“You sure?”
Okay, I wasn’t sure, but what were my options? Better to apologize than to be wrong. “I’m positive, send help—it could go any time!”
The dispatcher confirmed she’d have someone on the way immediately.
“You must get everyone out of the building,” were her last words before hanging up.
“That’s a problem,” I told Johnny. “Ellen Harmon will think this is some ploy Dodie and I cooked up. She’ll never believe me. She’s like that.”
“Well, we’ve got to think of a plan—fast!” His eyes were dark with concern.
I had an idea.
“Could work,” he said. “It’s our best shot.”
I slipped into the store, and Johnny went to his truck. Fortunately, Ellen had started to talk, microphone in hand. Thrilled to be the center of everyone’s attention, she was not about to relinquish the limelight quickly. To prolong her fifteen seconds of fame, she called various people to the microphone to talk about what Yvonne—and her store—meant to them. The crowd listened intently, becoming a bit restless as she nattered on. Perry Gaynor and two children, a boy and a girl, bookended Ellen. I rose on tiptoes and scanned the crowd. Nettie hunkered down in the rear of the building, right next to the back door.
Normally I would have been thrilled to see Clancy. She waved and worked her way through the crowd to my side. I put a finger to my lips to signal “be quiet” while I pocketed a package of letter stickers. No one else saw me; everyone was watching Ellen.
I motioned Clancy to come outside. Johnny had changed into his work shirt. After briefly introducing them, and telling Clancy what I suspected, I peeled off one sticker letter at a time to spell out “Gas Company” and stuck the words under the embroidered Spa La Femme logo. It was pretty schlocky, but because Johnny’s neatly pressed dark jeans looked like regular pants, my plan just might work. He held a clipboard full of papers in one hand and said, “Give me a kiss, babe. I’m going in.”
“I can help,” said Clancy. “Uh, not with the kiss. But to manage the crowd. We need to get everyone out of there fast.”
We decided our best bet was to keep people away from the back where the water heater had been leaking gas. I’d read about cell phones sending up sparks. I didn’t know if that was true, and I didn’t want to find out.
Right before I walked in with Johnny, I dialed Detweiler. He picked up first ring. “There’s a gas leak at Memories First. We’re here. I’ve called 911. We’re trying to clear the store. And Yvonne Gaynor’s killer is inside.”
“I’m on it,” he said. “Don’t try to be a hero. Kiki, get the heck out of there.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
I WENT TO MINNIE and told her what I suspected. She gasped and turned pale. “I … I smelled something … I didn’t stop to think … oh, no!” I whispered our plan. She and I and Clancy watched as Johnny worked his way to Ellen Harmon’s side. He interrupted her mid-sentence, taking the microphone and covering it with his hand. He whispered in her ear and pointed to the letters on his shirt.
Ellen was so surprised she temporarily shut up.
Johnny turned to the audience and spoke into the mic. His voice rang with authority. “We need you to leave the building. All of you. We have plenty of time. Just stay calm and walk outside in an orderly fashion. Go through the front doors or the side. Thank you.”
Minnie had gone to the front double doors and locked them in the open position.
Clancy worked the side door like a traffic cop. “Keep moving. Stay calm,” she said in a no-nonsense voice. “That’s right, please keep moving. Come along.” The teacher in her kept order with, “No dilly-dallying. Move along.”
Ellen Harmon tried to talk, but the noises of people moving were too loud. She opened her mouth to shout, but Johnny slipped a palm over her face. She struggled mightily, fighting him. Finally, she peeled away his hand. She made a grab for the mic, but he reached over and pulled the plug. Her face was red and her voice shrill. “What is the meaning of this? Get back in here everyone! Now!”
The sound of sirens arriving outside drowned her out.
Johnny shook his head and tried to drag her toward the side exit. I continued to wave people toward the front with, “That’s right. Stay calm.”
I could see the rotating red lights in the street. Walkie-talkies crackled, and more sirens wailed in the distance, becoming louder and louder.
Ellen called Johnny names. She kicked and screamed at him. He kept moving her toward the door. Over the thinning crowd I heard him saying, “So if I’m wrong, you can be mad, okay? And your party will start late. So what?”
