“What’s going on at one p.m.?” Aunt Garnet asked, placing a pitcher of milk between us. Behind her, the coffeemaker chugged and sputtered.
I sat down at the table and took a maple bar. “Just meeting with a new co-op member.” I concentrated on tearing my doughnut in half, then fourths. Aunt Garnet didn’t know me as well as Dove, but I wasn’t famous for my poker face, and I didn’t want to provoke any curious questions.
“Uh-huh,” Aunt Garnet said. The tone of her voice informed me she wasn’t buying what I was selling. Still, she gave me a pass. “Did you hear who won the Coffin Star Quilt Guild’s graveyard quilt raffle?”
“No, who?” The fireworks incident at the festival had thrown me off, then I’d concentrated on getting everything closed up and secure.
Aunt Garnet carefully cut her maple bar into six neat pieces. “Parkwell Mortuary.”
I almost choked on my doughnut. “No way! What are the chances of that happening?”
“It is amusing, isn’t it? The Tribune is going to do a story on it. Thelma Rook called me from Oak Terrace and said they were over there interviewing the quilt ladies yesterday. Joel Parkwell bought three hundred tickets, so he must have really wanted it. The quilt raffle raised almost three thousand dollars.”
“That’s wonderful news. I’ll have to take the Coffin Star ladies some cupcakes to celebrate. That’s the most money one of their quilts has ever earned.”
“They’re already planning their next one. It’s another graveyard quilt, but they’re going with a Day of the Dead theme.” Aunt Garnet winked at me over her coffee mug. “Apparently, death sells.”
“Apparently. And their label on the back is an added extra.” I’d designed a special Coffin Star Quilt Guild label for the back of the graveyard quilt. It had the names of all guild members beneath a smiling skull wearing a garden hat decorated with roses and daisies.
While we were finishing our doughnuts, the phone rang.
“Honey bun,” Dove said. “Have you seen my sister?”
I smiled over at Aunt Garnet, who was rinsing off our dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. “She’s right here, Dove. Uncle WW is catching up on world events at the barbershop, and Aunt Garnet brought me doughnuts.”
“Hypocrite.”
“What?”
“Garnet, not you. Tell her to quit stuffing her face with junk food and get over to the historical museum. Things are a mess here.”
I glanced at the kitchen clock. It was only ten a.m. “I’m not doing anything until this afternoon. Want some extra help?”
“When can you get here?”
“If Aunt Garnet feels like it, I think we’ll walk over . . .” I glanced over at Aunt Garnet. She nodded her assent. “We’ll see you in a half hour.”
On the walk downtown to the historical museum, I maneuvered the conversation to Daddy and his love life, hoping I could convince Aunt Garnet that she and Dove should leave him alone without revealing that he had solved his love problems all on his own.
“What’s new on the ‘Getting Ben Hitched’ front?” I asked.
Aunt Garnet sighed and tucked her arm through mine. “Dove and I are about ready to surrender. Poor boy just seems to want to be alone.”
I patted her hand. “Sometimes it’s better to let nature take its course. Maybe you inspired him enough to start looking on his own.”
“One can hope,” Aunt Garnet murmured.
When we reached the museum, we went around to the back door. The museum was closed today, so the parking lot was empty.
“Where’s Dove’s truck?” I asked.
“Ben dropped us all off downtown. He’s over to the Farm Supply. He’s meeting us at Emory’s place at noon.”
Aunt Garnet rang the service bell, and a few minutes later, Dove opened the door.
“You two get in here,” she said. “We’ve got a bunch of stuff to put away.”
We walked down the long hallway and came out at the ground level of the old Carnegie Library, where most of the historical museum’s displays were located. The room was cool and quiet, smelling as it always did of citrus oil, old wood and dust. Everything appeared to be neatly in its place waiting for the next open day.
“Where’s the mess?” I asked.
“Downstairs,” Dove replied. “People just up and dumped everything from the festival yesterday right in the middle of our meeting room. We have to move it out of the way. There’s a historical society meeting tomorrow morning.”
