“She was kind enough to find some twine,” he interrupted. I glanced at the dresser, where a roll of rough, brown twine lay next to bottles of perfume and jewelry. “I tied her hands behind her. But we’ll have to tie her to the bed so she can’t run.”
He took a step forward and reached for the twine with his free hand. And that was his mistake. He took his focus off Willie for just a second, and she launched herself up off the bed. She hit him in the side with her shoulder. They crashed into the dresser, and the twine, bottles and jewelry scattered. At the same time, I leaped forward and grabbed Gil’s arm.
He snarled as he fought to bring the gun up, but I pushed his arm away. We grappled in the small space between the dresser and the bed. Willie had fallen to the floor, her hands still behind her back, and she struggled to get to her feet. Then Gil and I backed into her and we toppled to the floor. A loud crack split the confines of the room and Willie let out a muffled scream. I lost it.
“No!” I roared.
I had fallen onto Gil’s legs. He was pushing me off, but I hauled a fist back and then punched him so hard his head snapped back and hit the side of the dresser with a resounding thunk. His eyes rolled up into his head and he sank to the floor. He groaned. I hit him again and he lay still.
“Willie!” I shouted.
She had fallen behind me. I turned around and scrambled over to her. She was on her side and was moaning through the sock in her mouth.
“Oh no,” I said as I cradled her in my arms. “Are you hit?” I pulled the sock out of her mouth and searched for blood.
“No, I’m not hit,” she growled, “but my arms are killing me.”
I quickly untied her hands. I was so relieved, I was speechless.
“Hon,” she said, as she spat and gagged.
“Yes?”
“That was one of your dirty socks.”
Chapter Thirty-One
I planted a huge kiss on her lips. “Oh man, for a second I thought I lost you.”
“I’m okay.” She sat up and flexed her arms. “Reed, I’m sorry. When he showed up, I thought it was fine to let him in. I didn’t know what was going on.”
“How could you?” I said. “I’d only put the pieces together myself a little while ago.” Behind me, Gil moaned. I whirled around. “Let’s get him tied up.”
I stood up and helped her to her feet. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.” She pointed at Gil. “Those were a couple of nice punches.”
I rubbed my knuckles. “Yeah, I can still feel it.”
We knelt down beside Gil. I started to grab his arms and he tried to crawl away. I rammed my knee into his back.
“Ow!” he barked.
“Sit still.”
He started to struggle and then Willie spoke up.
“If you move a muscle, I’ll shoot you.”
He craned his neck to see, and so did I. Over my shoulder, Willie had Gil’s gun aimed at him. And she looked like she would use it.
Gil went still and I grabbed the twine off the floor.
“He had a pocketknife to cut it,” Willie said.
I felt around in Gil’s pocket, found the knife, sliced off a long piece of twine and tied his hands up in my best Boy Scout knot. Then I rolled him over, stood up and surveyed my work. He glared up at me as I caught my breath.
“You’re dead!” he snarled.
“Shut up,” I said. I was not in the mood.
“Should we put your dirty sock in his mouth?” Willie suggested.
That cut through the tension in the room and I burst out laughing. Then I took the gun from her. I stepped back and aimed the gun at Gil. “Call the police,” I said to Willie.
After Willie called 911, two uniformed officers showed up within minutes. They placed Gil under arrest and were escorting him downstairs when Detective Spillman and her cohorts, Ernie Moore and “Spats” Youngfield, arrived. Moore and Youngfield followed the officers outside to accompany Gil to the station, and we were standing with Spillman in the living room. The last part of Cape Fear was on, where Sam Bowden was fighting with Max Cady. I knew the feeling. I grabbed the remote and turned off the TV.
“Would you like something to drink?” Willie asked. She was a bundle of nerves.
“Water would be great,” Spillman said. “Let’s go into the kitchen.”
We walked into the kitchen. I stared at Spillman, then realized she was trying to put Willie at ease.