Almost everyone was outside. I climbed up on a stool behind the cash counter so I could search for Nettie. She had flattened herself near the far back wall, behind a fixture. Her agitated eyes moved around the room. She spotted me—and it dawned on her what I knew. She pushed open the back door. I hopped off the stool and hit the ground running. I darted around an elderly couple moving slowly out of the building.
Memories of my last encounter with a killer served me well. I knew I needed a weapon. Something, anything. The more unexpected the better. On my way past a set of shelves, I grabbed a spray can.
I was so not letting her get away.
Two months ago, a killer had escaped me. Every day since, I lived with fear. One idiot with a grudge against me was enough. I would not spend the rest of my days worrying when and how Nettie might strike back. Nor would I put my child and dog in further danger. This was going to end right here, right now. My conviction made me fast and furious. I ran out the back door, holding the can in one hand. There was no time to call for help.
The sirens had stopped, and I assumed the police were taking care of people in the front of the building. I wasn’t sure what they needed to do to make sure we were safe. There was no time to ask for their help. Besides, pointing out shapeless, forgettable Nettie would take too long. She would melt into the crowd or disappear into the surrounding neighborhood.
So I sprinted around the back. Detweiler’s plea rang in my ears. He did care about me. I hadn’t been fooling myself. As I ran, a warm feeling of hope took seed in my heart. He cared! An overwhelming sadness joined that seed of hope. Why is it always too late? And what did he matter? He was still married.
But I loved him. I knew I did. My thoughts were of him and Anya and Gracie. And that gave me strength.
My feet skidded on gravel. I slid to a halt. Facing me was a dumpster and nothing else. A low retaining wall of concrete blocks rose to cordon off enough space for three cars and the trash bin before making a right turn into the main parking lot. A rickety sign on the wall said, “Employee parking only.” I crept my way around the vehicles, listening carefully. Watching the ground for crushed grass or footprints. I moved slowly behind each car. There was no room in front of them. Not much room in between either. Nettie wasn’t there.
I crept to the dumpster and squatted on the sparse grass. I leaned down, head brushing the ground to peer underneath the metal box. I could hear heavy breathing. Was it mine? Or hers? I held my breath. Definitely someone was panting.
I rose from my crouch, touching the cold metal for balance. Easing one foot quietly in front of the other, I shifted my weight, rolled my foot, and repeated. I snuck alongside the big green bin. At the next corner, I rested my face against the metal and gripped the edge with one hand. Slowly I craned my neck around the other side, leaning onto my left foot. My body was flat against the dumpster.
“Got you!” Nettie threw her purse strap around my throat. My free hand yanked at it. The leather tightened. I pulled and pulled at it, trying to get enough room to breath, but I did not let go of the spray can.
“You can’t stop me, Kiki. They have to die! All of them! They deserve it! They think she was so great! She tricked them! She tricked me! I hate her! And now they’re all crying for her. Idiots! They’re all idiots!” Nettie maneuvered herself behind me, her knee in my back. My lungs burned for air. Ga
sping sounds came from my throat. Black edges framed my vision. Stars—and fire in my lungs—and pain. I started to sag, pulling the purse strap tighter as my body weight choked me.
“Tell me … about it …” I managed. What had saved me before was a killer’s need to brag.
Nettie yelled in my ear, her hot breath moist on my skin. I could smell the alcohol and tobacco on her. “She stole my pages and put her name on them! She turned my designs in. My work won the contest! All those hours! All that work! Yvonne Gaynor was a creep! She deserved to die! You want to avenge her? That worthless slut! You’re just like the rest of them!” Her spittle landed on my cheek.
“No, not avenge,” I managed.
Lack of oxygen made my vision fuzzy. My lungs were screaming, begging for air. I opened my mouth to call out but could only gurgle. In front of the store a policeman with a bullhorn urged people to move across the street while the gas company examined the building. His voice grew faint as he ushered the crowd away from the danger. No one could see us back here. No one would know I was struggling with a killer. More sirens wailed in the distance. I heard arguing and commotion—and Nettie breathing heavily from fighting me. My free hand clawed at Nettie’s fingers. I scratched her good and she loosened up. I got a lungful of air, then two.
