by Diane Noble
I hadn’t moved from my place by the gate when Max drove slowly past in the Defender, did a one-eighty and then parked across the street.
When he exited the vehicle, his face was pale. He spotted me and ran toward us without hesitation, giving Chloe and me a giant bear hug.
I thought my knees would give out before he let us go. I had forgotten the feel of masculine arms wrapped around me, especially those of someone you cared about and who cared about you. Somewhere deep inside, I’d ached for such a moment. I just didn’t know it until now. My eyes watered and my throat stung, but Max’s hug made me think it wasn’t so much from the smoke as being gathered into his arms.
He stepped back and put his hands on my shoulders, studying my face as if to make sure I really was unharmed. “I heard the sirens, saw smoke from the interstate, and then when I got closer”—he swallowed hard and then shook his head slowly—“I thought the worst. But you’re okay?”
I nodded.
“My monkey was just a little scared,” Chloe Grace said, still clinging to my hand. “But I wasn’t.”
Max ruffled her hair. “I think I would have been.” He looked around. “That must have been a pretty big boom.”
She nodded solemnly. “It was. It shook my bed and woke me up.”
Just then, a young teen with red hair and freckles trotted up the driveway and headed toward me. He held an envelope in his hands. “I found this in the street just now,” he said. “Are you Mrs. Littlefield?”
“I am.”
He thrust it into my hands and took off back down the street.
My name was typed on the outside of the envelope and it was sealed with wax. I ripped open the seal, pulled out a single sheet of paper, and unfolded it.
Typed on an old typewriter, the message read:
You are playing with fire. Already it turns on you. Taste it. Smell it. Know it will return. Not in your nightmares, but in living flame, a wild beast to devour you and those you love.
My knees threatened to buckle, and I reached for Max, who put his arm around me as he read. He became more disturbed with each line. Beside me, Chloe Grace danced with ballerina monkey, singing “This Little Light of Mine.”
The monster who wrote this knew my weakness, my fear of fire. He had put it together with my love for my granddaughter, creating a powerful weapon to use against me.
How could this monster know such intimate details of my childhood, my life?
An hour later, I dropped a very chatty Chloe Grace by her mother’s preschool, then stopped by the sheriff’s office. I didn’t wait for the dispatcher to inform him that I had arrived. As soon as she unlocked the door from inside, I sailed past her station and through the rabbit warren of cubicles.
When I reached the sheriff’s door, I knocked lightly, and in a rather bold move (if I do say so myself), I stepped in without waiting for his invitation. Mercy me, he could have been in conference with the governor.
He looked up from his paperwork.
I handed him the note I’d received, which I’d placed in a large ziplock bag.
He scanned it and then looked up at me. “Are you taking the threat seriously?”
“After what happened to my property today, yes, I am.”
He placed the letter on his desk. “We’ll send it over to forensics, see what comes up. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find some prints.” He removed his eyeglasses and rubbed his eyes, and then pinched the skin above the bridge of his nose. “I think you ought to back off,” he said, putting his glasses back on. “This is a threat that someone means to carry out. Let us do our jobs.”
I counted backward from ten, taking a calming breath or two as I did so. “This is personal. More now than before. My catering company may go under because of the sabotage meted out on me.” I could feel my face getting red. “My best friend has been kidnapped—”
He held up a hand. “Now, now. Let’s not go there again.”
I was on a roll, and I barreled on. “My best friend was kidnapped. My property has been damaged with a sophisticated explosive and fire.” I leaned forward. “And worst of all, whoever did this endangered the life of my granddaughter.”
I stood up, placed my palms on the edge of his desk, and with elbows unbent, I leaned forward, close enough for my breath to fog his glasses. “And what have you and your staff done in the past three days to catch the thugs behind all this? How close to cracking the case are you? What forensic evidence have you brought in? Does anyone think that what happened at my house today might be connected to the poisoning at the university, the death of the university president, the disappearance of a world treasure—and the disappearance of Hyacinth Gilvertin?”
“I’ll get someone out there to investigate,” he said.
I pulled a plastic sandwich baggie from my handbag, placed it in front of him, and settled back into my chair. “No need,” I said. “I collected this in and around the trigger point. Inside the bag you’ll find a piece of red cardboard, two end caps, and some pieces of plaster. That tells us that the explosive that was placed in my mailbox was an M-80.”
“Military grade.” He looked up at me with new respect. If I hadn’t been so tired and more than a little annoyed, I would have appreciated his expression.
“From the debris, I could tell more than one explosive was used. The explosion was a thousand times greater than you might get on the Fourth of July with an old-fashioned cherry bomb.”
I let the information sink in and then stood and girded up my loins, so to speak. I’d never before been quite this bold with law enforcement officials, but this time I’d been pushed too far.
“This case is getting more complicated by the minute. If we leave it to the ‘professionals’ to solve, it will soon be a cold-case file stuck in a box in the basement. So far the only hypothesis I’ve heard is that Hyacinth Gilvertin is somehow connected, as if it were an inside job and she’s to blame. As if that explains the whole thing.” I narrowed my eyes. “And if you think that could be the case, why aren’t you out there looking for her?”
