The Gun Also Rises

by Sherry Harris

  Angelo looked at Rosalie. I thought I detected a slight roll of the eyes on Rosalie’s part.

  “You don’t have to help,” Rosalie said.

  “Of course I will.” In the past I’d found replacement tables and chairs for them if something wore out. This sounded more serious, and I was getting anxious. I wished they’d just spit it out. I looked back and forth between them.

  Angelo cleared his throat. “Did you hear about the lasagna bake-off in Bedford next week?”

  Bedford was the town next to Ellington. I nodded, mystified. While I was a whiz at setting up garage sales, my cooking skills were renowned for how awful they were. I hoped he didn’t want me to enter. I thought the contest was open only to chefs at area restaurants.

  “I signed up,” Angelo said.

  “That’s great. You’ll win,” I said. “Do you need a sous-chef ?” I could try, but it seemed like Rosalie or someone who worked here with him would be a better choice.

  “I want to make sure I win,” Angelo said. “I have to win.” His hand fisted, but he refrained from pounding the table.

  This time Rosalie definitely rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to win. You want to win,” she said with a shake of her head.

  “So what do you want me to do?” My imagination was going wild. Poison, sabotage, kidnapping? What would making sure Angelo won entail? There were rumors his family was connected, that his uncle had more than just ties to the Mob. And I knew his cousin Vincenzo, an attorney, had gotten a few mobsters off racketeering charges. It seemed like Angelo had better options than me to make sure he would win. I grabbed my Chianti and took a big swig. Why did they call that Dutch courage—or in this case Italian?

  “I need you to go to the top five competitors’ restaurants and sample their lasagna and report back.” Angelo leaned back in his chair.

  That was it? He wanted me to eat pasta? Relief made my body feel like an overcooked piece of lasagna, saggy and limp. “I can do that.”

  “And bring me back a sample, without telling anyone what you are up to.”

  “Of course.” Jeez, how hard could that be?

  * * *

  An hour and a half later I roamed up and down the long rows of tables in the Ellington High School gymnasium, using a hockey stick as a baton, making sure everything was ready. I pictured myself as a drum majorette being cheered on by a crowd in a huge football stadium. I could do with someone cheering for me. I probably looked more suited to leading the band from The Music Man, with my hockey stick and crazy march. Slaphappy. Giddy. Punch drunk. I was all those things. Maybe it was the combination of the Chianti from earlier with the DiNapolis and the caffeine I’d consumed after in the form of coffee, lots of it, from Dunkin’s.

  My stomach rumbled, and I thought about the lasagna Angelo had mentioned. I hadn’t had much of an appetite since my ex-husband, CJ, left me six weeks ago, despite the rekindling of our relationship last February. I still couldn’t believe he had chosen a job in Florida over me. But I couldn’t think about that now.

  The lasagna project was something to look forward to, something to keep me busy. Busy had been my mantra since CJ left. I’d overbooked myself in the hopes that I’d be dead tired. But sleep, like my appetite, had all but disappeared. The lasagna would have to wait, though, because in nine hours the doors to the swap would open.

  For the past week, people had been dropping off their gently used athletic equipment. Items they were tired of or that had been outgrown. Tomorrow other people would come and pick up what they needed. It was something that made everyone happy. The last of my helpers had left right after I returned from DiNapoli’s around ten. Who could blame them? Some people had things to do on Friday nights. All the hard work getting ready for the swap was better than hardly working.

  I twirled the hockey stick in my hand as I checked one last time to make sure all the equipment for the sports swap was at least somewhat organized. It hadn’t taken long to learn that sports equipment didn’t like to be arranged. It liked to roll or topple over. Baseball bats, lacrosse sticks, balls, pretty much all sports equipment. They were unruly and didn’t lend themselves to neat arrangements. Except for the helmets. At least they cooperated by sitting proudly in rows.

  I’d get zippo for doing this, so maybe it wasn’t a smart business move. The last Saturday in June was primo garage sale season. I had turned down a lot of jobs, hoping that organizing this would up my profile in the town of Ellington and the surrounding suburban areas outside of Boston. It hadn’t taken long to learn that sports equipment swaps were very popular in this area. Old and outgrown equipment was a big draw.

