“Oh, shit,” Tony said.
It was a short drive, but I used it to fill them in on everything I’d learned about Gabby and Mark, particularly the fact that both of them had some kind of motive. I’d just gotten to the part about giving Amber my business card so she could continue to be our secret source when I cut myself off midsentence. A crowd of about twenty people was on the sidewalk in front of our office. There was shouting, but I couldn’t make out any words, and the crowd was too dense for any of us to see what was going on.
After I parallel-parked across from the office, I darted across Main Street, dodging a car in my haste to make sure Dixie was okay.
The crowd parted slightly, revealing a middle-aged couple standing about six feet from each other. The woman was wearing white capris and a loose denim shirt covered in paint splotches. The man was dressed business casual—khakis and a polo shirt—and had a serious comb-over. They were the type of normal middle-aged couple you normally wouldn’t look at twice, only today they were shouting at each other in public while the woman held something above her head. The man held out his hands like he was prepared to catch it.
Dixie stood in the open doorway of our office, her mouth drawn as she watched. Bill, bless him, stood beside her, getting everything on camera, and Tony and Chuck were already capturing the action from a different angle.
“You think I’m cheating on you?” the woman shouted, waving the object in her hand. Now that I was closer, I could see it was a bright-red model car. “You’re an idiot!” She chucked the car at his head.
He reached up to grab it, but her throw was to the left, and he missed. The car hit the head of the woman behind him before bouncing to the sidewalk.
The woman who’d taken the hit screamed and grabbed her head as if she’d been shot.
“That was my ’69 Mustang!” the man shouted as he bent down to get it. “You dented the bumper!” he said in dismay as he stood.
“That’s what you get!”
“This must be Dixie’s cheating-wife case,” Tony muttered under his breath.
I suspected he was right.
Dixie slid in next to me. “I’m sorry. I was conductin’ his interview, and Margo showed up and started smashing his cars on the sidewalk.”
“It’s okay,” I said. I kept my gaze on the couple, but I reached down, scooped her hand in mine, and squeezed. “You did great.”
The woman reached into the oversize purse slung over her shoulder and pulled out a model of a bright-yellow sports car.
“Oh, my God, Margo,” he cried out in horror. “Not the Lamborghini!”
She lifted it over her head and shook it. “This thing means more to you than I do!”
“That’s not true,” he said, but he didn’t sound convincing. His eyes were fixed on the model as he clutched the red car to his chest like a newborn baby. Sweat beaded on his upper lip.
Margo’s eyes filled with tears, and she darted to the middle of the street. “You have to choose, Harold! Me or the car!”
A pickup truck turned the corner and headed toward her.
“What?” Harold asked. “What are you talking about?”
She turned her back to the oncoming truck and shook the model at him. “You have to choose! Or you lose us both!”
The truck slowed to a crawl, and the man behind the wheel watched her in bewilderment.
“Hey, Margo,” Willy called out in a good-natured tone from across the street. His thumbs were hooked in his waistband, and he looked like he was asking her about the weather. “Whatcha doin’?”
“I’m making him choose!” she shouted. “Me or his stupid car.” She turned to face her husband, tears streaming down her face. “If you don’t choose, that truck behind me will mow us both over!”
The truck was now driving so slowly that people on the sidewalk were walking past it in their haste to join the crowd.
“Why would you want to get run over, Margo?” Willy asked, standing next to the back bumper of my parked car.
“I want him to prove that I mean something to him,” she said, her voice breaking off with a sob.
Harold edged toward her, moving slightly into the road, and I dared to hope he’d make the sort of loving gesture she clearly needed from him. Instead, he reached out his free hand and said, “Just hand over the car. No one has to get hurt.”
Holding her Lab mix’s leash with one hand, an elderly woman I recognized as Fredericka Mills marched forward and used her other hand to hit Harold over the head with a closed umbrella. “You stupid fool.”
Clutching the red car to his chest, he reached for his head. “Ow! What’d you do that for?”
