by Fran Rizer
"That’s not likely," the doctor answered. "Unless she were being given minute amounts of poison consistently, she’d either get sick and get over it or get sick and continue to get worse and worse." He knocked lightly on the bathroom door and called, "Jane, Jane. This is Donald Walters, the doctor. May I come in and see if I can help you?"
"No, I’m beginning to feel better. It’ll go away and then I’ll come out. Ask Frankie to hand me the wet cloth he had." Frankie opened the door a few inches and passed the fabric through to her.
"Is that coffee I smell?" Donald asked.
"We had some, but I dumped it because Jane said it was making her sicker," Frankie said.
"That’s interesting," Donald said.
The three of us sat on the couch and watched television as the sounds of Jane’s nausea subsided. When the local news came on, we all sat up a little straighter as though that would make us hear better. The beginning of the broadcast showed the earlier scene at Sheriff Harmon’s house. I even saw Bill’s purple truck. The commentator reported that the sheriff was missing and there was no sign of him in his home though both of his vehicles were there.
Jane emerged from the bathroom just as an interview with one of the longtime deputies assured the public that everything possible was being done to locate Sheriff Harmon. She looked washed-out and pale, but she smiled.
"Do you think Sheriff Harmon has run off with some woman?" she asked.
"No!" Frankie and I blurted together.
"Wayne would run off with a woman if he had time off," Frankie said, "or if he notified his people where he would be, but no way would he just abandon his responsibilities. Something’s wrong, but it’s hard to figure out what since both cars are at his house according to the news."
"Both cars are there," I said. "Daddy and I went over there this morning."
"Was that jerk, Eddie, there?" asked Frankie.
"Yes," I said, "and as a matter of fact, he asked about you. You know he’s who arrested Mike for the open container for having the keg in the truck, don’t you?"
Frankie said, "Yes," but Donald asked what we were talking about.
He chuckled after Frankie explained it, then turned to Jane. "Young lady, I think you need something in your stomach."
"Oh, no," Jane moaned. "I don’t want anything to eat."
Donald turned to me. "Get her some saltines and gingerale. She’ll be sick again unless she gets something down."
I went to the kitchen area and returned with a saucer of saltines and a juice glass of Seven Up since we didn’t have any gingerale.
"Take the liquid in small sips and the crackers in tiny bites," Donald said. He pulled a pen and one of his cards from his pocket. He wrote a name on the back of the card and handed it to Jane. "Later today," he said, "have Callie call and make you an appointment with this doctor. You need a complete checkup."
He rose and started toward the door. I followed him, and Big Boy followed me.
At the door, Donald said, "That puppy of yours has really grown."
"Yes, he has," I agreed and noticed he was looking at my chest. I wished I had on one of my inflatable bras.
He grinned and I knew he was remembering the same time I was when we were both feeling romantic, but my puppy had brought everything to a screeching halt. That was before I learned Donald’s a playboy.
"Do I owe you anything?" I asked, meaning was there a charge for his coming to check on Jane though he hadn’t actually done anything for her.
"Well, I think I do have a rain check from you," he said, "but we won’t worry about that with Jane and your brother here."
I waved goodbye and, for some reason, went to my bedroom and changed bras. Just to be complete, I put on a pair of my fanny panties, too. They’re made to provide a lift. I wondered why "panties," which is, or are, one garment are plural and come in "pairs," while "bra" is singular and seems more suited to being called a "pair."
My analysis came to an end when Frankie yelled, "Come here, Callie. There’s a local newsflash."
The same reporter’s face showed on the screen. "The FBI has been called into the investigation of the disappearance of Jade County Sheriff Wayne Harmon. Sheriff Harmon has been working with FBI Special Agent Georgette Randolph on the 1980 armored car robbery in Buckley, New Jersey. When attempts were made to contact Agent Randolph for any clues to Harmon’s whereabouts, Agent Randolph was found to be missing also. Stay tuned for more on our noon local news report."