  Most of the school board members had liked my idea of adding a silent auction to raise more funds for the school district. With all the sports teams in Boston, it had been easy to get items owned or signed by famous athletes and to prove their provenance. I’d even had a fan girl moment when I ran into Tom Brady the day I picked things up at Gillette Stadium, home of the Patriots. He was bigger in person and better looking. His smile almost melted my shoes.

  I tossed the hockey stick up into the air as I twirled around, planning to catch it before it hit the floor. The lights went out, and I skittered to a stop mid-twirl. The hockey stick glanced off my shoulder and clattered to the floor by my feet.

  “Ow,” I said to the empty, silent gym. I felt around for the hockey stick so I didn’t trip myself. After I picked it up, I shook my head, hoping the power outage wouldn’t prevent the swap from taking place tomorrow. I shuffled in the general direction of my purse and cell phone, not wanting to knock over one of the tables full of equipment. If I could find my phone, I could use the flashlight app. Footsteps echoed on the gymnasium floor and they weren’t mine.

  “Hello,” I called. At least I wasn’t alone. Slow, deliberate footsteps headed toward me. “Who’s here?” I couldn’t make out anything in the dark.

  There wasn’t a response except for the echo of steps. I whirled, still clutching the hockey stick, and hurried blindly toward my cell phone. I knocked my hip into a table. Balls of all sorts, from basketballs to golf balls, spilled, bounced, and rolled around me. I stutter-stepped around them, slipping, hoping that they would slow whoever else was in here, too.

  Footsteps pounded across the gym floor, growing closer. I veered away from my purse. Sprinted toward the only light in the gym, one of the glowing exit signs. Something hooked around my foot. Another freaking hockey stick. I sprawled as I slid across the gymnasium floor and landed in a display of skis. They thundered down, battering and bruising me. I started to shake off the skis, to get back up, to get away.

  Something whacked my lower back, my kidneys. Another blow hit the back of my thighs. I collapsed and curled into a ball, making myself as small as possible. I flung my left arm over my head, protecting it. My right hand clutched the hockey stick. My eyes were adjusting to the dark, and I could see the outline of a shadowy person bending toward me. The person grasped my arm, wrenching my left shoulder, and dragged me. I tried to trip him with the hockey stick. He stomped on my hand. I let go of the hockey stick as I cried out.

  I heard a door open. Hinges creak. The only doors that weren’t exits in the gym were to the equipment room or the locker rooms. The door to the equipment room was the one with the creaky hinges. He shoved me. The door banged shut. Something was dragged across the floor, and it hit the door.

  I huddled on the floor, trembling. I knew I should move, but couldn’t. Too scared. Too hurt. Noises sounded from the gym, bangs and bumps, and I wondered what the hell was going on out there. I pushed myself up to a sitting position and listened. After a while I didn’t hear anything. I got to my feet and stumbled forward blindly. I bumped into some kind of shelving unit. It rocked madly, but nothing fell on my head. I fumbled around for the light switch, running my hand up the rough walls, where it seemed like it should be.

  I finally found it and flicked it on, blinking as the fluorescent light came to life. One of the long tubes blinked
sporadically, crackling and sputtering. It created the perfect setting for a horror movie. The equipment room was full of creepy shadows. The doorknob turned easily in my hand, but when I tried to push the door open, it wouldn’t budge. And every part of my aching body seemed to protest the action. Whoever was out there had blocked me in. I cursed when I realized I was stuck for the night, because no one would miss me until the morning. But what if he came back?

  About The Author

  Sherry Harris is the author of All Murders Final!, Tagged for Death, and The Longest Yard Sale, and started bargain hunting in second grade at her best friend’s yard sale. She honed her bartering skills as she moved around the country while her husband served in the Air Force. Sherry combined her love of garage sales, her life as an Air Force spouse, and her time living in Massachusetts as inspiration for this series. Sherry is an independent editor for fiction and nonfiction writers, a member of Sisters in Crime, Sisters in Crime New England, and Sisters in Crime Chesapeake Chapter. She blogs with New England mystery writers at WickedCozyAuthors.com.