Fredericka turned her attention to Margo. “You’re better off without him, honey.”
Margo stared at her, slack-jawed.
“She’s right!” another woman shouted. “He ain’t worth the trouble!”
“Hey!” Harold protested, dropping his hand to his side.
A young woman with long dark hair started to approach the crowd, took one look at the situation, then turned around and strode purposely in the opposite direction.
“How’d you know I was here, anyway?” Harold asked his wife.
“It was on Maybelline’s Facebook page, you fool!” she shouted. “You think I’m cheating on you? When would I have time? I’m too busy workin’ at the bank and cookin’ and cleanin’ and starching your shirts!”
The truck honked, and Margo jumped, nearly dropping the model car.
Irritation covered Harold’s face. “You found plenty of time to take your art class.” He poured disdain into the last two words.
“So?” she asked, taking a step toward him. “You’re busy playing with your toy cars.”
“For the hundredth time, Margo, they aren’t toy cars! They’re CMCs, for God’s sake! And you weren’t makin’ my dinner.”
A chorus of groans erupted, and someone threw a half-eaten sandwich at him.
“Here’s your dinner!” a woman shouted.
“This is gettin’ out of hand,” Dixie murmured, sounding worried.
Officer Willy Hawkins was so enthralled, all he needed was a bucket of popcorn. It was clear he didn’t intend to do anything to stop this, so I heaved a sigh and walked out into the street. “Margo, you don’t know me, but I want to help.”
She gave me a look of contempt. “I know who you are, all right. You’re Summer Butler, and you were takin’ his side!”
The truck honked again, the driver’s brow lifting in frustration.
“Margo, let’s let the truck pass so that man can be on his way,” I suggested.
“No! He can just mow me down!” She held her hands straight out to her sides—like she was being crucified—and closed her eyes. “Goodbye, Harold! Bury your smashed car in my casket!”
The truck driver’s mouth dropped open, and then he shook his head as if trying to clear a hallucination.
“I’m not takin’ anyone’s side, Margo,” I said. “Your husband contacted us, and Dixie was interviewin’ him to see if we wanted to take the case. That’s all.”
Her arms lowered slightly, then she lifted them again and leaned her head back. “Well, the fool still doesn’t appreciate me. I’m ready to meet my maker.”
The truck let out a long horn blast, and I shot him a glare, waving my hand to the street corner behind him. “Back up!”
He lifted his hands with a look of What the hell? but he put the truck in reverse and headed toward the end of the street.
Margo’s eyes flew open, and she spun around in dismay. “Where’s he goin’?”
“Don’t worry, honey,” Fredericka said soothingly. “There’ll be another car. There always is.”
“But it’s kind of late in the day,” another woman said, “so it might be a minute or so.”
“It was supposed to be a homogram,” Fredericka said.
“I think you mean a metaphor,” another woman said.
Fredericka’s brow wrinkled. “Are you sure
?”
“What difference does it make?” Harold shouted. “I want my Lamborghini back!”
A car engine revved somewhere in the distance.
I had a bad feeling about that . . .
“Margo,” I said, prepared to try again, “why don’t we go into our office and sort this out in there?”
“Out here’s just fine,” she said, her eyes narrowed on her husband. “What do you choose, Harold?”
“You made your choice when you started taking that damn art class!” he said.
“Your wife can’t have a hobby?” a woman shouted, and a chorus of boos rang out.
The loud car engine was moving closer.
“But what about my dinner?” Harold asked.
More food flew through the air at him—part of a loaf of French bread, a cupcake, and someone’s leftovers from Maybelline’s—mashed potatoes and meat loaf, from the looks of it.
An old convertible skidded around the corner, tires squealing, and stopped two blocks down in the middle of the street. A woman rose up from behind the wheel, her long dark hair blowing around her, and I realized she was the woman I’d noticed earlier—the one who’d walked away from the crowd. She looked like she was in her midtwenties, and the flat expression on her face said she didn’t tolerate bullshit.
