After they unplugged the music equipment and turned on a few industrial flood lamps, the crowd quickly thinned and dispersed.
I'd gotten in such a good mood doing the cheers, that I'd happily agreed to help Quinn clean up the barn and stack up the rental chairs. She and Chip had arrived in separate vehicles, so he gave his blond wife a kiss goodbye and left carrying their sleeping daughter.
An hour later, the novelty of stacking chairs had worn off, plus my body was starting to send me subtle signals that I should have stretched before doing so many enthusiastic high kicks up on the stage.
Quinn thanked me for being such a supportive team member.
“You're welcome,” I said. I would have followed up with something sarcastic about no longer being a member of her personal entourage, but I was too tired to hassle the woman. Let her enjoy her glory, I thought. Being a stage mother was going to be difficult, and she had no idea what was in store for her. Then again, if anyone was suited to the role, it was Quinn.
“Grab my laptop and we can get out of here,” she said.
“Sure thing.”
The laptop had been disconnected from the projector, which had left already with the AV rental company, along with the large speakers. As I leaned over to close the screen, I paused to watch the slideshow that was still running.
When the image showing the name and website for the photographer flashed up, I hit the spacebar to pause the slideshow.
The name of the photographer was Dwayne Greer.
As in Dwayne Effrain Greer.
His name was one of the ones on the sign-in sheet for Samantha's last open house before the murder. The police had looked into his whereabouts on the following Monday simply because he had a criminal record with some priors for public indecency and intoxication.
He'd checked out, with an alibi for the whole day. He'd been in Seattle.
The knowledge of this key fact shifted around everything I knew about the Michael Sweet homicide. Plus there was tonight's bombshell from Kyle about Trigger allegedly seeing Samantha at the house.
“Stormy, you're not going to barf, are you?”
I snapped the laptop shut and smiled at Quinn. “That punch was powerful stuff,” I said. “Do you mind if I take one last trip to the outhouse before we drive back to town?”
“Be my guest,” she said. “But the exterior lights are all taken down.”
“Can I take your phone and use the flashlight function? I'd take mine, but I forgot my purse at home.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “My phone?”
“Just to light the way.”
She walked over to the wall of the barn, grabbed a lantern from a hook on the wall, and handed it to me. “Watch out for bears,” she said.
I took the lantern and left the barn with a nervous laugh.
I walked toward the row of portable outhouses that had been rented for the annual hootenanny. The property had a genuine outhouse as well, with a genuine wooden seat that gave genuine slivers—hence the rentals.
Once I was sure Quinn wasn't watching me, I doubled back toward the barn and hung the lantern on a tree branch so I could investigate the burn barrel.
As teenagers, we'd gathered around this old metal barrel countless times, warming our hands and toasting marshmallows over the open flames.
I sniffed the inside of the barrel. Something had been burned there recently.
My heart felt like it might burst out of me from excitement.
I searched around for a stick from the ground and used it to poke around in the barrel's ashes. It turned up a chunk of something that hadn't burned. I leaned over, not caring that the edge of the burn barrel was getting soot on my sweater, and dug through the ashes with both hands. I pulled out a skinny, metal plate.
I'd seen something like this once before, on a reality TV show, when an angry housewife had driven over another housewife's expensive collection of designer shoes. It was the support for a stiletto shoe.
I plunged my hand into the bucket of ashes, digging eagerly for a second matching metal plate, even while part of me hoped my hunch was wrong.
Jackpot.
I pulled up a second piece. It was a perfect match. Either these were the shanks of a pair of women's stiletto heels, or I'd ruined a vintage cheerleader sweater for nothing. The thin sheet of metal would have run under the arch of the foot, connecting the heel to the ball, providing a counterbalance to stop the heel from caving in.
My hunch was right.
“Put that down,” came a voice from behind me.
I whirled around to face Michael Sweet's killer.
Chapter 40
Quinn McCabe, still dressed in her old cheerleader uniform, stared down at my sooty hands. She made the disgusted face I'd seen her make so many times when I and the other cheerleaders weren't performing up to her high standards.
“Stormy,” she said with disdain. “Your sweater is ruined. What are you doing digging around in that dirty old burn barrel?”
“Just helping you clean up. I thought someone dropped some silverware in here.” I held the two pieces of metal limply. “Are these salad tongs?”
“Maybe.” She stuck her chest out, but she didn't move her arms. Her hands were behind her back, hiding something.
I dropped the pieces of metal back into the barrel. They landed with a clang, and a thick puff of ashes enveloped me. The cloud was enough to tickle my nose but not enough for me to use as a magician-style cover and disappear.
“Whatever it was, they're burned up,” I said, dusting off my hands. “No point in fishing them out now.”
Quinn's eyes narrowed to the smallest slits. Her face was lit by the lantern I'd hung on the tree behind me, but I knew my face was in the shadows.
“Just leave it,” she said. “It's probably just scrap that was in a bag of garbage someone used for kindling a fire. Probably some old junk the Russian was trying to get rid of.”
I brushed my fingertips over the black streak across the waistline of my sweater. “I guess we're about done, right? What else do you need tidied up before we leave?”
