The Doom Diva Mysteries Books 1

by Sherry M. Siska

She glanced back over her shoulder at where her hands were tied behind her and ducked her head twice to the right. “Are your hands tied?” I whispered. She nodded. “But not very tightly?”

  She bobbed her head again. “Okay, see if you can get them loose,” I told her. If we don’t get out of here before Art gets back, they’ll probably kill us.”

  Charli’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Be strong,” I told her. “We can do this.”

  Sam returned from the bathroom, his hand swathed in several band-aids. He sat back down in the tapestry-covered chair and shot me dirty looks. I kept my mouth shut, hoping he wouldn’t notice that it was uncovered. Charli and I were going to need to be able to communicate and it would be a whole lot easier if at least one of us could talk.

  Sam wasn’t much of a companion or a guard. He’d sit for a few minutes, then suddenly jump up and run out of the room. I heard him in the front of the shop flittering around, and once in the kitchen, clanging something metal against something else. He did this many times, leaving us alone for increasingly long periods of time. Every time he left, Charli worked feverishly on getting her hands untied. I whispered encouragement to her and talked to her about what we would do when we got out of there.

  She was almost loose when bad luck struck again. Sam stood next to Charli, staring at her for a long time. “You sure are pretty,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about you ever since the first time I met you.”

  He rubbed the gun against her cheek and slid it down to the top of her blouse. Charli tensed up, absolute horror written on her face.

  Sam stuck the gun down inside her shirt and rubbed it against her. “You like that? I’ll bet you do. You’re probably a real wild cat in bed, aren’t you? So pretty and peachy.”

  I bucked and screamed, tossing myself around as hard as I could, trying to get close enough to kick him. “Leave her alone!”

  He jerked the gun out of Charli’s blouse and pointed it at me. “What? You want some of it? You jealous?”

  “Hot stuff, aren’t you, Sam. Or should I call you Joe? Gotta tie a woman up to touch her.”

  He stuck the gun between my eyes. The metal felt cold and hot at the same time. I felt as if I were sinking, but at the same time it was like I was standing outside myself, watching it all happen.

  Sam pressed the gun hard into my forehead. “One more word, and I swear to God I’ll shoot you. I’ll do it, Marty, don’t think I won’t.”

  This time I believed him. The look in his eyes was pure evil. I closed my eyes and prayed, thinking of Robby Pluck and Frank Billingham. Hoping that death wasn’t painful. Wishing I could see my folks one last time, wishing I could tell Tim that I was sorry and that I loved him, and praying that Sam didn’t kill Charli too.

  21

  Art yanked the gun out of Sam’s hand. “Don’t be an idiot!” he said. “Use your head, for Christ’s sake. Now, go on. Get the heck out of here.”

  Sam left, slinking off like a wounded dog. I never thought in my whole life that I’d say I was happy to see a man who’d knocked me out and tied me up, but I thanked God that Art returned when he did.

  He pulled the gag up over my mouth, but it was loose and slipped back down. He didn’t notice, thankfully. I calmed down and watched Charli. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she didn’t make a sound. I wanted to get us out of there. What had we been thinking, acting like we were detectives? Real life isn’t a book or a movie. In real life, people get hurt. Or killed.

  Art had a bottle of Jack Daniels with him, which he opened and took a big swig of. He settled back onto the little chair and watched us, every now and again taking a pull off the bottle. Sam returned about thirty minutes later. He paced around like a tiger in a cage, a wild gleam in his eyes.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Art asked him. “You been tweaking?”

  Tweaking. I’d heard that before but thought he’d said tweeding.

  “Only just a little,” Sam whined. “Calms my nerves and keeps me going.”

  “Idiot! I done told you not to start messing with that stuff. You seen what happened to Frank and Robby when they started doing it.”

  “But a little isn’t going to hurt,” Sam whined. “It’s good, you should try it.”

  “Hell no, I ain’t putting no Crystal Meth or any other crap like that in this here body. Stuff’ll kill you, you ain’t careful. Eat up all your profit, too. I don’t like seeing my profits go up in smoke.” He picked up the bottle of Black Jack. “This here’s all the kind of medicine I need.”