Frankie pounded his fist on the couch. "I don’t believe it!" he shouted. "Wayne would not just take off with some woman while on a case. He wouldn’t call a press conference and not show up. Something’s mighty wrong here."
Jane’s face paled again. "What’s the matter?" I asked. "Do you know something about the sheriff?"
"No," she wailed and dashed back to the restroom. When she came out, she grinned, "I don’t know why, but those saltines are helping. I didn’t even throw up this time."
"Good," I said. "I think I’m going over to Daddy’s and make sure he and Bill know about this."
"Give me the card Dr. Walters gave you," Frankie said to Jane, "and I’ll call for an appointment."
"I feel better now," Jane said.
"The doctor said a full checkup," Frankie insisted. Jane handed him the card, and Frankie was dialing the telephone when I left.
Chapter Thirty
"Put the gun back in the safe," I told myself when I headed away from St. Mary toward Daddy’s house. I grew up around rifles, shotguns, and pistols since not only do Daddy and The Boys hunt, they tend to collect any firearm someone is broke enough to sell at a huge discount. I don’t like hunting, but I’m pretty good at target practice.
My next thoughts were about Wayne Harmon. Where could he be? Why would he just disappear and was that Georgette woman with him?
Dalmation! All of a sudden, my mind jumped from guns and missing sheriffs to what I’d heard Bill tell Daddy. "Molly won’t postpone the wedding." Next he’d be saying, "And Molly’s mad at all of us because Callie won’t go get her dress fitted."
I looked carefully in all directions, then made a U-turn and headed back into St. Mary and the bridal shop. I heard the siren before I saw the blue light, but I knew in my heart that the blare was for me. I pulled off the road and parked on the shoulder. When I rolled down the window, I heard those words, "License and registration, please."
"Hello, Deputy Blake," I said as I handed him the papers.
"Don’t try to smooth talk me," he said, "I’m writing you a ticket for that U-turn."
One hundred and one Dalmations! I thought. Being nice to him is a waste of time, but maybe he’ll listen to reason. Of course, I was thinking of my kind of reason, not his!
"There’s no one around," I began.
"I’m around," he said.
I didn’t mean to, I promise I didn’t mean to, but I sassed him. "Then write the ticket and let me go. I’m in a hurry."
"I could take you in for assaulting an officer of the law with that nasty attitude," he said.
"I don’t think that’s a real charge. Besides, wouldn’t it make more sense for you to be trying to locate your missing boss?" I asked as he handed me the pale blue paper and explained that I could pay the fine or show up in court at the time and date written on the ticket.
"Yes, and that’s why I’m not going to bother, but you need an attitude check, young lady!"
By the time I reached the dress store, I’d calmed down. The clerk was very accommodating and led me to the main dressing room—the big one where brides try on gowns. The peach-pumpkin-orange dress didn’t look as bad on me as I’d expected. Of course, that could have been because of the underwear I had on. My sister-in-law Miriam had been right. My hair looked great with it. I’d been considering changing my hair color before the wedding, but the auburn was perfect.
"Lovely, just lovely," the sales lady said. "That dress could have been made for you."
The gowns had been special o
rdered. I thought that meant my dress was made for me. When I’d changed back into my jeans, she said the words I’d been expecting.
"We have your deposit, but it’s customary to finish paying in full when the dress is fitted."
Yep, I knew that was coming. I pulled my wallet from my purse, but my Visa card wasn’t in it. I have this bad habit of dropping cards into my handbag instead of putting them back where they belong after I use them. I sat down and dumped my pocket book onto the chair beside me. I began picking through the receipts, makeup, and other junk in there, but I couldn’t find the credit card. I pulled out a folded newspaper. It was the 1980 newspaper backing my ex had used for his sign at the car show. I’d totally forgotten it was still in my purse. When I shook the paper, my Visa fell onto the floor. I leaned over, picked up the card, and dropped the newspaper. It lay upside down on the mauve carpet, and a familiar face stared up at me.
I didn’t feel like hurling. I wasn’t scared. I was shocked.