I had one chance, just one. It was all dependent on my right hand, and the can I held. I sagged again—this time on purpose—to throw Nettie off balance. But her anger made her strong. I did manage one more gulp of oxygen.
You can do this, I told myself. Stay strong! I squeezed the can lid with my right hand. My eyes felt like they were popping out of my head. I let my weight go to my knees, sagging again, and this time she tumbled with me, rolling over my head. We somersaulted over each other, once, twice. But Nettie didn’t turn loose of the purse strap.
We landed with me on the bottom. I wedged my knee between our bodies, bumping her in the groin. For a moment, she eased up. I gulped another small taste of blessed oxygen. Come on, I told myself, you’re nearly there!
She yanked the strap, and we flipped over in tandem. Now she gouged me in the gut. She crawled over my body, digging her knees in as she climbed, and got a better purchase on the leather. She pulled back and twisted the strap—hard. It dug into my skin, into the muscles and my neck. I heard myself coughing, gagging. I couldn’t give up. Not yet. With my right hand I was working and working the can lid, trying to give my thumb leverage. I squeezed; I pushed. My hand was slick with sweat. I squeezed again. Finally the lid popped off.
But … the can slipped from my hand and rolled out of my reach. My lungs hurt. My ribs ached. A sharp pain shot through my side. Suddenly I was tired. I wanted to give up. I wanted to give in. I couldn’t fight much longer. I wanted to sleep. To let it all go.
Anya’s face came to me. Detweiler’s kiss. Gracie’s soft muzzle.
I mustered one last surge of strength and bucked my body, pushing up with my feet and arching my back. Once, twice. Nettie fell off me. Bits of gravel and broken glass gouged me. Again, she eased up on the purse strap as she struggled to regain her balance so she could finish me off. Her body stunk of a sour sweat. I twisted and turned, trying to get away. She yanked the strap and began to twist again, turning the purse into a garrote. This was it. I couldn’t do any more. I couldn’t.
I had to.
Wildly, my arm swept the ground beside me. My fingers stretched and stretched—searching. My arm wiped snow angels in the dirt, back and forth on the gravel, and I tried to roll to the right. All I did was claw up gravel. I felt the grit under my nails.
I couldn’t reach the can. I stretched and stretched.
The stars swam in front of my eyes. The dark was closing in. It was all going black.
Anya. Anya! Anya, I love you!
I pushed at Nettie’s face with my left hand and again, she loosened her grip for an instant, barely long enough for me to gulp air. This time I smelled the rot of garbage and the thick gross scent of old grease.
I arched my back, planting my feet, and rising again. My searching fingers touched the can. I grabbed it. Nettie was inches from my face. I squeezed my eyes shut. I raised my hand, aimed the nozzle and pressed the button. I heard the hiss of the spray and her voice screaming, “My eyes! My eyes! I can’t see!”
A blast of Carolyn’s Scrapbook Protectant Spray with the clearly written warning to “avoid contact with eyes and skin” had done its job.
I passed out.
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE REST IS PRETTY fuzzy and maybe I dreamed this, but Detweiler was in the ambulance with me. He wiped the back of his hand across his face. I thought I heard him blow his nose. The EMT stepped aside, and given that opening, he knelt beside the gurney, stroking my hair. He took my hand and kissed my palm and curled my fingers closed to hold the kiss. “You’re going to make it,” he said in that no-nonsense voice of his. “You have to. We’re not done yet, sweetheart. Not by a long shot.”
But like I said, maybe it was just a dream.
I woke up to Mert and Sheila arguing. Anya was sitting in a chair in a corner watching them with an anxious expression on her face. The place smelled like burned popcorn and rubbing alcohol. The sheets were so stiff, they hurt like sandpaper. An institutional TV hung from the wall. At my side stood a stainless steel tray and a pole holding a bag of fluid. I figured I was in a hospital, and I was right.