“Are you doing okay?” Spillman asked her.
“Yes,” Willie said as she got a bottle of water from the fridge. The bottle shook as she handed it to Spillman.
“Sit down,” Spillman said to her. It was an order, but Spillman had softened her voice and it didn’t sound like an order at all.
Willie slumped into a chair at the table and I took a seat next to her. I pulled my chair close and put my arm around her.
Spillman eyed Willie, as if assuring herself that Willie was okay, then she sat down across from us and focused on me. “Start at the beginning.”
I ran through everything, starting with my initial conversation with Charlie. I was careful not to say that he’d admitted to using steroids, but I’m sure she knew. Then I pieced together my logic.
She waited until I finished, and then said, “And how did you know about this ‘third fan’, as you call her, Trisha?”
“A neighbor of Pete’s mentioned seeing her, but I didn’t follow up on it initially,” I said.
Spillman tapped the table and assessed me. She always knew when I was holding something back.
“And Gil admitted what he’d done to both of you,” she said.
Both Willie and I nodded.
“I’m sure you’ll have to testify,” Spillman said.
Willie smacked the table. “Absolutely.” She was intent on nailing Gil for what he’d done to her, and who could blame her?
The corners of Spillman’s mouth rose into the hint of a smile. “Can you get your friend to bring Trisha Appleton to the station so I can talk to her?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
She stood up. “I’ve got to go talk to Charlie.”
Willie stayed seated, staring at the table. I squeezed her shoulder, then got up and walked Spillman to the door.
“The trauma of all this is going to hit her,” Spillman said in a low voice as I opened the door.
“Uh-huh. And I’ll be right by her side.”
Spillman stepped onto the porch and then turned around. “She’s very nice.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “I’m going to marry her.”
“Ah, another Nick and Nora Charles,” she said, referring to the husband-and-wife detecting duo in Dashiell Hammett’s The Thin Man.
“Maybe,” I said. “You like 80s music and you know classic detective fiction as well. Do wonders never cease?”
“I’m full of surprises,” she said. “You did a good job, Ferguson.”
“Thanks.”
And in her usual abrupt manner, she turned and clomped down the stairs. I went back into the kitchen. Willie was still gazing at the table.
“You want to take a shower and I’ll clean up?” I suggested.
“Huh? Oh, okay.”
She stood up and I hugged her. And then the tears flowed. After a minute, she calmed down, pushed away from me and wiped her eyes.
“I’m okay, really,” she said. “I just needed to let that out.”
I kissed her. “You need to relax. How about that shower?”
She nodded, so I walked with her into the bedroom. While she took a long shower, I called Deuce and told him what had happened. Then I spoke to Trisha. She was beyond relieved, and said she would make sure she told Spillman everything she knew. I talked to Deuce again and told him how to get to the police station, thanked him and said that I’d touch base with him tomorrow. I figured Willie needed my attention now. After I ended the call, I straightened the bedroom and ordered a pizza. When it arrived, I put When Harry Met Sall
y, one of Willie’s favorite romantic comedies, into the DVD player. Willie came out of the bedroom in pajama shorts and a T-shirt, and we sat on the couch and relaxed. I held her tight, and didn’t want to let go.
A week later, Charlie Preston took Willie and me out to dinner at The Palm in the downtown Westin Hotel as an added bonus to the generous check he paid me.
“He’s cuter in person,” she whispered to me as they seated us at a table that faced a park outside.
“Ha ha,” I said.
“But I love you,” she said in my ear.
I smiled.
“I’m rejoining the team tomorrow,” Charlie said after a waiter stopped by to take our steak orders.
“That’s great,” Willie said. “The team could sure use you.”
Charlie lowered his gaze. “Thank you. And I’m going straight. No more steroids.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” I said.
“I hope so,” Charlie said. “I lost my friend over that stuff. I went to his funeral the other day…” He paused. “I had time to think, and I don’t want to be involved in anything illegal. I don’t want to cheat anymore. In some way, I feel like I owe it to him.”
