by Linda Lovely
Linda looked at her watch, prompting me to peek at mine. It was exactly noon. The campaign manager freed a hand-held mike from its holder. I doubted Carol would stand behind the podium. She never used notes and liked to pace while she talked.
“Thank you for joining us today,” Linda began. “What a wonderful occasion—welcoming the next governor of South Carolina and her son, Zack, back home, safe, and on the mend. Let’s tell Carol and Zack Strong how happy we are that they’ve survived not one but two malicious attacks!”
Thunderous applause and whistles filled the air along with louder chants. I was pleased to mostly see—and hear—enthusiastic support. A few detractors had slipped in. I heard one yell, “Liar! Murderer!” He was quickly drowned out.
I scanned the faces of the people who jostled around me, wishing once more that I was taller than five-four. Sala had me by five inches and wore sandals with cork wedges that boosted her height to almost six feet. Maybe she could serve as my periscope.
“See anyone who looks remotely like a match for Fred or Allie?” I urged. “They wouldn’t necessarily be standing together.”
“Sorry. Not yet,” Sala answered.
Carol took center stage. With her arms spread wide, she played conductor, quieting the audience. “Thank you, thank you. I want to win this election. But winning any office can’t compare with the blessings I’m celebrating today. The son I love more than anything in this world has awakened from his coma, and I’ve survived my enemies’ attacks—from kidnapping to bullets meant to kill not only me but the friends kind enough to take me in.”
Sala nudged me and bent to whisper in my ear. “Talks a little more high-nosed in public, doesn’t she?”
I stifled a giggle. Inappropriate, but Sala’s comment struck me as funny. Of course, laughing at inopportune times had long been one of my less-endearing traits. At Cousin Robin’s wedding, I’d struggled mightily to hold back my tee-hees. Just before the bride and her soon-to-be husband recited their vows, the church organ struck chords that made the wood in our pews vibrate, prompting the stranger beside me to let out one whopper of a fart.
Once again, I scanned the sea of faces in my visual neighborhood. Carol introduced Sheriff Mason to give a selective update on his investigations into Zack’s attack, Carol’s abduction, and the attempt to frame her as a killer. There were audible gasps as the audience heard for the first time that Chester was being held as a suspect in an attempt to frame Carol for Mick’s murder. It was also the first many had heard about an attempt by two gunmen to kill Carol and me.
Mason concluded with standard law enforcement lingo regarding his inability to answer any questions or comment on ongoing aspects of the investigation into the kidnapping effort, Mick Hardy’s murder, or the hunt for an unnamed gunman in the shootout at the Udderly corral. Doug, Kate, Fred, and Allie were never mentioned. Mason ended with a comment that he was following up on “very promising” leads.
The sheriff’s reference to the missing gunman I knew as Gunter made my skin crawl. Would the killer dare return? Try to add a notch—or two—to his belt in a public setting?
I was about to nudge Sala and tell her to keep an eye out for her former employee, when she elbowed me.
“Have a possibility,” she whispered. “A couple that kinda looks like your wankers. She has a piss-poor dye job with frizzy split ends. Looks like she’s wearing a clown’s wig. Her sour puss could turn hot tamales into icicles. The guy next to her is kind of nondescript, but he does have dark hair with some gray, and his expression says he’s either angry or constipated. Don’t think they’re fans of the Strong clan or the sheriff.”
I couldn’t see over the intervening heads. Sala watched my unsuccessful attempt to stand on tiptoe for a better view. “Here.” Sala slipped off her sandals. “Put my shoes on. They’ll give you another four inches.”
I was wearing one of my fancier pairs of shoes—backless, slip-on Skechers. No problem to toe them off. But I doubted my wide tootsies could squeeze into Sala’s shoes. Andy’s and Paint’s shoes were a more likely fit.
“Come on, hurry,” Sala urged.
We were hemmed in so tightly, I could barely see my feet let alone Sala’s vacated shoes. I slipped my feet, socks and all, into her platform shoes and teetered for a moment before I felt confident I wouldn’t topple.
