"So what is this person trying to accomplish? You haven't mentioned any demands for money."
"That's it—there have been no demands. The emails only talk about getting revenge, but Alex has no idea for what. He doesn't know of anybody getting upset with him or the company. There have been no explanations about why the email writer is so angry."
"Then that blows the detective's extortion theory out of the water, doesn't it?"
"Exactly!" Amy smacked her hand on the end table. The sound startled Macy. Her arms and legs flailed in protest. Geri quickly stuck the dislodged bottle's nipple back into her mouth and made comforting sounds. "I'm sorry," Amy said. "I didn't mean to scare her."
"It's not a problem." Geri kissed the top of the calmed baby's head. "She's fine. And you have every right to be upset. What bothers me is everything seems to me to be out of order."
Amy rubbed her hands over her eyes to pressure them into not leaking any tears. She couldn't follow the conversation if her life depended on it…and it very well might, considering the latest threat. "I don't know what you mean by out of order—like it's broken and isn't working?"
"No, I mean the sequence. Anger builds, sometimes to the point of murder. So why commit the murder first and then make threats? Situations usually escalate, but this seems backwards. First the murder, then the threats started, followed up with the Dumpster blaze, and now another threat. It seems illogical to me, the way everything has played out."
She hated to admit it, but… "Maybe Foster is correct. The threats and fire aren't connected to the murder, just a way to torture Alex."
"Or maybe she's wrong. If everything is connected, why is it happening in this order?"
Amy tilted her head back and rested it on the back of the couch. She stared at the white ceiling. "I don't know. Maybe they're squirrels."
"Okay, now you've lost me." Geri set the bottle down and moved the sleepy baby onto her shoulder. She patted Macy's back and asked, "What do squirrels have to do with this?"
"Pogo can be totally focused on begging for a treat, but all I have to say is 'squirrel,' and he'll go running into the living room to jump on the couch and look out the front window. Someone could be using the threats as a way to cry squirrel and distract us from something that really matters. The treat of discovering who the murderer is."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Amy flipped another page in the cookbook. It was filled with recipes for quick and easy meals—a good thing since it was almost dinner time. But nothing sounded appealing. And she couldn't concentrate. Very likely an easy meal that involved any knife-wielding, chopping, or slicing would turn into a quick trip to the emergency room. She would like to keep all of her fingers intact. It wasn't as if she had the energy to move anyway. There were too many worrisome thoughts circulating and percolating in her mind, weighing her down so that she felt as though her bottom was glued to the breakfast nook bench. She had no idea what Detective Foster was thinking—or doing—about the murder case, but Amy was terrified. There was no doubt in her mind that the threats Alex was receiving were tied to Phoebe's death. And they were hinting at some very serious consequences. What if Charlotte had been correct about the murder being a case of mistaken blonde identity, and she had been the target all along?
The thump of Alex's Jeep door brought her mind back around to the fact that she was too stressed to cook. That was something that didn't happen often. Amy closed the unused cookbook as Alex punched his code into the security system pad next to the kitchen door. The beeps alerted Pogo to his presence. The small dog barreled into the kitchen from wherever he had been occupying himself in the house, most likely napping on the couch.
After the door was locked behind him, Alex bent to scratch behind the furry greeter's ears. Amy stayed seated as the unspoken questions hung in the space between her and her husband. Not even Pogo's enthusiastic display of affection could make it all better. What were they going to do? What would happen next?
"That's my good guard dog," Alex cooed. He squatted down to receive the flurry of grateful doggy kisses but kept his eyes on Amy. "It doesn't smell like you're cooking, so I bet you're thinking the same thing as I am. It's been a long day. Let's go out to dinner and relax a bit. I'm sure we'll be safe in a busy restaurant. I don't think the person would be stupid enough to try something in a crowd."