“That’s the best thing you could do,” Willie said. “I’ve followed your career. You’ve got more talent than you give yourself credit for.”
“Thanks,” Charlie said. “And Gil admitted to everything. I think he knew there was too much stacked against him.”
“Detective Spillman told me,” I said. “Both Willie and I have had to talk to her and give official statements, and with Trisha’s statement, he’d have a hard time proving his innocence.”
“What about your gun?” Willie asked. “It had your fingerprints on it.”
“And his and a bunch of others,” Charlie said. “I’m in the clear on that.”
“Good,” I said.
Our food arrived and Willie and Charlie chatted baseball while we ate. She was as charming as ever, and I could tell Charlie liked her. We finished and ordered dessert, then Willie excused herself to go to the ladies room.
“She’s something special,” Charlie said as he sipped water.
I’d noticed he hadn’t even ordered a beer, so maybe he was cutting back on the drinking as well. A total cleanup in his life.
“She is,” I agreed. “Now that I have some time, I’m going to ask her to marry me.”
“Congratulations! Will I be invited to the wedding?”
I thought he was kidding, but saw that he was serious. I sensed a friendship forming. “Sure,” I said. “We’d love to have you there.”
“How are you going to pop the question?”
“I’ve been thinking about that.” I sighed. “She likes baseball and I thought I could take her to a game and ask her there.”
“And have the Rockies put ‘Willie, will you marry me?’ up on the Jumbotron?” Charlie asked.
“Yeah. It’s kind of cheesy, though.”
He shook his head. “As a player, I think it’s kind of cute, but I’ll bet I can do something better for you, something different that she’ll really remember.”
“What’s that?” I said.
Charlie launched into his idea, and it wasn’t just better, it was great.
The following Thursday, the Rockies had the day off, and Willie and I were at Coors Field. I’d told her we were getting a private tour of the stadium, which we did, but then it ended with us strolling out of the Rockies dugout near first base. Then Willie spied a folding table and chairs sitting in the outfield. The Mountain Ranch Club, a restaurant in the stadium, had catered the lunch. The table was covered with a pristine white tablecloth, and a vase with a single red rose was in the center.
“Oh, Reed, is this for us?”
I nodded and she hurried up to the table. Two waiters emerged from the dugout, one carrying a tray of food that included prime rib, salad, baked potatoes and vegetables -- quite a bit fancier than the usual stadium fare. The other had a bottle of champagne and two glasses.
“Oh, my gosh, Reed. This is amazing!” Willie said as we sat down.
And it was. The day was a perfect eighty degrees, not too hot and with just the hint of a breeze, and we had the entire Coors Field stadium to ourselves. What an experience! One we could tell our kids and grandkids, I hoped.
“Did you and Charlie cook this up?” she asked as the waiter poured champagne.
“Yes,” I said.
The waiter served the champagne while the other set down full plates in front of us. Then they both quietly left. We toasted and then ate our lunch and chatted.
When we finished, I sat back. “What a beautiful day.”
“It is. I can’t get over this! It was so nice of Charlie to do this for us.” She gave me a proud look. “He really appreciates what you did for him.”
“He’s a good guy,” I said.
Everything was working out perfectly. And yet, I suddenly got a case of the jitters, so I stood up.
“Did you ever think you’d be down on the field?” I asked.
“Well, I sure never thought I’d be dining down here. It’s pretty cool,” Willie said.
I’d worked out a plan with the groundskeeper, to signal him when I wanted the message flashed on the Jumbotron. I glanced over and saw him standing in the Rockies dugout. I lifted a hand at him when Willie wasn’t looking. He spoke into a small walkie-talkie, and a moment later, the scoreboard lit up with a message:
“Will you marry me?”
