Mint Juleps, Mayhem, and Murder

by Sara Rosett

  Chapter Twenty-two

  By the time I’d explained my involvement and extricated myself from the scene at Colonel Barnes’s house, it was almost noon and I hadn’t heard back from Mitch, so I decided to run by the squadron on my way home. I tried to shake the feeling of unease that had settled on me. There was probably a completely normal and reasonable explanation for Mitch’s silence. I repeated that thought to myself and then forced myself to concentrate on Colonel Barnes.

  When I’d left he’d been repeating, for about the third time, that he was writing a book and the notes and papers were research. He was sticking to his story and I thought it was the truth. He’d really been scared that I would broadcast his secret. Now, of course, there wouldn’t be any way to keep it quiet.

  I pulled into the squadron parking lot and headed for a side door. Unlike Mitch’s last squadron building, which had been a converted Cold War–era alert facility, the three-story squadron building here at Taylor was new and had even escaped the blah-yellow paint that covered many buildings on air force bases. The squadron building was red brick, a nice change from the usual bland yellow exterior.

  I went in the side door, glad that it was unlocked during the day, and quickly climbed the staircase. I passed one of the squadron’s trophy cases on the landing between the first and second floors. Stuffed with every type of sports trophy, it glittered with metallic statues, plaques, medallions on ribbons, and team pictures. Most squadrons fielded some sports teams and this one was no exception.

  Despite the new building, the 233rd Refueling Squadron had been in existence since World War II and, although they hadn’t always flown air refueling tankers, they’d always played sports. Sometimes when the kids and I were waiting for Mitch to finish up some paperwork, I’d bring the kids down to look at the trophies as a distraction. Some of the trophies dated from the forties. They’d actually run out of space inside the case and many of the newest trophies perched on top. Livvy’s favorite was a shiny, angel-like winged creature on a five-inch marble base. Nathan’s favorite was a stuffed animal, a hawk—the squadron’s mascot—that someone had stuck on top of the case.

  I wasn’t sure why Colonel Pershall had the trophy case set up in the stairwell. Usually it would have gone in The Nest, the squadron’s break room. I thought of Bonnie and her desire for a streamlined look. Maybe he’d been going for cleaner lines in the break room, which would have been an aberration for most squadron break rooms.

  Except for the break room and high security cipher locks on some doors, the building looked like your average office space with low-pile gray carpet and offices with cubicles. Only the break room was different from what you’d find in most work places. Flight squadrons always seemed to have elaborate break rooms, which usually resembled a bar. Liberally decorated with beer posters and a big-screen TV, it was a room where people ate their lunch, or, on Friday afternoons, had a beer. Not like any office I’d ever worked in, that was for sure. But with the new building, the break room had a more generic feeling—there was a single beer advertisement, a full-size cardboard cutaway of a blonde in a bikini, and a smattering of souvenirs from the squadron’s deployments, which were an odd mishmash ranging from the typical group photos in restaurants to a deer head mounted on the wall near the pool table.

  I pushed open the door to the third floor and hurried down the hallway to the flight training office, which was where Mitch worked when he wasn’t flying. The office was empty, but his computer was on, papers were spread across his desk, and his gym bag was beside the rolling chair. He was around somewhere. I should have tried The Nest first, I decided, and retraced my steps to the stairwell because the break room was on the ground floor.

  I tried calling his cell phone again as I walked through the squadron. I breathed a sigh of relief when he answered. “Sorry I couldn’t answer earlier. I was in a meeting. Are you still on base?”

  “Yep, in the squadron, in fact. I’m on the first floor,” I said, deciding all my news could wait until I could talk to him face to face.

  “Okay, I’m leaving the conference room now.”

  “I’ll meet you on the stairs,” I said, retracing my path. “See you in a second.”

  I swung open the stairwell door and heard Mitch’s heavy flight boots tromping down. Instead of climbing the stairs again, I decided to wait at the bottom for him. He rounded the stairs at the landing in front of the trophy case. I looked up to greet him and saw one of the taller trophies wobble, then fall.