I didn’t give the sheriff a chance to answer but spun and headed to the door, my spine as straight as a billiards cue.
I crawled into the Ghia and slumped in front of the steering wheel. I’d never carried on like that with a law enforcement officer, especially not the county sheriff himself, for heaven’s sake.
Maybe it was because I’d never had a case like this before, a case with so much at stake for me. It seemed that since Friday morning, troubles had piled upon troubles. It seemed as though I would follow one lead, only to be distracted by another, and then the same thing would happen all over again. Each led to more information, but not to anything of substance. Not to a solution.
I went over what I knew for certain: We had an eyewitness who said Hyacinth had jumped voluntarily into the ambulance with the thieves. We knew she had been at the site where the ambulance and cabin burned. In my opinion, evidence showed that she may have set the fire to draw the attention of nearby Waynesville. We knew from an eyewitness that she had been left in the middle of nowhere by the thugs who were last known to be driving a rental truck, and that she was last seen trying to catch up with them on a bicycle.
I also surmised that unless they had stopped for the night somewhere nearby, she had no chance of catching them.
How was the fire at my house connected? Someone had been watching me and had planted the explosive.
But who?
As soon as I arrived home from the sheriff’s office, I turned on my computer and picked up where I left off in my search for illegal sources of ipecac.
I clicked through sites on anorexia, bulimia, and other eating disorders, and in the course of my research I happened upon the word purge. That’s what I wished I could do now with all the accusations and bad news about The Butler Did It and me: purge.
There had
to have been a grand mistake somewhere in the universe. Maybe my guardian angel was busy with other folks. Or got bored with my life. Until now, it truly hadn’t been very exciting. No romance. No cases taken on that would give me nightmares. No threats of arrest. No one telling me I might be guilty of manslaughter.
I thought most folks liked me, or at least didn’t dislike me enough to want me imprisoned. Or tarred and feathered.
Now, I’m told the people in town practically think I’m the sum of all evils. Things really couldn’t get worse.
I thought about that for a minute, then sat back and chuckled. “Well, this is a fine fix I’ve gotten myself in,” I said to God. “I think I need to say more than ‘help,’ if You know what I mean. And I believe You do. I need to tell You that I’m royally ticked off. I just need to get that off my chest. Purge, if You will.
“You know my thoughts before I even think them, as it says in the Psalms. So I don’t need to rehash what I’ve been thinking or how I feel. You know, but enough already. Help!”
I found an ipecac dealer ten minutes later. Maybe my angel figured that what I was up to now warranted at least a flyby.
The kids in the chat room seemed eager to help me find the drug and a dealer they said was cool. Someone with the sign-in handle skinny_minnie wished me well, and said to drop in later and tell them all how it went. No one asked why I needed the drug. No one asked about my health. I saw at least a dozen names in the forum.
Someone really should monitor these sites, in my humble opinion. A nurse maybe, or some other medical person. Or a psychologist, for heaven’s sake. Or maybe an adult who cares and can tell these people that self-image has nothing to do with size.
Mostly I was mad at those who bombard kids with images of perfect bodies and glowing skin. Most little girls want to grow up and look like Barbie. I’d rather they’d look up to women of substance, women like Helen Keller, Eleanor Roosevelt, Amelia Earhart, or Marie Curie. Or Mother Teresa, for the love of God. But then, maybe I’m just old-fashioned.
I huffed out a sigh and made the call. For some unknown reason, my voice dropped to a whisper when I spoke to him.
“Hello?” I said when he picked up.
“Yes?”
“I want to buy some ipecac—in liquid concentrate form. What sizes do you have?” So far, so good for someone who’d never before talked to a drug dealer. “What are the prices? And how soon can you deliver?”
He chuckled. “I don’t deliver. You need to come to the meeting place at the time I give you. You’ll find an empty cardboard box by the trash bin where you’ll put your envelope of cash. Close the lid, walk into the campus bookstore, and browse for ten minutes. Or hit the café for a cup of coffee. Your choice. Just make sure you are gone no longer than ten minutes.”
“That’s it?”
“Did you expect something different?”
“It’s just so easy. Who is your supplier?”
“What does it matter?”
Uh-oh. I worried he’d made me, if that’s what it’s called. “Purity,” I said. “I want to know the percentage of ipecac to binding liquid.” I’d done my homework and was talkin’ the talk. I hoped.
“It’s good stuff. You lookin’ to sell?”
“I don’t have to say, do I?”
“My price is different for dealers.”
“Oh. Hmm. Well, let me see. First I want to know more about you. Who do you buy from?”
“This game is over.”
“Wait,” I said. “Please. I need the stuff. No more questions, I promise.”
“You sound … older. Why do you need it?”
“No more questions,” I threw back at him. I sounded ‘older’? Maybe because of the whisper. I forced my voice to get a bit louder.
“How much can I buy at one time?” I’d already calculated how much ipecac would be required to poison three hundred people.
He laughed. “How many people you gonna treat?”