“Make your damn choice, Uncle Harold,” she called out to him, her voice clearly heard on the now über-quiet street.
Harold wiped cupcake from his cheek and licked his finger. “What the hell are you doin’, Amelia?”
Amelia? Amelia Bourdain from Dixie’s list? I cast a quick glance to my cousin, who was focused on the latest addition to the madness.
“I’m helpin’ Aunt Margo,” Amelia shouted. “Either you tell her you love her and you’re sorry, or I’m goin’ to put her out of her misery.” She paused. “Your choice.”
Well, crap. Amelia looked crazy enough to run her aunt over, and the look of terror on Dixie’s face confirmed it.
“Amelia,” I shouted, “let’s just talk this over.”
She revved the engine, and a sarcastic look covered her face as she cupped her hand to her ear, pretending she couldn’t hear me. Obviously there wouldn’t be any reasoning with her. I needed to get Margo out of the way.
“Margo,” I pleaded, “let’s just—”
My words were cut off as the car shot forward with a squeal of tires on the asphalt. I grabbed Margo’s arm and tried to pull her, but she flung her arms wide again, bending her knees to lower her center of gravity.
“Margo!” I shouted as the car zoomed closer. I was stuck with a split-second decision: leave Margo to her chosen fate and leap out of the way, or die trying to drag her to safety.
With the car twenty feet away and still speeding toward us, I switched sides and grabbed Margo’s arm, pulling her toward my car with all my strength. But my change in direction caught her off guard, and she stumbled.
I was bracing for impact when someone plowed into both of us, sending us flying toward my car. As the convertible zoomed past—not even braking—my back smashed into the trunk of my car. I fell to my bare knees as Margo landed on her butt on the street between the back of my car and the car behind it.
Amelia’s convertible skidded to a screeching halt at the next intersection.
I glanced up at the man who’d tackled us, expecting to see Teddy or maybe even a newly inspired Willy, but my mouth dropped open when I realized who it was.
Nash Jackson.
“Are you fucking crazy?” Fire lit his eyes as he got to his feet. “Do you have a damned death wish? That’s twice in one day!”
If he expected me to thank him now, he had another think coming. “I was tryin’ to save her!”
“And doin’ a piss-poor job of it,” he said with contempt. He turned to Margo, who was sitting on her butt, staring up at him like he was an angel. Reaching a hand toward her, he grabbed hold of her arm and hauled her to her feet. “Are you okay?” he asked in a gentler voice than he’d used with me.
What the hell?
“I had it covered!” I said as I got to my feet too, my knees stinging from their scrapes.
He shot me a glare and turned back to Margo.
She glanced down at her empty hands and said, “Harold’s car . . .”
The yellow Lamborghini sat in the middle of the street, amazingly enough, still intact.
Still stopped at the corner, Amelia lifted her butt off the seat and glanced over her shoulder, her gaze landing on the model. A smile spread across her face as she revved the engine.
“Don’t you even think about it, Amelia!” Harold shouted, much more concerned now than he’d been for his wife.
Her grin spread.
Harold took a tentative step out into the street.
Amelia stretched her arm across the bench seat as she stared over her shoulder with a look of determination. She jerked in reverse—tires squealing—and Harold barely had time to skitter back onto the sidewalk before her back tires ran over the model with a satisfying crunch. Then she shot forward, running over it again, and tore through the stop sign, turning the corner at the bank and heading out of town.
Willy stared after her in awe.
“Willy!” I called out to him. “Aren’t you gonna do something?”
“Like what?”
“Arrest her? She nearly ran us over!”
“But she didn’t,” he said, still staring after her with moony eyes.
Go figure.
I was hopping mad, but when I turned to give Nash Jackson a piece of my mind, he was gone.
Again.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Start again,” Luke said in exasperation. “From the top.”
I was sitting on top of my desk while Dixie perched on her chair. She had the first-aid kit open on her lap.
“I want to know what you plan to do about—Ow!” I shouted as Dixie sprayed disinfectant on the scrape on my knee.