  “Watch out!” I yelled, pointing over his head.

  He looked back over his shoulder and the heavy marble base smacked his forehead. He reeled back like he’d been punched and blood spurted from the gash it left.

  I raced up the stairs. “Are you okay?” I asked, even though I could tell he wasn’t. He pressed his hand to his forehead, but blood was already seeping between his fingers.

  “I’m fine,” he said, as he stood back up, then swayed slightly, his face pale and washed out.

  “Here, sit.” I pushed him onto one of the steps and when he actually obeyed me without complaining that I was fussing over him, I felt a thread of fear run through me.

  I didn’t have anything to press on the cut. It was so hot I wasn’t wearing a jacket and, for once, I didn’t have the diaper bag—which was practically a survival kit—with me. A rivulet of blood flowed quickly from his fingers down over the back of his hand and soaked into the edge of his flight suit. I needed paper towels, but the bathrooms and the break room were on the other side of the squadron. I spotted the stuffed hawk still perched on the top of the case and grabbed it. “Here, use this.”

  Mitch took it without a word and pressed it to his head. Blood blossomed through the furry cover so quickly that I pulled out my phone.

  “I’m calling nine-one-one,” I said.

  “No.” Mitch grabbed my arm. “I think it’s slowing down.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said and punched in the numbers.

  “Ellie, wait, I’m serious. Don’t call.”

  I paused with my finger on the send button and looked at him. The stuffed animal looked like something from a horror movie, blood soaked and matted, but his color was returning to normal and the cut wasn’t spurting blood now. “Head wounds bleed a lot, trust me, this happened to me a ton of times when I was a kid. I’m going to be fine,” he said as he removed the stuffed hawk. “I just need something else…”

  Now that I could see the cut, it wasn’t very big and he did look better. “I’ll go find some paper towels, Mr. Tough Guy,” I said. These macho pilot-types never wanted to go to the doctor for anything. They were afraid that anything that went in their medical files might impact their flying.

  “It’s not that,” Mitch said. “Look at the trophy.” He shoved it with his toe and I saw a thin string tied around the foot of the statue where it connected to the marble base.

  “What is that?” I asked, leaning closer.

  “Ellie, about those paper towels,” Mitch said, pulling away his fingers, which were still covered in blood.

  “Right.” I stood up, reluctant to leave him alone. “Wait,” I said and dug around in my tote. “I have a diaper.” I pulled it out with a flourish and handed it to him.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said, but he opened it and pressed it against his head.

  “Diapers are extremely absorbent.” I went back to the string that was tied around the trophy. “It’s dental floss.” I tugged on the long strand that trailed away from us. It was threaded through the open treads of the stairway above us. “Why would someone use floss?” I asked.

  “It’s strong—much stronger than thread and small enough not to be noticed,” Mitch said as he reached out and jerked on it. It fell in a large pool on the stairs beside him. “That’s enough to go to the third floor.” He tentatively pulled the diaper away from his head.

  The bleeding had slowed. “It’s not bleeding much. Keep applying pressure,” I said and pressed the diaper b
ack on his head.

  “I hope no one sees this. I’ll never live this down if they do.”

  The door on the third floor clanged open and footsteps echoed down the stairs. Mitch made a move to get up, but I shoved him back down just as the door on the ground floor opened and a swath of sunlight illuminated the shadowy staircase. It threw the bloody stuffed animal and shiny trophy into a spotlight glare as a group of flyers returned from lunch. Jeff was the first one in the door and I could see Mitch cringe as Jeff asked, “What happened to you?”

  I could tell he wanted to be anywhere but sitting on a step with a diaper pressed to his head. “Just an old war wound,” Mitch joked.

  “Looks like that hawk put up one heck of a fight,” Jeff said, nodding to the stuffed animal. “Man, where’s a camera when you need one?”

  “I’ve got my cell phone,” Henry said.