“A couple hundred. Maybe more.”
He disappeared from the phone for a few minutes. I almost ended the call. “I’ve got it for you.” He gave me the number of pounds I’d need, and what the price would be, including a discount for a first-time buyer.
That much ipecac would not be cheap. That narrowed the field. My brain went into a tailspin as I went over the suspects. A student wouldn’t have that kind of cash available. Maybe a group, if they pooled their funds.
He interrupted my thoughts. “So do we have a deal?”
“Yes, we do,” I said. “I’ll need to stop by the bank first. You can’t get that kind of money out of an ATM.”
He laughed. “True. Remember, cash only, all twenties. I’ll see you in a half hour.”
That didn’t give me much time for the setup. “I understand.”
We ended the call. I punched in Max’s number and told him the arrangements. “Does this give you enough time?”
“I’ll leave right now. You won’t know I’m there.”
“Neither will he, I hope,” I said.
On the way to the bank, a warning flare went up in my brain. Was it really this easy for someone to buy enough ipecac to poison a room full of people? I had a hard time believing it.
I went in the bank and withdrew what I needed, then stuffed the twenties in an envelope. I was counting on the fact that I’d somehow pull this off and my money would be returned.
I pulled into the student parking lot near the café a few minutes early. I looked around for Max, but didn’t see him or the Defender. Maybe he had parked in the faculty lot.
I stared at my phone, watching the minutes march by. Right on schedule I got out of my car, and as casually as I could, walked to the back of the building that housed the bookstore and café.
I spotted the garbage bin and next to it the box, sidled over to it, and dropped in my envelope. A lid lay nearby, and I stooped to pick it up and place it on the box. Then I casually walked back to the front of the building and entered the student bookstore. Several students and a few faculty members milled about. Two women I recognized and counted as friends looked up. I started to wave, but they turned their backs. I swallowed hard and pretended I didn’t notice. Or the whispers and snickers that followed. I told myself it didn’t matter. I was working undercover anyway.
I went over to the greeting-card section, straight to a humorous brand I liked. They reminded me of Hyacinth, which brought the threat of tears again.
Ten minutes passed and I hurried to the door, exited, and trotted to the box by the Dumpster. Stooping, I opened it. My envelope was gone, and in its place were stacked several Mason jars filled with liquid.
I picked up the box, which was heavier than I expected. This drug-buying business was not for the faint of heart. Struggling with my awkward burden, I slowly made my way back to the Ghia.
Standing beside my car were Sheriff Doyle and Chance Noseworthy.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Mrs. Littlefield
Chance Noseworthy adopted an arrogant pose next to the sheriff’s SUV, sniffed, and shot me an “I told you so” look.
The sheriff just seemed annoyed as he opened the back door of his vehicle and gestured for me to get in. He hefted himself up and sat beside me. “This is serious. Intent to buy an illegal substance.” His tone was low, maybe because he didn’t want Noseworthy to overhear.
“You’ve been itching to arrest me since Friday,” I said. “So, go ahead.”
“I suppose you have an explanation.”
“I’m following the trail of the real perpetrator”—I thought about adding duh but restrained myself—“to find out who sold the drug and then trace it back to its source.” I looked around. “By the way, did you see Dr. Haverhill?”
“Dr. Haverhill was in on this?”
“Yes. Max is my lookout.” Speaking his name calmed so
mething inside me. It was a strange feeling, one I didn’t remember experiencing before. It made me want to say it again. “Max is around here somewhere.” Max.
Sherriff Doyle took off his glasses and cleaned them. “He’ll vouch for you?”
I sat forward, more than a little annoyed. “Sheriff, enough of this game playing. You know me better than that. What’s with all this tough-guy cop nonsense?” Good heavens, I was getting brave. Until recently, I’d never been so bold when voicing my opinions. Maybe that’s what love does to a person. Love? I felt my cheeks warm. Love? I’d known Max for only a few days. What was I thinking?
And then Max strode across the parking lot toward us. The tiniest bit of fear seeped into my heart, surprising me. And so soon after all those lovely romantic thoughts.
I was beginning to lose myself in his presence. Wanting to hear the sound of his voice, his laugh, to get lost in his gaze … Wait, maybe that was where the fear came from: losing myself in someone else after all these years of independence.
No matter the cause, my stomach did jumping jacks as he approached.
Max arrived at the vehicle on the driver’s side next to the sheriff. He smiled, met my eyes, then winked. My stars and garters, the famous Dr. Maxwell winked. At me. I felt like fanning my face, but thought I might look too much like a Scarlet O’Hara wannabe.
I turned to the sheriff. “Are we through here?”
“Not quite, little lady,” he said.
I narrowed my gaze and squared my shoulders. “I’m no little lady.” I moved toward the door on my side to get out of the SUV. That term had long secured a place in my top-ten list of least favorite things people say and do, right up there with air quotes. I didn’t wait for an apology. I grabbed the handle above the door and swung out—unfortunately forgetting to account for my short stature, and landed with a thump. I pretended not to notice and stomped over to the Ghia.