  So that’s what they were doing, running a meth lab. I’d heard about crystal methamphetamine or ‘crank’ in the paper and from Tim. It was a nasty drug, made people feel really great at first, but it was highly addictive and very dangerous. It also explained a lot about why Frank and Robby were acting so irritable and aggressive. According to what I’d read, the symptoms of ‘tweaking’ include aggressiveness, paranoia, sweating, tics, and hyperactivity.

  It is really easy to make and I can’t believe I didn’t think of it when I saw the pool chemicals, lighter fluid, and other stuff stashed on the metal shelf. Art evidently wasn’t worried very much about Charli and me. He followed Sam into the kitchen and yelled at him, calling him a fool and other names that modesty and the fear of Mom’s wrath prevent me from repeating.

  Charli suddenly lifted her hand to the front and pulled down on her gag. “I did it!” she whispered. “I’ll get my feet undone and then do your hands and feet.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Art’s coming. Quick! Get your hands behind your back.”

  Charli barely managed to get situated before Art was back in the chair. Art didn’t notice that Charli’s gag was off, thank God. For the first time since the whole wretched ordeal started, I found myself thinking that maybe Charli and I were going to escape. We had to be really careful, just bide our time and not screw up. Art slouched into the chair, the bottle of whiskey still on the table next to him. The gun, he’d plopped down next to the whiskey.

  He steadily drank from a small tumbler filled with ice. I wondered what kind of drunk he was, hoping it was the sleepy sort rather than the mean type. I thought maybe I might be right, since he was virtually silent and still, only moving to keep up his steady pace of sipping and pouring.

  Around ten, he hollered for Sam to bring the TV in so they could catch the news. Sam wheeled a metal cart into the storage room and plugged in an old nineteen-inch vintage model. He tuned it to channel 42, which has a ten o’clock news report, and pulled up a dining chair. “Wonder if anybody’s missed these two yet,” he said.

  We were the topic of the second report, just behind a three-alarm fire on the outskirts of town.

  “Local Glenvar women, Martina Gayle Sheffield and her sister, Donna Charlene Sheffield Carsky, have been reported missing by the Glenvar police department. The Sheffield sisters, you might remember, are prime suspects in the recent murders of Franklin Billingham, neighbor to Mrs. Carsky, and this station’s own late cameraman Robert Pluck. The two women have apparently skipped town to avoid prosecution.”

  I glanced over at Charli. She was livid. I wasn’t exactly feeling thrilled myself. The reporter went on to say that Charli and I were first reported missing by Mom at about six that evening. “If you have any information regarding the whereabouts of the two sisters, you’re encouraged to contact Detective Winger of the Glenvar Police Department.”

  The reporter gave Winger’s phone number, then threw it back to the anchor who asked if I was the same Marty Sheffield who’d been dumped by famous country music sensation, Ricky Ray Riley, a few short hours before our wedding. Giselle was no longer at the station, but her legacy lived on.

  “Yes, she is. As a matter of fact, Ms. Sheffield was seen at lunch time fleeing Albertino’s restaurant after a run in with her ex-fiancée, Mr. Riley. Sources reported that the two of them were seen just moments later locked in a passionate embrace. Mr. Riley, the famous country music superstar, and Ms. Sheffield
have long had a stormy relationship.”

  “Did Mr. Riley have any comment on the allegations that he was seen kissing a murder suspect?” the anchor asked the reporter.

  “Yes. I was in contact with Mr. Riley just minutes before air-time and this is what he had to say.” A video of Ricky Ray labeled ‘file tape’ began to play accompanied by a telephone interview of Ricky Ray.

  “Mr. Riley,” the reporter said, “does Ms. Sheffield’s involvement in this sordid affair surprise you?”

  Ricky Ray: “Well, darlin’, it’s like this, you see, I love that little gal with all my heart and all my soul, but not romantically. I think of Marty almost like a sister. What folks saw, us kissing today, well, that was just a li’l ol’ kiss between two old friends that got blown all out of proportion. You see, as soon as I learned about all the trouble she was in, I came to Marty to offer her my help. As a friend, nothing more.”