“She’s coming home with me, and that’s final,” said my mother-in-law. Her lipstick was faded and her hair was all askew. Mert didn’t look much better, and she was six inches from Sheila’s pursed mouth, spoiling for a fight. “No way. I’m taking care of her. I’m not letting her out of my sight.”
Anya saw my eyes open. She jumped to my side. “Mom! You’re awake!” Very cautiously, she leaned against the bed to kiss me on the cheek. “You’re okay. The doc said it would be a good sign if you woke up fast. I was worried about you.”
Mert and Sheila stopped arguing long enough to see that I was, indeed, back to the world of the living.
“Great Jehoshaphats. Gosh darn it, girl, you had us scared,” Mert’s face was creased with worry lines. She was wearing her work uniform. Her mascara was smeared, and she looked tired.
Sheila motioned to Anya. “Call a nurse. Tell them your mom has come around.” She paused, “Thank goodness you are all right. Robbie Holmes told me to call him the minute you woke up.” She touched my shoulder gently, leaned as if to kiss me, stopped herself, then stepped away and out the door.
“Johnny was beside himself,” Mert said in a low voice, patting my hair. “He blamed himself for not watching you closer. He’s been miserable as a dog with a double case of pinworms. I’m going to tell him you’re right as rain, and I saw it with my own two eyes.”
I tried to smile. Talking was difficult. I rasped, “So … every-one … got … out? And … Nettie?”
She took my hand and put a cool palm to my forehead. Her skin was rough from work, but her expression tender and caring. “Hold off, Sweet Pea. The doc says your throat’s in perty rough shape. That woman nearly strang—” she stopped herself and shivered. She took a quick glance to see if Anya had returned. “Iffen it weren’t for you and my baby brother, a whole passel of folks’d be jest little bitty pieces by now.” She offered me a sip of water from a glass with a straw. “That stupid Ellen Harmon was a fussing and carrying on to high heavens about you was purposely ruining her get together. But the police done set her straight how you saved her bacon. Believe you me, they was right short with her and her nonsense.”
Under her eyes were bags of worry, and her nose was red and chafed. In her expression was a mixture of tension and relief, as though she scarcely dared believe I was all right.
Robbie Holmes came barreling in with Sheila two steps behind. The crisp creases of his uniform matched the sharp intensity of his gaze. “I know you can’t talk,” he pushed Mert to one side brusquely, “but if you can write, your answers will help us gather evidence to build our case agains
t Mrs. Klasser.” A nurse appeared at his elbow.
“Sir, she needs rest. She’s had a shock.” She scolded him.
“Let … me … take … care … of … this,” I managed. “Then … rest.”
His cap was tucked under his arm when he handed me a clipboard and a pen. At first, my hand didn’t cooperate and the writing instrument rolled onto the faded cotton blanket. Sheila retrieved it and carefully folded my fingers around it. Her hand trembled as she did, and she gave my fingers a small, encouraging squeeze.
“How did you know it was her?” Chief Holmes’ face turned quizzical. “Johnny Chambers and Clancy Whitehead told me about the gas leak. What gave it away that Mrs. Klasser was the murderer?”
This is what I wrote:
Nettie would have known that Yvonne loved orange scones. It would have been easy to mix a little orange baby aspirin into the orange-flavored frosting and reapply it to the pastry—you’d never notice! She could have put the tainted scones out on the table of food while everything was being set up—other scrappers also contributed goodies. Nettie must have snuck her tainted treats past Yvonne and Rena by hiding them inside her Cropper Hopper. There was so much commotion that she just added her offering when no one was watching. She wore gloves at the crop to swap out the Epi-Pen. She and Yvonne had the same allergist—but she lied to me about knowing Yvonne had allergies. Nettie didn’t worry about anyone else getting “sick” from her scones because she knew it was a pretty rare allergy—and that Yvonne would make such a pig of herself that no one else would get to eat one! The catalyst: When Yvonne won the contest and her pages appeared on the magazine web site. Nettie realized her “friend” had stolen her work. That was all she had in life—and with the brain lesions she suffered, Nettie didn’t have long to live.
He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “You’re telling me—and you expect me to believe—that a scrapbook contest was that important? With all due respect, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
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