Secrets for Sale

by Jerri Kay Lincoln

  Billy held the gun up and ran his finger along the business end of it. “This is called the muzzle of the gun. Always point the muzzle in a safe direction. If the gun accidentally goes off, you don’t want to destroy anything or hurt anybody.”

  He had it pointed toward our empty kitchen. I hoped it wouldn’t go off and kill the refrigerator. I liked that refrigerator.

  “All right. Still listening?” When I nodded my head, he continued. “Never put your finger on the trigger until you are ready to shoot the gun. See where my finger is?” I was going to make a smart-aleck comment but wisely kept my mouth shut and nodded again. He had stretched his index finger straight out against the gun above where the trigger was. “Now here is your ten-question quiz in one question. Repeat what I told you.”

  Raising my eyebrows in an exasperated expression, I repeated what he said almost verbatim. That impressed him. Smiling, he pulled the bullets from his shirt pocket and dropped them into his lap. Then he held up the other side of the gun, with it pointed toward the other side of the house. The refrigerator was now safe.

  “The first thing you do is make sure the hammer is not in a cocked position. This is the hammer and this is cocked.” With his thumb, he pulled the hammer back until it clicked, then he pulled it again and lowered it back to where it started. “See this?” He indicated a small button on the side of the gun. “Push the cylinder release forward with your thumb while you push the cylinder out with your other fingers.”

  He held the gun up in front of my face with the muzzle pointed to the ceiling. “See? You can see that it is unloaded. Now, take the bullets and insert the pointed end of the bullet into the chamber. Press it gently until it is fully seated. Do the same thing with all five bullets. Then snap the cylinder back in place like this. All done! Now let’s go to bed!”

  Billy started to get up, but I pulled him back down. “I want to try it. I’m a tactile learner.” He sighed but handed me the pretty rosewood handle of my new gun. Pointing it in a safe direction, I held it in my hand, pushed the cylinder release with my thumb and then pushed it out. “Oh! It’s loaded. How do I unload it?”

  “Here. Press that and turn the gun so the bullets come out.” He pointed to something sticking straight up. “It’s called either a cylinder plunger or an ejector rod.”

  I pushed it and the bullets fell into my lap. Then I checked the cylinder to make sure no bullets remained, closed it up, and began again. After I had loaded it and unloaded it several times, I handed it back to Billy.

  “Can we go to sleep now, please?” he asked.

  I nodded, we walked into the bedroom, and both of us fell immediately asleep. It would have been a very restful night except for the gunshot that awoke us around midnight.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  AT FIRST, I thought it was a dream since I had been loading and unloading my new gun right before I went to sleep. But when I felt Billy jump out of bed, I knew it wasn’t. Then I thought I had loaded the gun incorrectly causing it to discharge by itself. When Billy ran right past my concealed carry purse and grabbed his sheriff’s station radio, I knew it wasn’t that, either.

  “Nick! Nick! What’s going on? Do you need me?” he whispered into his radio. If he was trying not to wake me, it was way too late for that. The gunshot sounded close. “All right. All right. If you need me, just call.”

  He put the radio down and climbed back into bed beside me. Seeing that I was awake, he said, “One single gunshot, no reports yet. He said when he gets a report, he’ll go out, and if he needs me, he’ll call.” Billy kissed me. “So, for now, let’s go back to sleep.” And we did.

  Billy was restless for the rest of the night. I could feel him shifting in bed, this way and that. When first light of morning came, he was already dressed and ready to go. He leaned over to kiss me goodbye. “I’ll call you when I find out anything,” and he was out the door.

  I thought I’d have a leisurely morning at home, since I didn’t have to make Aiden’s lunch or make sure he was ready for school. As I stepped out of the shower, Billy called. “Come to the sheriff’s station? Now? . . . Why? . . . Why can’t you tell me now? . . . All right, all right. I’ll get dressed right now and drive over. I don’t get why you need me for sheriff’s work, though. . . . Or maybe it’s because I’m such an old hand with a gun and you need me as back up!” Billy didn’t laugh at my joke. We said goodbye and hung up.