  I knew an image like this would end up on the squadron bulletin board and that would be the very last thing Mitch would want. “He’s hurt. This is not the time to make fun of him, Jeff,” I scolded and Henry put away his phone. “Look at that trophy. The base has to weigh at least ten pounds. That could have caused some serious damage. And it looks like—”

  “It was on the edge of the case,” Mitch said, interrupting me. He gave a slight shake of his head, warning me off the subject of how the trophy fell. “The vibrations of everyone going up and down the stairs eventually made it fall.”

  Henry moved to the front of the group. “Let me take a look. I had some EMT training.” He tilted Mitch’s head and said, “Well, I don’t think you’ll need stitches. It doesn’t look too bad.”

  Footfalls had been echoing down from the upper floors as we talked. They were right above us and I looked up to see Denise rounding the landing above us, carrying a cardboard box. She had on jeans and a polo shirt and her sunglasses were propped up on her head. She looked so much better than she had last night. She had makeup on and her gaze was sharp as she scanned the scene below her, then said, “My goodness, Mitch, are you all right? I knew that trophy case should have gone in The Nest.” She came down the steps and handed the box to Henry. She examined the cut on Mitch’s head, then grabbed his elbow. “Come on, let’s get you to The Nest. There’s a first aid kit in there.”

  Jeff made a move to take Mitch’s other elbow, but Mitch waved him off as he stood. “I’m okay.”

  “Of course, you are,” Denise said. Mitch hadn’t been able to disengage himself from her since she had her arm tucked through his elbow. “We’ll get you cleaned up and you’ll be fine.” I trailed along and filed into the break room behind them. Assessing a situation and taking charge still came naturally to Denise. Those were skills I’m sure she’d used often as a commander’s wife.

  She found the first aid kit and turned to Henry, who’d dropped to the back of the group and was entering the room. “Did you say you’ve had some experience with this sort of thing, Henry?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, taking the kit from her after he put her box down on one of the tables that were scattered around the room. He cleaned the cut and applied a small bandage. It was hard to believe that small cut had produced so much blood, I thought as I looked at the cuff of Mitch’s flight suit, which was now crusty with dried blood. A few drops also spotted his flight suit and patches. “Looks like you’ll be fine. It’s not a deep cut,” Henry said.

  “Probably because it didn’t hit me straight on. When Ellie yelled I saw it and ducked but couldn’t get completely out of the way.”

  “Well, you’re lucky you saw it coming. A solid blow from that thing to the back of the head…” Henry shook his head. “That wouldn’t be good.” He stepped back and closed the first aid kit, then wadded the bandage wrappers into a pile. “That’ll hold you for now, but you could still have it checked out, to make sure it doesn’t leave a scar.” Henry glanced from Mitch to me. “Do you want to take him to the hospital or the flight doc?”

  “There’s no emergency room on base, so it would have to be the hospital in North Dawkins,” I said.

  “I’m fine,” Mitch said rather crankily. “You heard him, Ellie. It’s not deep. I’m fine,” he repeated firmly and I knew there was no way he was going to get any more medical attention. I wasn’t the only one in the family with a stubborn streak. Mitch stood up. “I need a new flight suit, but other than that, I’m all right. Let’s go clean up the mess in the stairwell.”

  Jeff and Henry left to get ready for their flight and Mitch and I returned to the stairs. Denise was already ahead of us there. She was on her hands and knees wiping up drops of blood. “Wow, Denise, you’re fast,” I said.

  She sat back on her heels, and tossed a wet paper towel into a plastic trash bag that contained the ruined stuffed animal. “It looked like Henry had things under control in there, so I came back here.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked as I picked up the plastic trash bag and the remaining stack of paper towels she’d set down on the floor.

  “I think I got it all. I didn’t want someone to slip and fall. Feeling okay?” she asked Mitch.

  “I’m fine.” He said it politely enough, but I could tell he was already tired of the question.