She didn't move her arms or reveal what was in her hands.
“Stormy, I don't need your help any more. You can just take off.”
I forced a laugh out. “Quinn, you're my ride back into town. Remember? I don't have my car here.”
She swished her mouth from side to side.
“No,” she said. “You're up to something. Tell me what's going on.”
“What's going on? Well, you're the one who's acting super weird and hiding something behind your back. Why don't you tell me what's going on?”
“I didn't do anything,” Quinn said.
I glanced down and shifted the toe of my shoe so it was under the stick I'd used to stir the ashes. I didn't have my purse with me, so I didn't have any of my EDC goodies, but I could use whatever was nearby. With a simple kick, I could have the stick in my hand without needing to bend over.
“Tell me what you know,” Quinn said. “Why are you snooping around?”
“Chip knows,” I said. “He asked me to follow you around town and find out who you're having an affair with.”
“No, he didn't. Chip would never do that.”
“He did. Ask his cousin, Brianna. She was at my shop when he came by to meet with me.”
She swore under her breath and said his name.
“Quinn, you two can work it out,” I said. “It's the photographer, right? Dwayne Greer?”
She blinked. “What?”
“That's who you were having an affair with. You were on your way to meet the photographer on Monday, the day you saw me at my store. The day Michael Sweet was killed. You were with the photographer that day. It's why you were dressed up in that short dress with the high heels.”
Her gaze shifted from me to the burn barrel. If I'd had any uncertainties about the burned metal having come from Quinn's spike heels, they were gone now. She hadn't been with the photographer that day. The
police had questioned Dwayne Greer because he'd visited the open house two days before the murder, and his name had been in the visitor log. He was not a suspect, because he'd been in another city all day Monday. Which meant he hadn't been meeting with Quinn.
“That's right,” Quinn said, taking my bait. “I was meeting Dwayne that day. But it meant nothing to me. It was purely physical. That's all. You can't tell my husband.”
“I won't tell Chip.” But I will tell the police that you're a killer.
She seemed to pick up on my thoughts. “Liar!” She finally moved her arms, revealing what she'd been holding behind her back.
It wasn't a knife, or a gun. But it was also much more terrifying than the stick I had by my foot. It was an ax, probably taken from the wall of the barn. How the hell was I supposed to protect myself from attack by ax?
“You're a tattletale,” she growled. “You probably already told him. Is that why he's been acting strange lately?”
I kicked up the stick and caught it in my hand. It wasn't much of a weapon compared to the ax, and would splinter in half with one whack, but it was longer than her weapon. I could use it as a lance, poke her in the eye before she could get close enough to hit me with the ax. Unless, of course, she threw the ax at me.
I carefully stepped to the side, putting the burn barrel between us for protection.
She screamed, “Stop moving!”
Calmly, I said, “Quinn, if you'll just put the ax down, we can talk this over. I won't tell Chip about your affair. I'm not even working for him. I told him to find someone else, because I wouldn't take his money.”
“You're lying,” she growled. “You're trying to trick me.”
She lowered her shoulder and hefted the ax with the authority of someone who knew how to hit a target. Suddenly, I remembered a demonstration she'd done for us at a party. Right here, next to the barn. We'd been teasing her about being a farm girl, and she'd shut us up by throwing an ax at a target and hitting it dead center. Could I duck down in time to avoid getting an ax dead center in my chest? My confidence in my evasive maneuvers was evaporating by the second.
With a cold voice, she said, “You know everything. You know about me and Michael.”
“Is he Quinby's father? She's got his angelic smile.”
“He was blackmailing me,” she said. “When he found out she had the role, he wanted me to make him the manager. And he wanted half her earnings.”
“Sounds like good ol' Mikey,” I said.
“He was already bragging about the money to his stupid wife,” Quinn said, spitting the words with contempt. “He was going to ruin everything.” The fingers on her free hand twitched, as though she was pointing at her stomach, trying to tell me something. “Everything.”
I took a wild guess. “Are you pregnant?”
The ax slipped down. She didn't drop it, but her grip loosened enough with shock that the handle slipped down. Was it enough to ruin her aim? I had an urge to rush forward, to charge at her now and tackle her. But I had a stronger urge to stay behind the barrel and keep trying to talk my way out of danger.
“I don't know,” she said. “It's too soon to say, but maybe.”
“Quinn,” I said softly. “You can start a new life. Take this opportunity right now to get into your car and leave town.”
Her voice trembling, she said, “You're bluffing. You don't know anything. And even if you did, you can't prove it.”
I turned my head very slowly and deliberately, as though glancing down the road toward the property's entrance. But I only moved my head. I didn't take my eyes off the petite blond murderess. I hoped the shadows would conceal where I had my focus.
With a casual air, I said, “Actually, I'm surprised Officer Dempsey isn't back here yet. He asked me to stay behind and stall you while he got some paperwork done at the station. An emergency search warrant.”
“It's not true,” she growled, adjusting her stance and readying her ax-throwing arm.
I unlocked my knees and prepared to drop for cover.