  Billy’s voice, besides the lack of humor, sounded serious and concerned. And there was an edge to it I hadn’t heard before. Hurrying, I got dressed, collected Bingo, and we were off. The sheriff’s station was only minutes away, and when I got there, Billy was outside waiting for me.

  He walked over to my car window, and I pressed the button to roll it down. “Listen, I don’t have time to explain. Follow me, and you’ll know what to do.” Then he walked away and got into his sheriff’s car.

  The whole thing was getting weirder and weirder, or curiouser and curiouser as I sometimes like to say. A few minutes later, Billy pulled into a driveway I knew well. It was Martha and Hugo’s bed and breakfast. Oh, no. Please don’t let anything have happened to Martha or Hugo, I thought. It took a second to remember they were both safe and staying at our new ranch.

  Billy jumped out of his sheriff’s car and then opened the door to my car. He reached in to help me out. “C’mon,” he said, and repeated, “You’ll know what to do.” Grabbing my hand, we marched together up to the door where he rang the bell.

  A man with an English accent answered the door, and Billy asked if Petra was around. The man said she was upstairs getting ready for work, but he’d tell her someone was there to see her. Before he hopped up the stairs two by two, he turned and said, “She might be running a little late this morning. I’m afraid my wife and I had her up half the night playing cards.” I wondered what he was thinking—having a sheriff come to the door asking for his host at the bed and breakfast. I didn’t even know what to think.

  Billy leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Petra’s father killed himself last night. That was the gunshot we heard.”

  But I didn’t have time to process the information before Petra came bounding down the stairs with a big smile on her face. “What?” she asked. “I’m late for work one time and you have to bring your sheriff boyfriend—excuse me, I mean husband—out to fetch me?”

  By that time, she stood right in front of us, and Billy put his hands on her shoulders. “Petra, you were up late last night. Did you hear the gunshot?”

  “Yeah. We were playing cards. We all heard it. So what?”

  “I’m sorry, Petra. Your father shot himself. He’s gone.”

  She took a step backward and looked at him. And although I expected to see a look of grief on her face, what I saw instead looked more like relief. The guy was a lowlife drunk who sometimes beat her mother, but still, you’d think she would feel some grief. He was her father.

  “I’m so sorry, Petra,” is all I could think of to say.

  “My mom. What’s she going to do now?” Petra said in disbelief. “As much of a jerk as he was, I don’t know what she’ll do without him. She depended on him.”

  Billy reached out and drew her to him. “She’ll be fine, Petra. She’ll get along fine. Probably better off than she was with him. You, too.” And as much as that didn’t sound like something you would say to someone who just lost their father, it seemed to make Petra feel better. Billy always knew the right thing to say.

  “Yes,” she said. “You’re right. Mom will be better off without him, and so will I.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  “YOU DON’T HAVE to come into work today, Petra,” I said and reached out to hug her. It was brief, though, because she pulled away before I had finished. I hate when that happens.

  “Oh, no. I’ll be in for sure,” she said without a trace of grief. Although maybe that was my imagination. “I have to call my mom and finish getting ready. Then I’ll be in.” She turned to Billy. “Thank you for comin
g to tell me, Billy. I’m glad it was you.” She flashed a mild smile in my direction. “You, too, Lorry. See ya soon.” She turned around and fairly skipped up the stairs.

  At that moment, I thought to myself it was a good thing she had a solid alibi, because her behavior was not only curious, it made her seem downright guilty. I wondered if her father really had committed suicide.

  Billy put his arm around me and led me outside, where he walked me to my car. “Thank you for coming with me, Lor.”

  “I don’t think you needed me, Billy. Petra took it well, don’t you think? Almost too well?” The last word rose up in a pointed question.

  “Now, Lorry, there you go again jumping to conclusions. Different people show grief in different ways. Don’t judge her because she doesn’t conform to your standards.”