  Reporter: “Were you surprised to learn that Ms. Sheffield is a suspect in the two murder cases?”

  Ricky Ray: “Well, I guess truthfully, I’d have to say no. You see, unfortunately, Marty has some serious problems that she needs to address. She’s always been hot headed. Y’all probably remember the time she smashed my prized guitar, running over it with my car. And this other time, well, she might nearly killed me. She was mad over some trivial little matter and hit me with my very own guitar, a different one, not the one she smashed up. Right over the head, she hit me. I had to have eight stitches.”

  I was wishing I were loose, holding a guitar, and pounding it into his head right then. How dare he? The time I hit him with his guitar was an accident. I’d been playing around, swinging it around over my head like those rock stars that smash their guitars do and Ricky Ray, mad because he was afraid I’d break the stupid thing, had walked right into it.

  The other incident he’d mentioned, the one where I ran over his prize George Teoria guitar that his daddy bought him at an auction? That one was completely true. It happened the day we were supposed to have been getting married. Tim and some of my friends had taken me to Pilazzo’s to try and get my mind off of things and Ricky Ray had shown up, demanding that I let him take Delbert with him to Nashville. Rage had come over me and I’d backed his Porsche over the guitar several times. It’s not something I’m proud of, but it doesn’t mean I’m capable of murder either.

  The reporter asked Ricky if he had anything he’d like to say to me if I could hear him.

  “Yes, May Lynda, I do. Marty, if you’re out there and can hear this, I urge you to turn yourself in. Think of all the heartache you’re causing your poor momma and daddy. And me, sweetheart, don’t forget how hard this is for me. I’m just plumb sick over it. I hope for my sake you’ll give yourself up. And, May Lynda, thank you for allowing me to use my celebrity in a helpful way. It isn’t often that I feel like I can make a difference in the world. That’s why my latest album, “Make a Difference”, is so important to me. I think if it speaks to just one person, I’ll have been able to have finally said, ‘Lord, I’ve done good’.”

  The reporter gushed all over him for a bit, telling him how grateful she was, the police were, the whole community was, and how his new album was just her favorite one, how kind and considerate he was to have come on the air and yada yada yada.

  Sam flipped the button on the TV and paced around and around. “What are we gonna do? The cops are searching for them and surely they’ll find out they were here today.”

  Art stood up and stretched. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll have things taken care of by morning. They ain’t gonna find them, not for a long long time and when they do, we’ll be so far gone they’ll have done forgot us. I set it all up this afternoon. We got two more hours. You go get some rest. I’ll take the watch until time to split.”

  Sam went to his office and closed the door. Art took a magazine and we heard him lock himself in the bathroom.

  Charli quickly untied her feet and then did me, first my hands and then my feet. “We’ve got to hurry,” she said. “This is our only chance.”

  Something crashed out front and the loud ‘bing-bong’ I’d heard when Charli came into the shop earlier in the afternoon sounded. I staggered to my feet. Charli and I tried to run, but we’d been sitting so long that our feet weren’t cooperating. I heard shouting, “Stop! Police!” and recognized Tim’s voice. I’ve never in my life been so grateful to hear him.

  “Tim, we’re in here,” I screamed. From the front came more fighting and scrambling around sounds, crashing furniture, breaking glass, a gunshot. Pure terror.

  “Run, Charli, we need to help Tim. Tim, Tim, we’re coming!”

  Tim lay on the floor next to an overturned armoire, his arm bleeding profusely. I screamed and ran to him, praying that he wasn’t dead. When I felt a pulse and heard him moan, I nearly wept with relief. Thank God, he was alive. But we had to get out, get him to safety.

  Art had the gun pointed at Charli’s head, holding her tightly against him. Sam lay on the floor on the other side of the room, a large cut in his forehead. He was alive too, but moaning in semi-consciousness.

  I yanked Tim’s gun from its holster and pointed it, my hand shaking like crazy, at Art. “Let her go,” I said. If you shoot, I shoot.” God, I hoped I didn’t have to shoot. I didn’t have a clue as to how the gun worked.

  A siren sounded in the distance growing closer and closer. “Dammit!” Art hollered. He pushed Charli away from him and ran from the shop. Charli crashed to the floor and curled into a fetal position, wailing loudly.