Yes, indeedy, Sala had spotted our quarry. Excited, I searched the crowd for Deputy Danny, swiveling right and left like a wound-up bobble head. No luck.
That’s when I heard the thunder that arrived almost simultaneously with a flash of lightning. The rumble shook the ground. Not much of an early warning system. The wind came next, driving the cold rain sideways. It drilled into our faces. I squinted, trying to keep sight of Allie and Fred.
People jostled us as they stampeded for cover. The wind added its own buffeting assault. Standing our ground, we seemed to be tackle dummies for runners to plough into as they headed for their cars.
I still wore Sala’s platform sandals. When a strong gust forced my head down, I glimpsed one of my abandoned shoes. Someone had kicked it like a soccer ball into a scrum of drenched reporters.
“My shoes are gone,” I shouted at Sala over the drumming rain. “I’ll kick yours off so you can put them on.”
“Forget it, don’t waste time. Look for those two where you last saw them. I don’t mind walking barefoot so long as some clown doesn’t crush my toes.”
I plunged into the wet human sea, using a breaststroke type maneuver to separate bodies and push myself forward. The last time I’d worn heels was at Robin’s wedding and that was five years ago, so I was somewhat glad the press of bodies helped keep my wavering body vertical.
I heard Carol’s voice over the loudspeakers pleading for calm.
I feared I’d lost Allie and Fred in the wet crush when I spotted the woman’s soggy mop of hair, even frizzier than normal. Fred had grabbed her upper arm, trying to hustle her to the barricades and beyond. Since his broad hand didn’t quite span her pudgy limb, his action was more push than guide. Allie seemed focused on staying upright, a concern I shared.
I’d lurched within a few feet of the pair when Fred spotted me. “It’s that Hooker girl barreling our way,” he yelled. “Hurry up, Allie.”
I desperately searched for Deputy Danny. No luck.
Fred’s latest shove made Allie sway. In a desperate attempt to prevent a close-up examination of the pavement, she stumbled in my direction, arms outspread like the wings of a plane attempting to land in a squall. I tried to backpedal but my foreign footwear had other ideas. I pitched forward and collided with Allie.
I saw the panic in her eyes just before she toppled. A second later I lost my fight with gravity and landed full force. Allie’s dumpling figure softened my landing. Though I feared Allie’s screams might break my eardrums, I was happy she was trapped under me.
I became quite a bit less happy when Allie started pummeling me. Her hands might be pudgy but they packed a wallop.
I wriggled sideways to win a position that pinned my wrestling partner’s energetic fists. Then Fred, who remained upright, landed a kick. A direct hit to my ribs. In self-defense, I reached out and grabbed one of his ankles, right above a shiny tasseled loafer. Fred didn’t even have time to yell. Went down like a big oak submitting to the indignity of a chainsaw. I wanted to yell “timber.”
I started to giggle. Then Fred scrambled to his knees. His shaking hand held a gun. When would I ever learn how to throttle my impulse to laugh when startled? I’d nudged the man over the edge. Though admittedly Fred had been teetering pretty close to the mental brink for a long time.
I yelled, “Gun,” just as Deputy Danny launched his stocky self into the fray.
A second later I was coughing and crying as I rolled off Allie’s plump body.
Pepper spray. My eyes burned like someone had forced my eyelids open and
injected a hundred tiny hot embers. I couldn’t spit a word out of my scorched throat.
Pickled pig’s feet.
I wasn’t the only one hacking out my lungs. I struggled to see through my tears. Did Fred still have his gun? Squinting, I watched Danny bend down and swat wildly in the direction of Fred’s doubled-over frame. Danny’s eyes, like mine, were little more than slits. As Mom would say the deputy had been hoisted by his own petard. The rain had tightly concentrated the spray, and Danny couldn’t escape the blowback.
Fred, who was kneeling when the spray hit, pitched forward to try to protect his eyes. Now he was kissing the pavement. The hands that protectively cupped the sides of his face were empty. One of Danny’s windmill swings must have knocked the gun from Fred’s hands.
Where was it?
I blinked trying to see through a torrent of tears.
“Think I’ll take this into temporary custody if it’s okay with everyone,” Sala said as she scooped up the gun.