When I handed the credit card to the lady, she began explaining the charges to me and the discount she was giving to Molly’s attendants because she’d once bought a poodle from Molly. I cut her off rudely. "I’m in a hurry. Just let me sign the charge."
In the car, I couldn’t decide where to go. If Sheriff Harmon weren’t missing, I would have called him immediately to tell him what I’d discovered. At least I had my cell phone with me, fully charged, too. I knew of no way to reach the sheriff. The whole point was to find him. I tried to think of places he could be. Suddenly I remembered his talking about his fishing cabin on the lake. I headed that way.
Chapter Thirty-One
What was the quickest way to the cabin? I’d been there lots of times with my brothers. Lots of good times cleaning and frying fish Wayne and The Boys had just caught while I’d sunned myself and read a book. Now I was flying down the road toward the lake, ignoring fear that Fast Eddie Blake would catch me for speeding. Thoughts all a-jumble. Scared of Blake, yet almost hoping he would stop me before I got to the cabin. Praying that I’d find Wayne there alive.
As I turned off the paved highway onto the rutted dirt road to the cabin, I leaned across the seat and took out Daddy’s Colt .38. Talking on cell phones while driving is hazardous. Try loading a gun while driving. I didn’t think I should wait until I’d stopped to take care of it.
The first thing I saw in the driveway was a tan Jade County Sheriff’s Deputy car. Maybe Wayne’s vehicle needed repairs and he’d taken a different unit to come up here to think about the poisonings. Perhaps he was with Special Agent Randolph. If they’d come up here for some privacy, I was about to shatter it. Then again, if he’d borrowed another Jade County vehicle, he would have checked it out. The department would know about it, and so would the news commentators.
I parked the Mustang as quietly as possible, bypassed the partially open front door, and crept to the uncurtained window at the side of the building. I knew from the past that the cabin was a large open room with the front door in one corner, kitchen area in another, bed in the third, and door to the bathroom on the remaining wall. I’m no Stephanie Plum! She would have hesitated to carry her usually unloaded gun, having left it in her cookie jar or some other ridiculous place. My arms were stretched out in front of me with both hands clutching the ready-to-fire weapon in a SWAT team pose.
Frozen at the window, I saw and heard a scene that was real but hard to believe. The FBI agent lay across the bed, blindfolded, gagged, and handcuffed to the bedpost. Her face was expressionless, and she wasn’t moving.
Wayne sat in a captain’s chair with his left hand and both feet cuffed to the chair. His right arm stretched out across the old wooden table where I’d eaten so many fried fish. A piece of rope tied his hand to the table top. His face twisted with anguish.
"Tell me where the money is or I’ll break another finger," the man standing over Harmon said. I saw the hammer he held at the same time he crashed it down on the sheriff’s bound hand. I’ll never forget Wayne’s shriek.
"I don’t know where the money is," Wayne moaned after he stopped screaming.
"You know where it is. That’s the reason you called the press conference, but that money is mine. I’m entitled to it. I spent years tracking down Johnson and Gordon.
"My mistake was sending those prints to AFIS. I was trying to impress you with my efficiency, but I had no idea they’d come from one of my victims and would lead to reopening the investigation. Those men let my father take the whole rap. They were living like rich men while he was beaten and stabbed to death in prison." He spat on the floor. "Now tell me how to find the loot while you still have one unbroken finger."
"I swear we don’t know where the money is." Wayne’s voice was barely a whisper. "The press conference was for me to show pictures of Johnny Johnson and Noah Gordon and ask for public assistance from anyone who’s seen or known them. Someone must have had contact with them during the past thirty years." He stopped and turned his head toward the bed. "What have you done to her? Did you give her poison?"
"No poison, just something to make her sleep while I get answers from you. Don’t worry about your lady friend. I know what I’m doing. The resume I gave you substituted ‘Criminal Justice’ for my Master’s degree in Chemistry. You should make it a point to check letters of recommendation from previous employers. I forged mine." The man laughed. "I’ll give you both some of what Johnny Johnson got plus an even bigger poisonous snake if you don’t tell me where the money is." He nodded toward the woman on the bed. "I’m sure you’ve thought about sleeping with her. When I finish, you two can sleep together eternally if you don’t cooperate with me."
