Falling to Pieces

by Vannetta Chapman

  “Esther, Melinda, and I are quilting tomorrow morning. We’ll come into town when we’re done to visit you at the shop.”

  “Thank you.” Callie hung up the phone, reached out to pet Max who had nosed his way over to investigate.

  “We can do this, Max. Looks like the same model some of my clients used, back in Houston. Back in the old days—you know, two months ago.”

  The surveillance system allowed for instant playback, which apparently Daisy had never done, since it wasn’t currently connected to any type of monitor.

  There was a small television upstairs, which Callie had turned on less than a half dozen times. With no cable, she hadn’t been able to get reception to more than three local channels. She dashed upstairs, retrieved the small set, and placed it on the counter in the shop.

  Within fifteen minutes she’d found the recording of the day she and Deborah had decided to auction the quilts on eBay—an auction which was now going well above minimum bid. But their success wouldn’t impress Stakehorn.

  He was out for blood—English blood.

  What might convince him was the somewhat grainy image replaying on the screen.

  The camera lens was apparently mounted on the wall’s southeast corner, so much of the recording looked down on Callie’s and Deborah’s head—but even Stakehorn wouldn’t be able to argue about who said what. The audio recording was crisp and clear.

  Daisy had bought a newer model, so the system had the ability to record, much like a combination VCR/DVD. Callie found a stack of blank DVDs in a cupboard, placed one in the slot, and after finding the correct spot, hit the RECORD button on the security box.

  “Are you sure you want to do this, Deborah? It seems like a big step, seems very different for you and your friends to conduct business this way.”

  “It’s what we need to do. The bishop will understand.”

  She hit STOP, then ejected the DVD from the player. “This should convince him.”

  This could all work out, she thought. With a retraction, Stakehorn’s little stunt might even benefit her in the long run, with all the free advertising. Callie booted up her laptop and searched online for the phone number of the Gazette, then called it from her cell. On the eleventh ring, Stakehorn picked up.

  “I have your proof,” she said, not bothering to introduce herself.

  “What you have is a cleaning bill coming your way. I’ll expect it to be paid first thing tomorrow.”

  “I have proof that it was Deborah’s idea to auction the quilts on eBay.”

  “If you plan to drag the little Amish woman over here, forget it. No doubt you’ve coached her plenty since you had your little fit at the deli. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a paper to—”

  “I have a recording.”

  Stakehorn stopped talking. Callie could hear the sound of a printing press running in the background. She sat down on the cashier’s stool, put her left hand on top of Max’s head for comfort, and waited.

  “What do you mean you have a recording?”

  Instead of answering his question, she fired back with one of her own. “Do you want to see it or not? If not, I’d be happy to take it to the owner of your paper and show him—or her—what shoddy drivel you print in your editorial section. They might be interested in knowing.”

  “If you have a recording, which I strongly doubt, and if you bring it to me, and if I agree that it proves what you think it proves, then I’ll print your retraction, young lady. But those are three mighty big ifs.”

  “I can be there in ten minutes.”

  “Give me an hour. I have a paper to print, and I’m behind schedule since someone baptized me in mango-peach tea.”

  The line went dead.

  The man was infuriatingly rude. She didn’t care though. All that mattered was she’d won, and in an hour he’d know it.

  This time, Callie drove to the Gazette. She had no problem finding it since she’d so recently been there with Deborah. It sat on the east side of Main Street, sandwiched between the post office to the north and an antique store to the south. Both were closed. Across the street was the local feed store, which was also dark.

  This town closed up at six, rolled the carpet up and tucked it inside in case there was rain. Not that she missed the big city lights of Houston. She’d once counted eighteen lanes on the highway—from frontage road, across the southbound lanes of the freeway, central HOV lanes, then across the northbound lanes and frontage roads. Eighteen lanes of concrete.

  No, Houston-ites could keep their big city ways.

  She might not end up staying in a place as small as Shipshewana, but she wasn’t ready to go back to a metropolitan area—that much she knew.

  She parked in front of the building, walked up to the door and tapped on the glass.

  No answer.

  Mrs. Caldwell’s desk sat empty, though Callie wouldn’t have been surprised if the battle axe had jumped out of the shrubs and shooed her away.

  Pressing her nose against the glass-paned door, she could see past Caldwell’s desk to the small hall leading beyond the reception area she’d been in earlier. At the end of the hall was a door which must open into the main part of the building.

  From the street lights on Main, Callie could see well enough to make out a small square window in the door separating the two areas, but she couldn’t see through the window. It seemed to be covered with some sort of film.

  She moved to the right, to the large plate glass window for a better look and saw a light beyond the door. A yellowish glow emanated weakly through the tiny window. Pressing her ear to the cool glass, she could hear the thump-thump-thump of the printing press.

  She walked back to the door and tried the knob, even rattled it a bit, but of course it was locked.

  Pulling her cell phone out of her pocket, she redialed the last number. After fifteen rings, it turned over to a recording. “You have reached the Shipshewana Gazette. We’re closed for the evening. Please leave a message and we’ll—”

  Callie snapped the phone shut and looked around in frustration.