Amy blinked. Going to a restaurant was one of the few things she hadn't thought of. Since she was very short on motivation to cook, it was an excellent idea. But the second half of Alex's analysis made her even more jittery—something she didn't think was possible. Her own mind had done a good enough job at freaking her out. She trusted Alex's judgment though. "Sounds good. I've been jumping at every sound since I've been home. I guess I may feel better hanging out in a bustling restaurant. As long as you think Pogo will be safe here alone."
He stood up. "He has a doggy door escape route into the backyard, and we have great neighbors, along with a neighborhood watch group. I also talked with the officer in the cybercrimes division who is investigating the emails. He said he'll have some patrol cars swing through the area to keep an eye on the house and Quantum since there was imminent harm indicated in today's threat."
"Okay." Amy crossed the kitchen and put the cookbook back in its place on the bookshelf. She felt as though her muscles were made of saltwater taffy. Every step was an effort. "Now the question is where do we go? I know it's a rare occurrence, but nothing sounds appetizing to me."
Alex locked his arms around her waist as she stood in front of the shelves filled with cookbooks. She leaned back against him. His chest muscles were a nice warm pillow for her head and the headache that was trying to manifest inside it.
"How about fish tacos?" he asked. "A bunch of my employees have been going to that new sports pub downtown for lunch. The tacos are supposed to be excellent, but I haven't tried them yet. I guess you can choose between different varieties of fish along with having it fried or broiled."
Amy placed her hands on top of his, which were laced together over her belly. Fish tacos hadn't been on her dinner menu radar, but they sounded good. On cue, her stomach grumbled. When was the last time she ate? Alex chuckled softly and whispered, "We can head downtown whenever you're ready."
"Let me get Pogo his dinner, and then we can leave."
Ten minutes later they settled into Alex's Jeep. Pogo had wolfed down his bowl of kibble and was working for his dessert. Amy had filled a hollow treat ball with homemade sweet potato doggy biscuit nuggets. When they had walked out the door, the pup was busy batting the perplexing toy around the kitchen trying to get it to release his snack. "Has anything else happened since I talked to you this afternoon?" Amy asked as Alex backed the vehicle down the driveway. She really hoped not, but considering the way things had been going, she had to ask.
He shook his head. "Other than giving myself a headache trying to figure out who my company pissed off? No." He maneuvered the Jeep into the street then shifted it into drive. "I've done my own digging on the employees who have been fired. One lives in Alaska. The other in Florida. And both of them appear to be doing well, based on what I can see on their social media profiles. I really don't think it's either of them."
"So if it isn't them, who is it? A customer?"
Alex raked his fingers through his short hair, leaving behind ridges and furrows. "I've always made sure we do our best to satisfy customers. So if a company has a problem with Quantum, I do everything possible to make it right with them. If somebody had a major issue, I wasn't told about it."
"What if a salesperson or installer didn't want to get in trouble so purposely never brought something to your attention?"
"That's possible, but I don't think very likely. I can't imagine anyone doing that. All of my employees have a lot of integrity, from what I see of them at work."
Unless one of them had a hidden dark side—Detective Foster's theory du jour. They didn't talk anymore during the drive to downtown. Sitting next to Alex in
his Jeep was slightly better than jumping at every noise, alone at home. But Amy was still battling a mental swarm of scary scenarios that she couldn't shake. What did the email mean? She was positive that Alex didn't have a secret evil side, but what had he done to be the recipient of a revenge campaign?
"I'm going to drive by Quantum, just to make sure nothing is going on," Alex said as they cruised past Riverbend Café. He switched on the Jeep's blinker.
Amy's fingers ached as she gripped the armrest on the vehicle's door. But they turned the corner, and the building appeared fine. No damage, suspicious people, or emergency vehicles were in sight as Alex turned again to drive past the parking lot. A quick journey around the block afforded them a view of all sides of the three-story office building. Alex pulled into an open parking spot along the street near the front door once he had completed the inspection loop. He leaned on the steering wheel and looked past Amy to study the windows of the business he had worked so very hard to establish and grow. "Everything looks fine. I'm guessing the person behind the emails is more talk than action."