“Where’s everyone else?” I asked. There were at least twenty other people involved with the historical society’s fair booth presentations.
Dove rolled her eyes. “Everyone’s exhausted or thrown out their back or has grandkids that need tending.”
“In other words, it’s up to the Honeycutt sisters,” I said, following her down the wide, wooden stairs.
“What else is new?” Dove grumbled.
Once downstairs, I saw the mess wasn’t as horrible as she made it out to be. Mostly it was just a matter of moving boxes into a spare room. I found a small dolly in a back closet and started stacking boxes.
“We’ll get this done in no time,” I said. “What’s the saying, ‘Many hands make light work?’ ”
“I love those old sayings,” Aunt Garnet said, folding the top of a loose box closed. “Why aren’t there any new ones, I wonder? Seems like they stopped back in World War II.”
“Oh, there’s still sayings being invented,” Dove said. “They’re just crazy. Like, ‘Make love, not war.’ ”
“If people did that instead of shooting at each other,” Aunt Garnet said, “maybe the world would be a better place.”
“Certainly a more populated one,” I added. “Is anyone thirsty?”
“I could use some water,” Dove said. “There’s some in the refrigerator in the break room.”
“I’ll come with you,” Aunt Garnet said. “I need to use the ladies room.”
We climbed the stairs to the main floor and were walking down the hallway toward the back of the building when we heard a quick—pop, pop . . . pop, pop.
“Now who’s playing with fireworks?” Aunt Garnet said, reaching for the bathroom door.
“Probably a car backfiring,” I said uneasily, not wanting to alarm her. I recognized gunshots when I heard them. Whatever was happening outside, we were most likely safest right where we were.
While she was in the bathroom, I went to the front of the building and peeked out a window. Since Dove hadn’t come barreling up the stairs, I guessed she’d not heard the shots. In front of the museum, people were dashing for cover; a young woman abandoned her flat-tire bike and ducked inside the public bathrooms; a mother and her two kids ran in after the girl. Was it the sniper? In the middle of the day? Or was it indeed a car backfiring and people were just jumpy? Maybe I could hear more out in the garden.
I went back to the hallway where the closed door told me Aunt Garnet was still in the bathroom. I turned left down the hallway and through the door that led to the outside garden. The garden, surrounded by a six-foot brick wall, had always been a special place for me. When this Carnegiebuilt building was still a public library, I spent many happy hours in this garden reading my first books—Curious George, The Runaway Bunny and eventually, Old Yeller, Five Children and It and Beautiful Joe.
The garden was empty, and I couldn’t hear anything more than some shouting and distant screams, so I turned to go back inside. My hand was on the door when behind me I heard a rustling, then a loud grunt. I swung around in time to see Van Baxter jump down from the brick wall, his face red and sweating.
“Van?” I stuttered, shocked.
“Well, crap,” he said and pulled a pistol from his waistband.
CHAPTER 20
“DON’T SAY A WORD,” HE SAID, POINTING IT AT ME.
I stood absolutely still, my hands at my sides. My mind frantically tried to assess what just happened. Van Baxter jumped over the museum wall and was holding a gun on me? What,
a hysterical voice in my brain screamed. What?
“Get inside,” he said, motioning me with the pistol to open the door to the museum.
Inside? I froze, my body instinctively refusing to obey. Dove and Aunt Garnet. Van had a gun. He had me hostage. Dove and Aunt Garnet were inside the museum. I needed to protect them. Think. Think.
“What is going on, Van?” I said, forcing my voice to sound calm. I moved in front of the solid oak door and tried to send a mental message to Dove and my aunt—Leave, run now. If ever I wanted to believe that mental telepathy worked, please, God, it was this moment.
“Get away from the door,” he said.
I stood my ground, hoping to give Dove and Garnet time to figure out that something was wrong.
“You’re the sniper,” I stated.
“The prize goes to the police chief’s wife.”