“Stop bein’ a baby,” she said as she blew on it.
I gritted my teeth as the stinging faded. “Willy just stood there watchin’ like he was at a theater-in-the-park production of Thelma and Louise.”
“And which one were you?” Luke asked with a hint of a grin.
“Neither! I was nearly run over, Luke!”
“Amelia Bourdain’s crazy, but not that crazy,” Luke said.
“She looked pretty damn crazy to me,” Bill called out from the editing room.
“Bill’s right,” Dixie said with a frown. “Sure, she’s a loose cannon most of the time, but she was really gonna run Summer and Margo down. If that guy hadn’t tackled them, they’d both be roadkill.”
Luke perked up. “You’re sure she would have run them over? She wasn’t bluffin’?”
“We’ve got the footage in here if you want to see it,” Tony called out. “There was no way she could have stopped in time.”
“It’s great footage too!” Chuck called out in excitement. “This is going to make our season!”
“Happy to entertain,” I grumbled. But I had to admit that this would make great TV—probably better than anything Connor could cobble together today.
A scowl lowered Luke’s brow as he leaped out of his chair and headed to the back.
I glanced down at Dixie. “Are you okay?” I said in an undertone.
“Me? You’re the one who nearly got run over.”
I lifted my shoulder into a half shrug.
“Was that the guy from Rick Springfield’s place who tackled you out of the way?”
“Yeah,” I said, but I couldn’t bring myself to sound overly appreciative after the way he’d talked to me. “Tell me what you know about Amelia.”
The corners of her mouth drew back into a grimace. “She was a grade ahead of me in school. She’s had a rough life.”
“How so?”
“Deadbeat parents. She practically raised herself. She drove herself to school in that Cadillac when she was fifteen.”
“How’d she
get away with that?”
“Most of the men in this town are either scared of her or infatuated with her, so she does pretty much whatever she wants.”
“And which side does Luke fall into?” I was surprised at the sudden pulse of jealousy coursing through my blood.
Her mouth parted in surprise, and then, as if to punish me for questioning Luke’s good sense, she placed an alcohol wipe on my other knee.
“Ow!”
Luke emerged from the back, his jaw clenched tight. “I’m gonna need both of your statements, but right now I have to go find Amelia.” He was out the door before either of us could say another word.
Dixie watched him walk out, then turned and blew on my knee.
“So,” I said, “I take it you were interviewing Harold when Margo showed up.”
“Yep.” She grabbed a bandage and antibiotic ointment from the box. “I couldn’t get ahold of Bruce to set up an interview with him. His phone went straight to voice mail.”
I glanced down at my scrapes, and although one of them looked kind of gross, I didn’t plan on walking around looking like a preschooler with two bandaged knees. I help up my hand. “Not necessary.”
“But—”
“Nope.” I slid off the desk and tried not to wince. “At least they took the argument outside. This could have been worse.”
“Margo showed up and stood outside shouting at him. He tried to ignore her until she smashed his ’68 Camaro on the sidewalk. He was so pissed, I worried he was gonna hit her, but then the crowd gathered, and I texted you. I probably should have called Amber.”
I shook my head. “Someone else called her just as you sent the text.” I pushed out a sigh. “It never occurred to me that Maybelline might post our clients on her Facebook page.”
“I should have thought of it, but I just haven’t been myself today,” she said dejectedly.
I dragged one of the client chairs in front of her and took her hand. “How are you doin’? Really?”
Tears flooded her eyes. “I’m scared.”
“Have you remembered anything else?”
She glanced down and shook her head. “No.”
Dixie was a people person, and while she’d had Bill with her, it wasn’t the same as being with all of us. Still, I wasn’t convinced about the wisdom of bringing her with us. I needed to find her another project to keep her busy and distracted. “I haven’t found out anything yet. I had to go to the police station to fill out that report about Elijah. But you need to know that April Jean was there trying to get the mayor to help her.”
Blazing Summer (Darling Investigations Book 2) Page 17