"Let's hope so."
She stared out the side window as the Jeep pulled out of the parking space. There were no movements that she could see through the reflective coating on the windows. The mirror-like privacy feature would work in favor of an intruder. But breaking in while it was still daylight seemed like too brash and risky of a move for the unnamed slimeball tormentor. The rich smell of coffee wafted through the vehicle. Alex had cracked the window open, and a breeze brought the signature scent from Riverbend Café into the Jeep. Amy inhaled deeply. The aroma ranked up there with her favorite scents in the world, right along with warm chocolate cake and lemongrass tea.
The stoplight turned green, and Alex turned the Jeep onto Main Street. The fabled fish tacos were only two blocks away. She watched people strolling along the sidewalk. The windows of Make It Unique were a kaleidoscope of colorful pottery pieces. She'd wave at Geri if she was working at the pottery wheel in the window.
Amy's eardrums exploded with pain. The Jeep shook as though it was being attacked by Godzilla. All of the air was pushed out of her lungs by the seatbelt as she was propelled forward. What was happening? The windshield glass was a giant, glimmering spider web as she turned to look at Alex.
"Get out!" he yelled.
Her neck muscles spasmed in pain when she turned toward her door. Why was it so dark? Where was the handle? Her vision was going in and out of focus as tears streamed down her face. The door magically opened before she could find the handle. An unfamiliar man reached across her and unlatched the seatbelt. His arms wiggled behind her back and under her legs. A fresh wave of pain radiated through her ankle when it smashed into the doorframe as he yanked her out of the Jeep. A flash of intense heat washed over her as the man turned toward the sidewalk. Why? Amy's foot smacked into the roof of a sedan as he carried her between two parked cars. More tears blurred her vision. The man set her down on the edge of one of the brick planters. "The ambulance and fire department are on the way," he said.
Amy turned to look at the Jeep. Flames topped with plumes of black smoke whorled out of the engine compartment. The hood was flipped up, lying back on the windshield. The passenger door was still open. She could see Alex wasn't inside the vehicle. An icy ripple of fear radiated through her. Where was he?
Strangers gathered around her. Their mouths were moving, but she couldn't hear what they were saying over the drum of her own heartbeat. She stood and grimaced at the twin jolts of pain in her rescuer-abused feet. It didn't matter. She had to find Alex.
"Amy!" Alex broke through a barricade of people. In a second, he was in front of her. A trickle of blood traced from his forehead down the side of his face as he placed his hands on her shoulders. "Are you hurt?"
"Not badly." She reached up and touched his forehead next to where the blood was originating. "But you're bleeding."
He swiped at the crimson streak with the back of his hand, smearing the blood across his cheek. "I'll be fine. This is ridiculous. Why is someone trying to kill us?"
The world was spinning, even though she was safe in Alex's arms. She turned her head to look at the burning Jeep again. The passenger seat where she had been sitting only moments earlier was blanketed in flames. But something wasn't right. Where was the other vehicle that had collided with them? Hadn't they been in an accident? "What do you mean? Didn't another car hit us?"
"No. We didn't run into anything. That's why the air bags didn't go off." He squeezed her tighter. "The engine blew up. There were no warning lights or indication that there was a mechanical problem with it. I think it was some kind of bomb."
"Are you two okay? The ambulance will be here any second," another voice said as a second pair of arms encircled her from behind. Amy turned away from the inferno. Geri released her from the embrace and took a step backward. "I've never been so scared in my life. I glanced up from the pottery wheel and…and I am so glad to see you both standing here."
There was blood smeared across the side of Geri's face too. Amy squinted at the streak. "I think I'm okay, but you're bleeding."
Geri shook her head. She cupped Amy's elbow in her hand. "Honey, you need to sit down. I'm not bleeding. You are."