  He was right, so I nodded and slipped behind the wheel of my car. My new concealed carry purse sat on the floor of the passenger side. Billy hadn’t even noticed I didn’t have it with me, even after I had told him I would always carry it.

  “I doubt if this has anything to do with whoever shot at me, but stranger things have happened. I’m running the bullet through ballistics, just in case.” Billy leaned over to kiss me. “I’ll see ya later, sweetie.” He closed the door of my car and strode back to his.

  Bingo and I drove to the historical society and parked. I thought that checking the ballistics was a waste of time. I had heard suicide sometimes ran in families, and I knew Petra’s brother had committed suicide. We entered the building and walked toward my front office. It felt strange not seeing Petra there, because she usually arrived before me. She wasn’t late, though, because it was still early. And I was hungry. Very hungry. I had left in such a hurry at Billy’s request that I hadn’t had coffee or anything to eat.

  After turning on my computer, I grabbed my newly acquired concealed carry purse, very stylish I might add, and slid out the front door, locking it behind me. Bingo sat in my chair, feet on my desk, watching me walk by. I smiled at him.

  When I walked inside the Koffee Korner Kafe, the first thing I noticed were the two people sitting at the counter: Paul Gallagher and Elizabeth Conroy. They were probably planning another murder! Who would it be this time? The son! He was the next one that had to go so they could continue with their evil plans—whatever they were. I’d have to warn Billy.

  I hiked right up to them and said, “So I see you two are here together planning the next murder!” Honestly, I think my mouth sometimes—ok! often!—engages before my brain. I hadn’t planned to say that. Really.

  Kasey, standing at the cash register said, “No, Elizabeth just sat down, and she asked Paul if she should get the caramel mocha latte or the pumpkin spice.”

  “Oh. Well. How about a coffee and one of those egg sandwich things?” I used to ask for an Egg McMuffin thing, but Kasey always refused to acknowledge what I meant.

  “Hello, Lorry,” said Elizabeth with a slight smile on her face.

  “Lorry,” said Paul without looking at me.

  “So we are both still on your list of suspects?” Elizabeth asked with a sly grin.

  “Nobody is off my list,” I said defensively. “Besides, you already told me it could be you.”

  “Yes, I did. Doesn’t the fact that Paul and I were both at the bulletin board—so we could alibi each other—plus the fact that we saw Douglas walk by, well, wouldn’t that clear the three of us? Lorry, it would help to solve the crime if you could narrow your suspect list down, don’t you think?”

  She was always so objective and insightful, but I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of telling her that. In her presence, I again felt like a high school student in front of the principal. So I answered her in the only logical way I could. “Whatever!” I said as I stuck my nose in the air, paid for my sandwich and coffee, and exited the Kafe.

  Sitting down at my desk, I took the top off the coffee and put the cup to my lips. Mmmm mmmm good. Despite the questionable company, that place had good coffee and good food. I took a bite of sandwich and said it again, mmmm mmmm. Then I noticed Bingo was nowhere around. “Bingo? Come here Bingo!”

  “He’s in here with me, Lorry,” said Petra.

  Petra’s here! That surprised me. Although I knew she said she was coming in, I didn’t expect her. Putting the sandwich down, I wiped my fingers on a napkin, took another sip of coffee, and walked to the other room.

  Bingo was in her arms licking her face, and she didn’t look half bad for someone who had just lost their father to suicide. I put my arms out to hug her, but she held up her hand.

  “No need. I’m doing fine. Honestly. Fine. Mid-thirteenth century. Meaning unblemished, free of impurities. That’s me. Unblemished.” Then she blushed, put her head into Bingo’s fur, and I thought I saw a stray tear fall.

  “Are you sure you want to be here, Petra? You don’t need to be, you know.”

  Petra kissed Bingo, set him down on the floor, and turned to her computer that already displayed the spreadsheet she was working on. “I’m fine.”

  And that was that. Bingo and I returned to my office; and I finished my breakfast, enjoying every sip of coffee and every bite of sandwich. It was so good, I considered going back for more. I patted my generous tummy. No, probably not a good idea.