  I heard Art’s truck start up and peal out of the driveway. Tim’s backup arrived a few minutes later. I met them in the driveway, told them about Art, screamed for them to not let him get away. The police officer in the first car called in for the rescue squad and told the dispatcher to put an APB out on Art. The second car took off down the road, flying in the direction I’d seen Art’s truck going.

  After that, everything was a blur for a while. Tim and Sam were attended by the paramedics and then they loaded Tim onto a stretcher and whisked him away to the hospital. The bullet from the gunshot we’d heard was lodged in his arm and he was headed for surgery.

  Charli and I told Detective Winger our story, only leaving out the detail that we’d gone to the shop to snoop around. We told him that we’d stumbled onto the fact that Sam and Art were manufacturing Crystal Meth and that they’d knocked me unconscious and then tied us up.

  “Sam wasn’t really Sam,” I told the detective. “His real name is Joe Redmond. He’s a convicted felon and he’s served time on drug charges in the past.”

  “Yes, Ms. Sheffield, we’re aware of that,” Winger said. “The clerk down at Danny’s Mini Mart called in with a tip after he saw a special report earlier on Channel 42. He said that he’d seen Charli hanging around the store late this afternoon, acting strange and suspicious. Said she bought a bottle of water and kept checking her watch.”

  Charli nodded. “It was so hot out and I was waiting for Marty. We were supposed to meet and she was late.”

  “Officer Unser took the call and went out to talk to the clerk, who proved to be most helpful. He told Officer Unser that after several minutes Mrs. Carsky drove away and then almost as quickly returned. He reported that you’d used the restroom and bought another bottle of water and that you seemed nervous.

  “He also had a piece of paper that you dropped from your purse. It was an article from the Internet about Joe Redmond. As soon as he saw it Officer Unser recognized that Joe Redmond was the man that he knew as Sam English and decided to check out the Antique Shop.”

  Tim hadn’t really expected anything to come out of it, but when he saw Art’s truck parked in the back and lights on in the kitchen and in the office, he’d become suspicious. When he knocked on the door, Sam refused to let him in, but Tim insisted. Just before Sam closed the door in Tim’s face, Art come out of the bathroom holding the gun, and that’s when all hell broke loose.

  Once they let u
s go, Charli and I were both much too stressed to drive. Thankfully, Mom and Dad arrived within minutes. Charli and I jumped in their car and had them take us to the hospital. Mom was a basket case and Dad wasn’t much better. They hugged and kissed both Charli and me several times, telling us how terrified they’d been, how they’d known that we hadn’t run off, that we weren’t raised like that.

  Then Mom skipped to admonishments that we shouldn’t have tried to take matters into our own hands, Charli had three kids, for God’s sake, why had she done something so foolish? And me, well, not a surprise there. I was always leading my sister astray. I slumped down in the car seat and let her chatter, thankful that I was alive to hear it.

  Tim was in surgery for a couple of hours. Once the doctors told his mom that everything went well, that he was resting comfortably, my folks and Charli were ready to leave. I insisted that I wasn’t leaving.

  “I’ll sleep here in the waiting room. I want to see him just as soon as they’ll let me.”

  They all argued with me, but my stubborn streak is bigger than Mom’s when I want it to be. After they left, I curled up in one of the overstuffed green chairs in the waiting room and dozed fitfully, replaying the day’s events in a series of terrifying nightmares.

  The next morning I slurped down a cup of watery, bad tasting coffee from the vending machine in the snack bar, then went to the ladies’ room and washed my face and tried unsuccessfully to de-snarl my hair. When I returned to the waiting room, the nurse told me that I could go in to see Tim. He was pale and wan, propped up in the hospital bed, his arm and shoulder tightly bandaged.

  “Some people will do anything to get out of going to the movies with me,” I said.

  Tim managed a weak smile. “I thought about just begging off, telling you I was busy, but that seemed way too easy.”

  “Well, you definitely made a statement.” I perched on the bed next to his feet. “Does it hurt?”

  “Yeah, a bit. They’ve got me doped up pretty good, but I can still feel it.”