s nose, and then he scurried out of harm’s way.
I raised the skillet above my head and wondered if this was how a soldier felt when he hunted his enemy. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, as I readied myself for the attack. I charged forward. The cast iron smashed into Welton’s skull with a sickening Thwack! and we both collided on the deck outside.
Go, Chiquita! Cuff’s howls filled the backyard.
With the intensity of fighting off my attacker, my lungs tightened, signaling an asthmatic episode. I attempted to take slow, deep breaths as I rolled over onto my side and away from Welton’s limp body. I lay there, trying to coax my lungs into submission.
Welton’s eyes were half-lidded and a thin stream of blood trickled from a wide gash on the left side of his hairline and dripped onto a wooden plank.
“Did I kill him?” He sure looks dead.
Cuff trotted around to Welton’s head, something red dangled from his muzzle. It was the red nylon rope leash. Cuff dropped it on the deck near me and sniffed Welton. He’s not dead. Tie his hands up and quick!
I eyed the cast iron pan a few feet away. I believed Gertie’s skillet was used to murder Samson, so it seemed fitting to use it on Welton.
Karma’s a bitch, right, Chiquit
a?
“How right you are, little buddy,” I said. Using all my strength, I crawled over and heaved Welton onto his stomach. I stretched his limp arms behind his back. One end of the leash I wrapped around his wrists and then hiked his ankles up, strapping the other end around both ankles. With the speed of a calf-roping rodeo star, I looped the metal collar snap through the looped-handle end and the end tied around his wrists, and bound his ankles and wrists together. I secured the metal latch on the leash.
“And that’s how to leash a thief,” I said, panting. I backed up to the vinyl siding of the house and sat against it, admiring my handiwork.
Dang, Chiquita. You hogtied him. Cuff trotted over beside me, wagging his tail.
Trigger limped up and planted a slobbery kiss on my cheek. I patted his head.
“I’m so glad you’re okay, big guy. Well boys, we did it—” I got a little woozy. Deep breaths.
You okay? Cuff licked my hand.
I heard the distinct rumble of a motorcycle as it raced toward the house. Officer Jackson. Oh thank goodness. “We will be fine, little buddy.”
Officer Jackson, Special Agent Metzger, and the rest of the cavalry arrived. I told them I’d figured out about how Schirmack owned the black car, and how they’d killed Samson, and enlisted their nephew, Seth Welton, to help them.
IT WASN’T UNTIL I’D called Lenora yesterday at the police department that Agent Metzger had grown suspicious of Agent Welton, and he’d put a call into his superiors. When Metzger learned Welton was a federal agent out of Oklahoma, but was on suspension for sexual harassment, he’d confronted him and told Welton to get off his case. Welton was supposed to leave town and report back to his own superiors.
As the officers unbound Welton from the dog leash and applied real handcuffs, he moaned and began thrashing like a slug high on PCP. Writhing, his eyes shot daggers at me, and he whined about how, “The damn little red-haired bitch got in his way and screwed up his plans.” He cursed and called me every name in the book when they hauled his butt away. I heard Special Agent Metzger order him to “shut his mouth.”