  The trophy was still on the floor where it had fallen. Denise reached over and picked it up. Mitch and I exchanged a quick puzzled glance as Denise twisted it in her hands. “Not a scratch on it, which is not surprising, considering how heavy it is.” The trophy weighed down her arm and she braced her hand on the stair handrail to leverage herself up.

  “Here,” Mitch said, jumping forward. “Let me.” He took the trophy from her and then held her arm as she stood.

  “We really should request a new case,” Denise said. “It could go in The Nest…” Her voice trailed off and I realized she’d forgotten for a few moments that she wasn’t the squadron commander’s wife anymore. She forced a smile and said, “Of course, that will be up to the new commander.”

  “I’ll make sure it’s at the back of the case where it won’t fall,” Mitch said. “That’ll take care of it for now.”

  She nodded and seemed to brace herself as she pushed her shoulders back. “I’ll take that bag and throw it away on my way out,” she said and I handed her the trash bag.

  “Denise, how are you doing? Feeling better?” I asked.

  “Yes, much better. I’m fine.” she said with a quick nod and jogged down the stairs. The stairwell door clanged shut behind her.

  I turned back to Mitch, who was carefully examining the trophy. “Lots of people are ‘fine’ today,” I said. “She obviously doesn’t want to talk about anything right now.”

  Mitch shrugged. “Let her have her space. Maybe she’s embarrassed about last night.”

  “Could be.” She had been wandering around her front yard in her robe. I know I wouldn’t want to be caught doing that.

  Mitch carefully set the trophy at the back corner of the case.

  “Where’s the dental floss?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Mitch said. He checked around the case. “Well, it’s not under it or behind it. Was it in the trash bag?”

  “No, I looked. There wasn’t anything in there but a few paper towels and that awful-looking stuffed animal.”

  We looked at each other for a moment, then I said, “That means someone came back here while we were in The Nest and removed it.”

  Tips for Busy, Budget-Minded Moms

  How long to keep paperwork

  Tax paperwork—seven years.

  Debit and credit card receipts—keep until the charges appear on the account statement and accounts are reconciled or paid, unless they are needed to support tax filings.

  Receipts and warranties—keep as long as you own the item and the warranty is active.

  Bills and credit card statements—keep for one year, unless they are needed to support tax filings.

  Cancelled checks—if you still receive cancelled checks, keep them along with check registers for one y
ear. Keep checks that support tax filings for seven years. Hold onto bank statements for one year, unless you need them to support tax filings, then keep them with your tax paperwork and store seven years.

  Paycheck stubs—one year.

  Investment paperwork—check with your tax professional.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I rubbed my forehead. “Do you take these stairs every day?”

  “No. I did, until we had those strange incidents. After the dry ice explosion in my car, I switched to parking in the lot out front where I could see my car from the windows in my office. And I started taking the front staircase. These stairs aren’t as busy as the ones up front and I’ve been avoiding deserted places lately.”

  We’d gone several days without any incidents, as Mitch called them. I’d felt like I was holding my breath, waiting for the next horrible thing to happen. As the hours passed and nothing happened, I’d begun to relax slightly. Maybe it was over and nothing else would happen? But now, I felt the cold grip of fear seize me again. There were so many places where Mitch was vulnerable in his daily life. Just walking down the stairs was dangerous, for crying out loud. We couldn’t live like this. Knowing that Mitch had assessed this staircase as a risky place and avoided it made me feel a little bit better. He was taking all these incidents very seriously. That also scared me.

  “Why did you take these stairs today?”

  “I got lazy. I should have used the front staircase, but I thought you’d be coming in this way—you usually do—and I’d relaxed since nothing had happened lately.”

  “So this is the first time you’ve taken these stairs since the dry ice bomb went off in your car?”

  He nodded. I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “Someone had to be watching you, waiting for you to take the stairs. This ‘accident’ was engineered specifically for you.” I sat down on one of the steps, feeling weary and overwhelmed. “And now we know it couldn’t have been Colonel Barnes or Carrie. Who else could want to hurt you?”