Not the most unusual wording, but how many women could say they were asked using a Jumbotron during a private lunch in the outfield at Coors Field? I subtly pulled out the ring and stepped over to Willie.
“Look over there.” I jerked my head at the scoreboard.
Willie looked around and then gasped when she saw the Jumbotron. “Oh, Reed!”
I got down on one knee and held up my grandmother’s ring. When she turned back to me, she saw the ring. Tears filled her eyes.
“Well?” I finally asked, the suspense killing me.
“Yes, of course, yes!” She leaned in and kissed me. “I love you so much.”
“I love you, too,” I said and hugged her.
She leaned in more and her chair tipped over. She knocked me backward and we ended up in a pile on the plush outfield grass. She laughed and kissed me again.
I glanced back toward the dugout. Charlie had joined the groundskeeper and he was smiling at me. He did his bat motion, swinging as if he was hitting one clear out of the park.
I gave him a “thumbs-up” and grinned.
It was indeed a home run.
THE END
Turn the page for an excerpt from Back Story, Reed Ferguson mystery book 10!
Sneak Peek
Back Story, Reed Ferguson Mysteries, book 10
“I think someone’s trying to kill me.”
That’s not something you hear every day, even if you’re a private investigator, which I, Reed Ferguson, happen to be. I leaned in toward the man who’d spoken those words. “Why do you think that?”
It was a Thursday evening in August and I was at Mickey’s, a seedy bar on Broadway in Englewood, a suburb south of downtown Denver. Mickey’s was a hole-in-the-wall, with a few small, wood-topped tables along one wall, a long bar with stools opposite, and one lone TV hung in the corner behind the bar. Sparse on décor and atmosphere, it was the kind of place where people came to drink their troubles away, not to watch a ballgame or otherwise be entertained. It was not my type of place, and the only good thing I could say about it was they played ’80s music, which is my favorite.
I was sitting at one of the tables, and across from me was Brad Webb, a potential client. As he took a moment to gather his thoughts, I surveyed him. He was tall, but stocky, about my age – late thirties – with neatly trimmed whitish-blond hair, blue eyes, and thin lips. He wore navy pants, an Izod shirt, and black leather shoes, and as he talked, I could feel the nervous tap-tap of his foot shaking the table leg. Ever
ything else about him, however, said he was organized and in control. Which made me wonder why he’d asked me to meet him at a place like Mickey’s.
“I’m getting ahead of myself,” he began. He took a sip of his Coors Light, swallowed hard, then put the beer back on the table. “Let me back up. This all started when my dad passed away a couple of weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I murmured as “Sunglasses at Night” by Corey Hart played from the sound system.
“Thank you. His name was Sam. He was a good man.” His face scrunched up. “He sometimes drank too much, and one night he got drunk and fell in the pool. He drowned.”
“That’s too bad,” I said lamely.
His foot tapped the table harder. “Yeah, it is. But this is the weird part. At the time of his death, my dad was looking into his father’s death.”
This was getting convoluted. “So, your grandfather,” I clarified.
He nodded. “Dewey Webb. He was a private investigator here in Denver, back in the ’40s and ’50s. He was murdered.”
“A detective, huh? Who killed him?”
“No one knows. It remains an unsolved crime.” He paused as if thinking about it. I nursed my Fat Tire and waited for him to continue. “I never knew him,” he said after a moment. “And my dad barely did. He was only five when Dewey died.”
“What happened to Dewey?”
“He was shot dead in his office. There were no witnesses, and they never found the gun that killed him. There didn’t seem to be any motive and little to go on. My understanding is the police worked the case for a while, and when they didn’t find anything, they moved on to other things.”
“It’s been a cold case ever since?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I tipped my beer bottle at him. “You said your dad was looking into your grandfather’s death.”
“Yes. After my dad died, I was surprised to find out he was researching the cases Dewey was working on when he died.”
“Why would that be unusual?”
The Reed Ferguson Mystery series Box Set 3 Page 51