Amy crumpled onto the edge of the planter again. There was a spot stinging on the back of her head. She touched the area. Her fingertips were covered in blood. "I don't know what happened. Why am I bleeding?"
"You were probably cut by glass. All of the windows were shattered," Alex said as he sat beside her.
Two paramedics pushed their way through the wall of people that surrounded them. The woman squatted in front of Amy and said, "My name is Sue. I'll be taking care of you. Tell me where you hurt."
There was a collective "ooh" from the crowd of bystanders. Amy turned to look at the object of their fascination—the Jeep. Firefighters were showering it with water. Cyclones of smoke and steam rose from the vehicle shell. A hand gripping her wrist tugged Amy's attention back to the paramedic who asked again, "Can you tell me where you're injured?"
"My ears hurt, but that's it…I think." She looked down at her bloody fingers. "I…I guess my head is bleeding too."
Time became elastic as the world sped up and then slowed down at random intervals. Nothing seemed to be moving at a normal pace. The indistinct murmurs of bystanders mixed with the cold mist drifting from the water being sprayed on the fire all punctuated with the sirens of more emergency vehicles arriving on the scene. At some point, it was decided that she and Alex needed to be transported to the hospital to check for internal injuries and stitch up the cuts from being pelted with glass shards and chunks of the Jeep's dash.
Amy was loaded onto a gurney and hoisted into the ambulance. Alex climbed aboard and was instructed to sit on the built-in bench next to her. He grabbed her hand and said, "I'm going to figure out who did this, even if I have to do it on my own without the help of the police."
Pretty much the same thing she was thinking.
The sirens on the emergency vehicle whirred to life. She squeezed her husband's hand. He was her knight in shining armor. But while she was in distress at the moment, she was sure she could figure out who was behind the attacks too. Nobody messed with her husband and got away with it.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
(Carla)
Carla lifted her thumb off of the steering wheel and bent it to crack the joint. She had been gripping the wheel a little too tightly, and her hands were paying for it. Bruce was too. He didn't look impressed in the least as he clutched the armrest of the passenger seat while she pushed on the accelerator pedal and threaded her car into an opening in traffic.
"I have an idea for a new job for you," he said as he looked over his shoulder at the car she had just pulled in front of, which was flashing its headlights in protest. "You can help with driving courses at the police academy by pretending you are a fleeing suspect. Most police officers who I know would have a hard time keeping up with you."
<
br /> She ignored her husband's attempt to lighten the mood. It was impossible that she was heading to the emergency room to see a loved one for the second time in less than a week. Impossible. Yet it was happening. Her mother had called after Alex's Jeep blew up on Main Street. Not in an accident. Not hit by another car or even caught on fire. Blew. Up. How did something like that happen?
Bruce probably had some ideas on what could cause a vehicle to explode, but she couldn't discuss that. Not while she needed to focus on getting both of them to the hospital as quickly as possible. Amy was injured. And Carla wanted to be by her side.
"Slow car!" He braced his right arm against the dash. Carla's gaze flicked to the side mirror. More than enough room. She jerked the steering wheel and veered into the left lane, neatly inserting the luckily compact Nissan Juke between a delivery van and a semitruck. Bruce's shoulder bumped into hers. He grunted and swore under his breath as he grabbed the door handle to straighten himself. Her husband was most definitely going to be happy when his wound was healed. For now, his arm was in a sling to help keep the injured area immobile—a disadvantage while he was trying to brace himself for the sudden lane changes.
They fell silent for a few minutes as Carla concentrated on getting through a knot of congested traffic. The route to the hospital was tattooed into her mind, following the roads and turns a reflexive memory from years of driving there and back home in various states of exhaustion—mental and physical. Autopilot mode was a survival feature. Carla guided the car into the turning lane. She stomped on the brake pedal when an ambulance, sirens suddenly blaring, barreled out of the emergency room parking lot and crossed in front of her. The sound still made her pulse quicken, even though she hadn't worked there in over six months.
Banana Muffins & Mayhem Page 15