I stared at his flushed face. “Why?” I finally said, trying to buy myself time.
He scowled at me. “Seems to me you would understand.”
The taste of sugary maple rose up in the back of my throat and I resisted gagging. “But I don’t.”
His eyes locked with mine. “Maybe you don’t. Maybe you don’t know what it’s like to give up your life for someone who doesn’t appreciate it.”
I stared at him without answering.
He shrugged. “The first time? I just wanted to see if I could get away with it. Then . . . then it became kind of fun. I like the adrenaline. Reminded me of when I was taking war photographs.”
I didn’t respond, but just watched his face while I frantically tried to think of what to do.
“C’mon,” he said. “You’ve got a reputation for getting involved with murders. I bet you love the thrill of it.”
Anger heated the back of my neck. “I don’t try to kill cops.”
A flicker of some emotion flashed across his face. Regret? Fear? Then he scowled again. “I wasn’t trying to kill anyone.”
Before I could answer, Aunt Garnet called my name.
“Benni?” Her voice sounded muffled through the heavy old door. She pushed at it, sending me stumbling toward Van.
“Stop!” he yelled, backing up.
Aunt Garnet’s head poked through the doorway. “Oh, my Lord in heaven,” she said, opening the door wider. “What is going on out here?”
Van’s face tightened in anger. “Who else is here?”
“Uh . . .” I said, again trying to buy time.
“Young man, put that thing away.” Aunt Garnet stepped into the garden and pointed a knobby finger at him. “That’s just plain dangerous.”
“Back inside, old woman.” The cords of his neck bulged. His eyes glittered, a crazy light from somewhere inside him.
“Why, there’s no need to get nasty—” Aunt Garnet started.
“Do what he says,” I hissed, taking her elbow and maneuvering her back inside the museum.
“But—” she said.
“No talking,” he commanded.
I felt the gun barrel stab the center of my spine.
“Is there anyone else here?” he asked again.
Hide, Gramma, I thought. Hide.
He pointed toward the stairs. “This place have a basement?”
“Yes,” I said.
He shoved the gun deeper into my back. “Get going.”
Aunt Garnet walked ahead of me. “Dovey,” she called as we clumped down the wooden stairs. “It’s just us. Don’t be scared. Don’t try to get up.”
I stared at the back of her gray curls, completely mystified. What kind of warning was that?
“How many more people are here?” Van asked.
“Just my sister,” Aunt Garnet said in an unnaturally loud voice. “But don’t you worry about her. She can’t even walk. She’s crippled, poor thing. Got the polio when she was six years old. Spent a lot of her life in an iron lung. Weak as a sparrow.”
My tongue stuck to the top of my dry mouth. What in the world was Aunt Garnet babbling about?
Downstairs in the large meeting room, Dove sat on an old Queen Anne chair in the corner, her arms resting casually on the carved arms.
“What’s going on?” she asked, her face perplexed.
“We seem to have a problem, Sister,” Aunt Garnet said. “Actually, I think this young man here might be our sniper.”
Dove nodded her head, bringing one hand to rest on her Hawaiian-print cane. “That would be a problem.”
“You two shut up,” he said, shoving me into Aunt Garnet, almost toppling us over. “I have to think. Sit over there.” He pointed at two folding chairs across from Dove.
He looked around the room, his movements frantic and jerky. “I need time. I am not going to hurt you unless you don’t cooperate. But I need time.”
He spotted a box of extension cords we’d used in the booths. “I’m going to tie you up and tape your mouths shut. When does this place open next?”
“Tomorrow,” I said. “At ten a.m.”
“Then someone will find you then. I’ll be long gone.” He took a length of cord and handed it to me. “Tie her up.” He pointed at Aunt Garnet.
He watched me pull Aunt Garnet’s arms behind her and tie her wrists. She winced at the discomfort.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“Don’t worry about it, sweetie pie.”