“He had to get a statement from Trigger Canuso,” I said. “She drove by the house and saw you going in that day to meet Michael. She mistook you for Samantha, because you're both blond, but she figured it out. Now everyone knows. It’s just a question of time.”
She didn't say anything. An owl hooted somewhere in the woods.
I told her, “I've got a thousand-dollar withdrawal limit on my bank card. We can stop by the bank machine. I'll give you the cash so you can get the hell out of here. Change your hair and start a new life. Have the baby or don't. It's your choice, Quinn. Right now. You can stay and face the consequences, or you can run. I'll help you out and give you a head start.”
“Why?”
“Because you're my friend,” I said. “You made a mistake, but I know, deep down, you're a good person.” Her eyes relaxed slightly. She was buying it? My lying skills had really improved lately.
“I loved him,” she said.
“I know,” I said. “It was just an accident? You were talking to Michael and things took a turn. He can be so infuriating. And then you couldn't help yourself, because you had to protect your family. It was all Michael's fault.”
She rotated the ax. In the thin light of the sole lantern, the blade glinted menacingly.
“They won't believe me,” Quinn said.
“We need to get rid of these metal supports from your shoes. That's the only physical evidence connecting you to the crime scene.”
Her free hand went to her stomach. The metal supports weren't the only connection. If she'd conceived a child that day, and it was Michael's, that would seal her fate. The horrifying realization now hung in the air between us.
Her voice lowered to a spooky, robotic tone. “A mother does what needs doing to protect her family.”
“Don't kill me,” I said. And then, because it was worth a shot, I said, “Please.”
And that was when she threw the ax.
I dropped to the ground. I could hear the helicopter-like sound of the ax whipping through the air just above my head.
I'd avoided an ax to the chest, but now I was on the ground. Quinn had been on her feet, and that gave her the edge. She launched herself at me.
I fought to keep the stick between us, but it was like being attacked by a wildcat.
I heard the clang of my own skull being hit against the side of the burn barrel. Then the clang of what I hoped was Quinn's head and not mine again.
The light of the lantern dimmed and shut off. We were in total darkness.
Her hands were around my throat, crushing my windpipe. I couldn't breathe, and I couldn't see. My stick was broken, but I clutched the thicker piece and struck at her, again and again.
Why wasn't she letting go? My eyes stung, and not just from the lack of oxygen. Was Quinn's head bleeding and dripping onto my face? I could taste blood. Hers or mine, I didn't know.
Just when I thought things couldn't get blacker, they did. What little I could see of the stars in the sky blinked out. I was losing consciousness.
I gripped my battered stick, which was now slick with something, and kept flailing.
Quinn was heavy on top of me.
And then she was lighter.
She was rolling off me.
No. She was being pulled off me.
A flashlight blinded me.
“Stormy,” came a male voice.
“Dad?” My voice was hoarse.
“It's me, Kyle,” he said.
The flashlight blinded me again.
My head was swimming. My eyes were watering so bad from pain I couldn't see what was happening.
Kyle said, “Hold still and stay there. I've got to catch the other cheerleader, then I'll be back for you.” I felt him adjust my position on the ground, tilt me slightly to the side. “Keep breathing,” he said, and he was off.
I could see the bright light flashing against the bare autumn trees.
I started coughing and didn't sto
p until everything went black.
Chapter 41
A hand appeared between the green curtains of my examination room at the hospital's emergency room.
“Knock knock.”
“Nobody home,” I said groggily.
“Are you decent?”
“I'm wearing a cheerleader uniform that, at the rate I'm currently swelling up, I'll probably have to cut myself out of.”
The curtains parted, and Kyle Dempsey entered the semiprivate space.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he said.
“Deja vu,” I said. “We've been here before.”
“I suppose we have.” His sky-blue eyes twinkled.
“On the plus side, at least we didn't wreck a police cruiser.” I coughed. My throat felt raw and bruised.
Kyle took a seat on the chair next to my bed. “When is someone coming to get you? I thought Finn would be here already.” He looked around, frowning. “And maybe Logan?”
“They're wheeling me into a corner and keeping me overnight,” I said. “They promised me eggs Benedict with crispy bacon for breakfast, but I'm starting to think that was a lie.” I coughed a little more. “Some of these nurses have a very dark sense of humor.”
“They sure do.” Kyle shook his head. “There won't be any eggs Benedict. You'll be lucky if you get a few raisins and some brown sugar with your oatmeal.”
I groaned. “Oatmeal? You should have let Quinn kill me.” I coughed feebly.
Kyle got up and poured me some water from the pitcher at the side of my hospital bed. He tried to hold the cup to my mouth for me, but I took it from him. My arm shook, and I dribbled half of the drink on my cheerleader sweater, which was covered in a mix of soot, grass stains, dirt, and no small amount of blood.
“They tried to cut that filthy sweater off, but you wouldn't let them,” Kyle said.
“Did I threaten a lawsuit?” I dimly recalled yelling something to that effect.
“That's the rumor,” he said.
Grimly, I said, “Logan will be so proud of me.”
Kyle chuckled. “You must be feeling pretty rough. How bad does the concussion feel?”
Death of a Double Dipper Page 26