Sala had pulled the tail of her blouse up to cover her nose and mouth. The maneuver revealed her taut stomach and lacy red bra to anyone who could still see. Danny kept blinking but seemed more riveted on Sala’s midriff than the gun or Allie and Fred, whose coughs sounded like warnings about emphysema. Neither Allie nor Fred had made a serious attempt to unglue themselves from the wet concrete.
Sheriff Mason, gun drawn, barged into our little tableau like a raging bull.
“What the hell did you do, Danny? Looks like you managed to pepper spray yourself.”
Danny coughed. “Couldn’t shoot, Sheriff. I could have hit Brie or some bystander. But I had to stop Fred from firing that gun.”
“Well, get up,” Mason said. “Help me take these two into custody.”
Mason yanked Fred upright, patted him down, and slapped on handcuffs with practiced speed. Allie squirmed into a sitting position. Danny reached down to help her stand up, but backed off when she barked, “Don’t you touch me. I’m going to sue the Ardon Sheriff’s Department for all it’s worth.”
Mason paid her no heed. He came up behind her and grabbed under her armpits to hoist her upright. His lack of awe and deference incensed her even more. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” she screeched.
The sheriff smiled. “Yes, ma’am, I surely do. Allison Gerome, you are under arrest for the kidnapping of Carol Strong…”
While I’d untangled my limbs from Allie’s, I hadn’t tried to get up. Too busy weeping and choking. Sometime during our melee, the rain stopped. The thunder and lightning that had switched on like they’d been staged for a movie set, switched off once the cameraman yelled, “Cut.” The water hadn’t disappeared though. A cold river running across the concrete had soaked through my trousers and breached my undies. I began to shiver and shake.
A pair of strong hands pulled me to a standing position. Okay, a wobbling position. I couldn’t believe Sala’s blasted platform sandals had stayed on my feet. I looked over my shoulder to thank my helper.
Paint grinned.
“Maybe you should start with trainer heels. Don’t think you’re ready for those big-girl shoes.”
Paint’s wet black hair glistened. A trickle of trapped water found an escape route and meandered down his cheek. His tongue snaked out and licked a drop that made it to the corner of his oh-so-inviting lips.
Andy’s chuckle stopped me from launching another spontaneous smooch. I’d have nailed Paint with this one.
I returned Andy’s smile, and awarded Paint with a simple, “Thanks.”
Though the crowd had dispersed, cameramen were capturing every frame of the unexpected arrest of Fred Baxter and Allie Gerome.
Sala looked at me. Given that she was barefoot and I wore her heels, we were almost eye level.
“I gave Deputy Danny that Fred guy’s gun. So how about you give my shoes back?”
THIRTY-NINE
The Strong house was crowded. Carol had welcomed in all the green-shirted ARGH supporters as well as Sala and the Udderly crew. There weren’t quite enough towels to go around so Mollye and I shared. After vigorously rubbing my short hair, I quit dripping. Mollye wasn’t as lucky. Her shoulder-length mane stayed plastered to her scalp. The green streak down her part looking like marshland.
I felt claustrophobic in the packed house and a little shaky after my wrestling match with Allie. Linda and Carol were talking campaign strategy with one group. Zack, Paint, and Andy were deep in conversation with Howie Lemcke about his wounded veterans’ retreat. Eva had joined a cluster of ARGH members in the kitchen. They were setting out a buffet. Lots of Carol’s supporters had brought casseroles and finger foods for an informal homecoming celebration after the news conference. I crossed my fingers there’d be some naked fruit and veggies.
Sala and Mollye stood with me on the fringes of the activity.
“I need some fresh air,” I said. “Think I’ll go outside for a few minutes.”
“Why not?” Sala and Mollye chirped, almost in unison.
Sala laughed. “Can’t get much wetter and there’s not much prospect of getting dry either unless I strip.”
“I’m game if you are,” Mollye said.
“No way.” Sala chuckled. “Have enough problems defending my reputation without giving my step-worm more ammunition.”