He handed me another set of cords. “Now tie her to the chair.” After I’d helped her sit down and tied her feet, he looked over at Dove. “Now, her.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, young man, she can’t even walk,” Aunt Garnet said.
I couldn’t believe they were still trying to pull one over on Van. Would he fall for it? Had he ever seen Dove around town? This whole handicapped charade depended on Van never having seen her.
He studied Dove a long moment. She gave him her best impression of a sad, scared old lady. “Then just tie her arms.”
“The polio has made her circulation bad,” Aunt Garnet said. “Please, don’t tie her up until right before you leave. It could cause permanent damage.”
He could not be that stupid, I thought, looking from Van’s face to my gramma’s phony expression. Then again, Dove usually won the family poker tournaments simply because we never knew for sure what was going on with her. And it appeared that Aunt Garnet was just as conniving as her sister.
I did not say a word, hoping that my face would not give away their completely insane charade.
“Fine,” he snapped, sticking the gun in the waistband of his jeans. “I’ll tie up Benni and then the old lady. But you’re all getting your mouths taped.”
He turned his back to Dove and started wrapping the extension cords around my wrists. He pulled them so tight, I grunted with pain.
The next thing I saw was a whirl of color.
Dove’s cane struck the side of Van Baxter’s head. With one tiny whimper, he slumped to the ground.
“I decided to go with the metal insert,” my gramma said, looking down at him.
“Good call,” her sister replied.
AFTER DOVE UNTIED US, I CALLED 911.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” the dispatcher asked.
“It’s Benni Ortiz. We’re over here at the San Celina Historical Museum by the mission, and I believe my gramma . . .”
“And your aunt,” Dove called.
“And my aunt Garnet have captured the San Celina sniper.”
“Say what?” the dispatcher asked.
“Yeah, you’d better send in the troops. Oh, and you might include the paramedics and an ambulance. I think the sniper just might have a concussion.”
After I hung up, I called Gabe’s cell.
“First, I want to assure you that Dove, Aunt Garnet and I are okay.” Then I told him what happened, including who the sniper was so, if possible, he could tell Yvette before anyone else did.
“Did he say why?” Gabe asked.
“Yes, I’ll tell you the whole story when you get here. Please hurry.”
/> “I’ll be there as quickly as I can,” Gabe replied.
Within a half hour, every branch of law enforcement you could imagine swarmed the museum. Dove and Aunt Garnet greeted them at the front door of the historical museum, inviting them in and pointing to the staircase to the basement.
“Cool as a couple of Victorian ladies inviting us in for tea and cucumber sandwiches,” Janice, one of Gabe’s field sergeants, told me later. She had been first on the scene because she was working a case nearby.
I wasn’t up there, having been the one elected to stay with a groggy Van Baxter, whose hands we’d duct-taped together. Not that he was in any shape to attack anyone. Like I told the dispatcher, there’s a good chance Dove’s whack from her cane had given him a concussion.
Gabe arrived only minutes later. The paramedics were still checking Van’s vital signs and getting him ready to go to the hospital.
“Are you all right?” Gabe asked, touching my face with his hand.
“I’m okay. It was crazy. It was . . .” I looked up into his face, feeling a hysterical laugh start to bubble up out of me. I swallowed hard, knowing that if I started laughing, I wouldn’t be able to stop. What kind of picture would that present to the reporters waiting outside the museum? “Dove and Aunt Garnet were incredible. You aren’t going to believe what they pulled off.”
I told him the detailed story, while paramedics checked out Dove and Garnet. By the time I finished, Gabe’s mouth had turned up into a wry smile.
“I should be embarrassed,” he said. “No doubt I’ll be ridiculed for the rest of my career about our big sniper case being cracked by sheer accident and my wife being rescued from a hostage situation by two crafty old ladies and a trick cane. But, truthfully, all I can say is, thank you, God.”
“Sometimes,” I agreed, resting my forehead against his chest, “that’s the only thing appropriate to say.” I pulled back. “You called Yvette?”
“She was at home. She took the day off because her husband had some business to take care of.”
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