  I sat facing the fish tank enjoying my sandwich and the smooth movements of the fish when I heard a sound outside I thought I recognized. Turning in my chair, I looked out the window and saw Mason. He put his motorcycle on the kickstand and bounded to the door and inside. “Hi, Lorry,” he said in passing, without even looking at me.

  I heard Petra’s chair move and imagined her standing up to greet him. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She must have nodded, because the next thing I heard was, “How’d you know?”

  “Billy called me,” Mason replied.

  And they started whispering, because I couldn’t hear another word, even with my hand to my ear which extended the hearing radius much farther than normal. There’s a reason guard dogs have such tall ears. And yes, I admit I tried to listen. Is that so wrong of me? So sue me.

  I took my time finishing my breakfast and then turned back to my desk and computer. Mason and Petra were still whispering in the other room. That wasn’t unusual—they often did that when Mason came to visit. After checking my email, I stood up and walked back there.

  They were still standing up and hugging. I said, “You’re welcome to leave, Petra. You two can go back to the bed and breakfast or go home.”

  I would have added more, but Petra pulled away from Mason and looked at me with fire shooting from her eyes. It looked like she was ticked off at me, but I had no idea why. She was a teenager, though, and teenagers were unpredictable; and on this day she was a teenager who had just been through a traumatic event.

  “I’m never going back to that house! I don’t care if I have to live on the street!” Then she turned back to Mason and fell back into his arms.

  So I walked away. What could I say after that? Even I, moi, sometimes run out of smart-aleck comments. And it didn’t seem appropriate, anyway. Not that I’ve let that stop me before. But still.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  DECIDING TO GO back to my list of suspects, I opened the middle drawer on the left-hand side of the desk and pulled out the paper I had been working on before. All the suspects were in alphabetical order by first names, and I hadn’t crossed out a single one. That was about to change.

  When I was a kid and used to play the game called Clue, I always lost. You know why? I refused to guess. If I wasn’t positive that Colonel Mustard did it with the candlestick in the library, then I would wait until I was sure. Trouble was that other kids who didn’t have half the information I had—but were willing to guess—guessed right and won the game. I always used to think—what if I was wrong? And I didn’t like to be wrong. Now the stakes were even higher. Kind of. Although I’d solved a few cases, Billy had always been right there solving it the same time I
did.

  Anyway, let’s start crossing out names based on the meager amount of information I have. Anthony Petrelli? No, I refuse to cross him out. Then I happened to glance out the window and there on the other side of the street—having come out of the hardware store—walked short, squat Anthony Petrelli with a tall, blonde bombshell. I watched as he put his hand around her waist and then sneaked that same hand down and pinched her on the butt.

  “Ha!” I declared. “I knew he was a womanizer!”

  A few minutes before, I had heard Mason’s big feet trudging down the hallway toward the bathroom, and now I heard Petra’s light step come up behind me. She leaned over my shoulder and peered out the window. “Anthony Petrelli? Womanizer? No, Lorry. Sorry to ruin your assumptions, but that woman is his wife, and he is devoted to her. They came to talk about relationships in my Psychology class last year. You should see the way they look at each other. Those two are in love. He’s not the screw-around type. Sorry to disappoint you.” She patted me on the shoulder and returned to her desk.

  Grumbling, I crossed Anthony’s name off the list. Officially. Although I didn’t know where he was during the murder—and that was my own fault—the only thing I had on him was he thought Martha did it. Sad to say, they all thought that, though for what reason I’ll never know.

  If I knew who had voted for the sale and who didn’t, it would help me analyze the information I had. A chill ran down my spine. It was so distinct that I thought Mason had poured cold water down my back, but when I turned around, I heard him in the other room talking to Petra. Still, I felt the back of my dress—my dark blue dress with light blue trim—to be sure. It was dry. The reason I felt the chill was that I wondered if I had been off track the whole time with this case. Suppose someone killed Christopher Fenton for a reason other than the sale of the historical society. Now that was a provocative notion.