  Stakehorn was in there. Either he couldn’t hear her, or else he’d never intended to meet with her in the first place.

  Stepping back toward her car, she spotted the sign. Deliveries drive down alley to back.

  Bingo.

  Drive or walk?

  You’re not in Houston anymore. No need to be afraid of a dark alley. Might as well walk. But she couldn’t help wishing she’d brought Max along for company.

  Callie breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the end of the alley.

  Which was ridiculous.

  It ran the length of the building—no more than fifty feet, and she was never in complete darkness. There was a single street light at the end she’d started from, and light from the window of the printing room of the Gazette at the other.

  Plus she was a grown woman and not afraid of a little darkness.

  Still she was sure she’d heard a rat or some sort of varmint by the large trash dumpster. And the way her sandals had crunched against the asphalt and pieces of broken glasses had sent small shivers down her spine.

  “I’m getting what I deserve for reading Agatha Christie novels. I’m more nervous than a catfish on a hook.”

  She tried the back door of the Gazette and nearly fell down when it opened easily on her first tug.

  “Mr. Stakehorn? Hello?”

  The printing press continued to roll with an ear-splitting thump-thump-thump. From inside it sounded like a train rolling through the room.

  Stepping past the small area for deliveries, Callie pushed through the double doors and into the main press room.

  She was instantly overwhelmed by light. Overhead fluorescents shone down from the twelve foot ceilings, revealing yellowed tile, old presses, and stacks of paper everywhere. The unmistakable odor of ink filled her nasal passages.

  Her mind flashed back to sitting at her father’s feet, playing with something. What had it been
? Colors. She’d sat there with colors and a pad while her father read the paper. She could hear the rustle as he turned the pages, see the black letters on gray print when she’d glance up at him. And the smell, the smell was the very same—the smell of newsprint.

  “Mr. Stakehorn?” This time, Callie raised her voice, trying to be heard above the din of the press.

  She walked the length of the room and peered out front, into the reception area she’d been in earlier in the day. She could see through to the front, see her car parked by the curb and the deserted street beyond.

  A dark, sepia flap covered the window over the door—which would explain why the light looked dim to her from out front. No doubt it helped to keep the office area cooler.

  “Bet these presses heat up the place later in the summer.” Her words echoed in the room.

  But where was Stakehorn?

  Had he stepped out for a minute?

  Callie pivoted back toward the alley door. When she did, she saw that something was wrong with the press. The newspapers rolled off the belt and dropped into a giant crate on the floor, but the crate was full and overflowing.

  Papers continued to spew in every direction.

  The scene was almost comical. It looked as if a child had been set loose inside the newspaper office, allowed to play with the machines. Except it wasn’t funny.

  It was somehow wrong.

  She turned slowly in a circle and that was when she spied the small corner office—no bigger than a closet. She could just make out two aluminum folding chairs and the edge of an old oak desk, papers stacked six inches high on both it and the chairs. Some of the papers had even fallen and scattered across the floor.

  But that wasn’t what caused her mouth to fall open, and her hand to clasp her throat.

  On top of the stack of papers, rested Stakehorn’s outstretched hand.

  Chapter 11

  MAYBE HE’D FALLEN ASLEEP.

  Or maybe it wasn’t him at all.

  She couldn’t tell from where she stood. She’d have to walk into the office.

  Callie attempted to swallow, but found her throat was too dry. Her hand was also still wrapped around her neck. She pressed her palm against her heart, took three deep breaths to slow her heart rate, then reached into her purse.

  With one hand she still held her cell phone. Flipping it open, she keyed in the numbers nine, one, one, then positioned her thumb over the call button. With her other hand, she hunted through her purse, found and clutched her tactical flashlight. The thirty thousand candle power might not succeed in blinding someone in a fully lighted room, but then again it might.

  On top of that, it was solid polymer construction—she’d bought it after taking a self-defense class. If anyone waited in there for her, she stood a good chance of being able to clobber him or her with it.

  Heart thrumming in rhythm to the noise of the press, she moved toward Stakehorn’s office. Her sandals echoed against the linoleum floor, seeming to out-shout even the noise of the machine behind her.

  As she inched closer, she noticed brown liquid on the floor—splattered from the corner of the desk and across the nearest stack of papers. Puddled on the floor.

  Could he have fallen asleep and knocked over his coffee?

  Callie reached up to brace herself against the doorframe before entering the room. When she saw the hand in front of her, shaking and garish in the fluorescent lights, she almost didn’t recognize it as her own—then she saw her grandmother’s wedding band that she wore on her index finger.

  Why was she so shaken? For all she knew, he was merely passed out. Except her old training kicked in when she forced her gaze back toward the man at the desk.

  Her heart rate thundered in her ears now.

  Above it she heard her own breath gasp, even as her eyes took in the awkward tilt of Stakehorn’s head across his arm, the lifelessness of his open eyes, the stillness of his body.

  Her phone clattered to the floor.

  Her flashlight slipped from her fingers.

  Callie clasped both hands across her mouth in an effort to stifle her scream.