I gasped.
"What’s that?" The man pounded the hammer on the table again, and Wayne screeched in agony. I took off running before the attacker got to the window. I didn’t sprint toward my car or into the woods. I darted directly to the front door and jumped inside with the .38 pointed straight at Fast Eddie Blake’s face, the same face that had stared up at me from the 1980 newspaper.
"I’m not scared of you," he said, but he stopped in his tracks.
"If he makes one move toward you, shoot him," Harmon said.
"No skirt is going to shoot me," Blake said, "especially some little hick piece like you."
He raised the hammer, but I think that was meant to distract me because he also reached for the Glock .40 in his holster.
I shot him.
Chapter Thirty-Two
"Here Comes the Bride" had played. I’d actually stood at the front of the church beside a poodle dyed to match the pumpkin-colored dress I wore. When the minister asked for the rings, I’d obediently untied them from the bow in the dog’s topnotch and handed those circular golden symbols of fidelity to the pastor. Bill and Molly had "I do-ed" themselves into positions that were supposed to last ’til death did them part, and the best time of that fancy wedding had arrived—the reception!
Sheriff Harmon stood beside me. I appreciated his attention because my date had been called away right before the wedding began. Wayne’s right arm was in a sling with all fingers splinted. He’d bragged to everyone how smart I was to come to the fishing cabin for him and how brave I was to shoot the deputy.
I insisted that going to the fishing cabin was a stroke of lucky first guess inspired by hearing him and Blake talk about fishing. Knowing who the villain was had been fate—destined by my messy purse. I’d actually cleaned the handbag out since that horrible day at the cabin. Fast Eddie Blake was the spittin’ image of his father Leon McDonald, the third member of the group of robbers in Buckley, New Jersey, in 1980—the face that had stared up at me from that old newspaper. Of course, Fast Eddie Blake was actually Edward McDonald.
Leon McDonald’s son had sought out the men who’d lived lives of leisure after his father died penniless in prison. The men had been easier to find than the money, which Harmon insisted still hadn’t been located.
"I didn’t mean to kill him," I said to Sheriff Harmon for
the umpteenth time. "I only wanted to stop him."
"Quit sweating what happened," the sheriff answered.
"I don’t sweat," I said. "Daddy says horses sweat, men perspire, and ladies glisten."
Wayne laughed. He’d heard that line before.
"You may not like it, Callie," he said, "but sometimes the only way to stop a murderer is to kill him. Some folks deserve to die, and don’t forget you saved my life as well as your own and Georgette’s. Eddie would have killed all of us."
Levi joined the sheriff and me. Loose Lucy was at his side.
"Callie," she burbled. "I requested a song for you."
The band’s front man announced, "Everyone, listen up now. We’ve got a special song dedicated to Miss Callie Parrish."
They broke into "I Shot the Sheriff" with a slight change in lyrics. They sang, "I did not shoot the sheriff but I shot the deputy down." The crowd burst into shouts and applause. Levi and Lucy headed for the punch bowl.
I blushed and tried to continue my conversation with the sheriff. "What I don’t understand is why Blake poisoned my brother. He was out for revenge and money with Johnson and Gordon, but why Frankie?"
Wayne Harmon leaned in close to my ear. "Blake didn’t poison Frankie. Jane did!"
"No way!" I blurted.
"By accident. Frank knows it, but there’s no point in making an issue of it. When we confiscated poisonous items from the house, a deputy removed a can of lemon-scented roach spray from the cabinet. One of the things Jane left for Frank’s lunch was his favorite lemon bars. The baking dish they were cooked in was in the sink. It tested positive for the roach spray poison, which normally is fatal to roaches but doesn’t harm humans—unless the person ingests a sizeable amount. Jane sprayed the dish with what she thought was Pam. She didn’t catch the difference in the scent because the batter smelled like lemons. I’ve had a long talk with Frank about not moving things if one lives with a visually handicapped person."