We used the two soggy towels we had between us to cover the first porch step. That gave us a place to sit and we could rest our backs against the edge of the porch. Sitting on the damp towel, I looked at the empty street that had been clogged with bodies half an hour before. All signs of law enforcement—town cops and sheriff’s deputies—were gone. But the two Hummers hadn’t moved.
“Will you keep that executive protection service on the clock now that Doug and Kate have both flown off and Carol’s kidnappers are locked up?” I asked Sala.
Elbows on her knees and chin resting in her hands, she stared at the Hummers. “Too soon to call it safe. We don’t know for sure who killed Mick. My bet’s on Vince and Gunter. Doug must have discovered Mick was wigging out and commissioned Vince and Gunter to prevent him from blabbing. Still it beats me how Doug could come up with enough money to hire a hit.”
“Do you think Kate paid them?” I asked. “Paint and I were told about a suspicious van loitering outside Kate’s hotel after you fired Gunter and Vince.”
Sala shook her head. “No. Can’t buy that. My stepdaughter is a slimy piece of work but I can’t believe she’d actually pay someone to commit murder.”
Mollye stretched out her legs so her ankles rested against the rounded lip of the stair below us. “If Vince and Gunter killed Mick, maybe they had their own motive to get rid of Carol. Doug was in the hospital room when we were talking about Carol trying to sort out what was real and what was hallucination while she was tied up at the cabin. They know she was there when Mick was murdered. Maybe Doug passed along the info and they worried she’d get enough memory back to ID them.”
I nodded. “I see where you’re going. They might even worry the sheriff coached Carol to pretend she couldn’t remember what happened so she’d be protected as a witness until Mason nabbed them. If the pair had already killed one person, they may have thought why take a chance?”
Mollye tapped a finger against her temple. “Pretty good figuring, if you ask me. We’re not half-bad at this sleuthing business.”
“If we’re right, I feel a lot better about Carol’s safety. Surely Gunter wouldn’t stick around Ardon now that the sheriff has issued a warrant for his arrest as a suspect in the death of his partner. I still shudder thinking about the creep killing his own partner in cold blood.”
Sala slowly twisted her neck side to side and up and down. I did that when my shoulder muscles felt like guitar strings tightened to the point of snapping. She’d been under a ton of strain lately.
“I don’t know,” Sala said. “For Gunter
to be convicted of Vince’s murder, the prosecution would need eye-witness testimony from you and Carol that Vince was alive when you rode into the woods. Gunter might still have a strong incentive to get rid of both of you.”
I shivered. “Let’s talk about something other than more murders—especially Carol’s or my potential departure from planet earth.”
Mollye glanced sideways at me. I was the tomato in our porch step sandwich.
“Not sure you’ll be any fonder of the topic I want to bring up,” she said. “What the hell’s going on between you and Andy? He keeps looking at you like he’s expecting some sign, and you keep averting your eyes. Come on, give. What happened?”
I decided I might as well share my predicament. Maybe my friends could offer some good advice. I desperately wanted to keep Andy and Paint as friends. I couldn’t bear to hurt either of them. I’d have to learn how to tamp down my jealousy. Deal with the fact they were going to fall in love with other women and move on if I didn’t make a decision soon.
Mollye and Sala listened as I described how I’d ended my self-imposed let’s-just-be-friends arrangement by impetuously kissing Andy.
“He told me he was crazy about me, and I made it more than clear I hated seeing him with another woman.” I sighed. “Then I kissed him. It wasn’t a thank-you-for-bringing-over-the-horse-trailer smooch. It was more like a one-more-minute-and-I’ll-rip-off-your-shirt kiss. Andy had to interpret it as me waving a starter flag for us to speed down romance lane with no other passengers in our vehicle.
“An hour later I started to panic. I’d been equally jealous seeing Paint with another woman. I knew I didn’t want to choose. I was so confused. I even asked that stupid Ouija board, should it be Andy or Paint? The answer didn’t help one damn bit. I—”
Mollye broke in. “So now you want to tell Andy you didn’t mean it?” My friend’s tone was downright hostile. “That poor guy got his heart stomped on by that gold digger who divorced him. You can’t hurt him like this.”