  Then she realized no one would hear her.

  Would they?

  Twirling around she nearly slipped in the coffee on the floor. It had been coffee hadn’t it?

  Suddenly she needed out of the room, needed out of the office and back in her car.

  Walking as quickly as she could, but not running, she hurried back through the press room.

  It wouldn’t do any good to run and fall. Every teenage horror movie she’d ever seen replayed through her mind—the woman alone at night, a dead body found, the murderer lurking in the shadows.

  Except there weren’t any shadows, and it hadn’t been a murder.

  Had it?

  Perhaps he’d had a heart attack.

  Under the harshness of the fluorescent lights, Stakehorn’s cold, lifeless form had looked so old—older than she’d remembered.

  As she rushed back through the press room, the same lights glared down on her, revealing cracks in the linoleum, a piece of trash thrown in the corner, her hand reaching to push the door open.

  Then she was flying back down the alley, back through the darkness, back toward the street.

  A cat hissed, but Callie never slowed.

  She turned the corner of the building and practically threw herself at the door of the little blue car.

  Fumbling in her purse for her car keys, she hit the alarm instead of the unlock button. Its blare split the quietness of the night.

  After the third try she managed to quiet the alarm and unlock the rental. Collapsing into the driver’s seat, she slammed the door shut, hit the lock key, buckled her seat belt, and sat staring at the front door of the Shipshewana Gazette.

  How long had she been in there? Ten minutes?

  Ten minutes since she’d parked here, determined to prove to Stakehorn that she was right.

  Now he was dead.

  Her hands began to shake at the thought. She grasped the wheel to still them.

  She needed to think clearly.

  A dead man she barely knew was sprawled across his desk.

  She’d spoken with him barely an hour ago. How was it possible that he was dead?

  She needed to call someone, call the police.

  Grabbing her purse, she began pawing through it, looking for her cell phone.

  “Where is it? Where did I put it? I tried to call him from the front door. Then I had my thumb on the button as I walked toward—”

  She dropped her purse onto the seat, suddenly realizing where her phone was.

  It was in Stakehorn’s office, on the floor, near his body.

  She was not going back in there after her phone.

  Okay. So she needed to drive to the police station.

  Where was the police station?

  Shipshewana was a small town. The police station couldn’t be that hard to find. She’d drive around and look for it.

  She retrieved her keys from the floorboard where they’d fallen, tried three times to put them in the ignition, but found her hand was shaking too badly to make the connection.

  Finally she settled for clutching the wheel and resting her forehead against it.

  The coolness settled her, helped her to even out her breathing, slowed her heart rate—until she heard the tap at her window.

  This time she made no attempt to stifle the scream as she tried to leap across the car away from the window. Of course the seat belt held her in place, which only increased her panic as she fought it.

  Her system had absorbed too much shock in the last half hour. The scream she released expressed the horror she’d felt since spying Stakehorn’s hand stretched out across the stack of papers.

  The man standing beside her car backed up two steps, flipped the flashlight to on, and spoke in an authoritative, no-nonsense voice. “Ma’am. Shipshewana Police Department. I’m going to need you to step out of the car.”

  Her terror mom
entarily fled, and she nearly collapsed with relief. She couldn’t see his face because the flashlight blinded her, but she could make out the dark blue of a uniform and what looked like an officer’s belt. She held one hand up to shield her eyes, and with the other, fumbled with the door handle.

  “You’ll need to unlock the door before exiting the vehicle.”

  If he was amused by her bumbling, his voice didn’t show it.

  Using the remote control, she unlocked the car, released her seat belt, opened the door, and stepped out. “Thank goodness you’re here!” she began. Then she saw the expression on the officer’s face.

  He might have been called ruggedly handsome by some, except for the complete lack of expression. Blue eyes the color of ice took in everything, assessed her, pinned her where she was beside the car. Six feet tall and muscular, he wasn’t your cartoon donut-cop. Hair the color of wheat was cut military length.

  “A disturbance was reported a few minutes ago.” He spoke in a clipped tone, waiting for her to explain.

  “A disturbance?” Callie looked around in disbelief. Could something else have happened while she was in the newspaper office?

  “Some sort of loud noise. Apparently it was related to a new model Ford, license number—”

  “It was my car—my rental car. I couldn’t get it unlocked, and I hit the alarm by mistake. Listen to me, Sir—

  “Officer. My name is Officer Gavin.”

  “Officer Gavin. Forget about the noise.” Callie pulled in a deep breath of night air, hugged her arms tightly around her body. “Stakehorn’s in there, at his desk, and he’s dead.”

  Gavin’s hand went immediately to his firearm. “Say again.”

  “He’s dead.” Callie’s voice rose and she hugged her ribs tighter. “He’s at his desk, his coffee spilled everywhere, the press still spewing papers all over the floor.”

  Her legs started shaking and she wondered if she’d fall apart there by the car, crumble onto the asphalt.

  “Ma’am, I need you to turn around and put your hands up on your car.” Gavin’s expression hadn’t changed, but if anything the look in his eyes had hardened.

  “Excuse me?”