My drumsticks faltered on the backbeat, and Aileen glared at me. I hastened to get it together, my mind racing. What in the world did Torey have to do with the repulsive Ivan and Karl?
I watched Torey closely. She leaned forward and slid a small flat parcel across the table to Ivan. He leaned close to speak in her ear, and she laughed. Then she stood up and shoved what looked like a wad of bills into the pocket of her skinny black jeans. She took one last swig from her glass, bent down for a final word with Karl and Ivan, and then melted away into the crowd. By the time Aileen signaled the end of the song, she was long gone.
Aileen snatched the drumsticks out of my hand. “What the hell was that? No snoozing in the middle of a set!”
I hurried back to our table and found Jim and Pete chatting about baseball like old friends. I knelt next to Pete. “Don’t look now, but those thugs who came by the house this afternoon are sitting at the table right behind you.”
He did more than look. He jumped up, his chair tipping over as he swung around to confront the two goons. I scrambled to my feet and followed, leaving Jim gaping from his seat.
Pete leaned both fists on their table, towering over them from his six-foot height. “Leave my sister alone!” he growled. “If you’ve got a problem with me, you come to me!”
Karl flinched, but Ivan didn’t budge. “And here you are,” he sneered. “You took off before you paid up. Kinney wants his money, and he ain’t gonna wait any longer.” He stood up slowly and locked eyes with Pete. “Consider yourself warned.” He gathered up Torey’s small parcel and jerked his head at Karl.
Karl stubbed out his cigarette and got to his feet. He looked directly at me. “We’ll stop by again sometime.” They stalked out of the Foundry.
I expected Pete to follow them, but he stood frozen, watching them make their way through the crowd. He chewed on his lower lip, his face anxious.
Jim came up behind me and took my arm to steer me back to our table. “What’s going on? Who are those guys?”
I sat down and reached for my beer. My hand was trembling so violently, I couldn’t get the glass to my mouth. Light flashed on the edge of my vision, and I realized that it was the latest in a series of photos. McCarthy had documented the entire encounter. Great.
Pete caught my eye, shaking his head. “Okay,” I said, leaning on my elbows, inviting him to explain. This was his deal.
“Just some acquaintances of mine,” Pete said. “Nothing to worry about.” He drained his beer hastily. “Are you coming home with me, Daria? I’ve got to get up early tomorrow.”
I glanced at Jim. He was frowning.
I inwardly cursed Pete for making me cover for him. But at the same time, I didn’t want to burden Jim with this ugly little tale. I nodded at Pete. “You risk Aileen’s wrath if we walk out on her set, you know.”
He forced a laugh. “I’ll chance it.” He stood up. “Coming?”
I turned to Jim. “I’d better get going. Thanks for a lovely evening.”
Jim walked us out to Pete’s truck, offering me his arm as usual. “Is everything okay, Daria?” he whispered. “Should I be worried about those guys?”
Probably. I stifled that thought and forced a carefree expression. “It’s all good, Jim. Just a little disagreement. Pete’s got everything under control.”
McCarthy followed us out the door. “What are you doing tomorrow, Daria? I need a feature for the front page.”
“Just make something up—I’m sure you’ve got lots of practice.”
His eyes crinkled when he laughed. “Would you like to have lunch with me tomorrow? Some boring restaurant that needs a little excitement?”
Jim stiffened beside me.
I squeezed Jim’s arm. “Actually, I have a lunch date tomorrow.” I blurted it out before I stopped to think. “I’m having lunch with Marsha.”
McCarthy’s eyes gleamed. “Marsha? Chris Porter’s fiancée? What’s her last name? Maybe I should talk to her, get a few pictures.” He pulled his little spiral notebook out of his pocket.
“Leave Marsha alone,” I cried. “She’s got enough to worry about—she doesn’t need an obnoxious photographer bothering her!”
McCarthy poked his tiny pencil out of the notebook’s wire and held it poised to write. He looked at me expectantly. “Where are you having lunch with her?”
“I’ll never tell in a million years!” I reached for the door of the truck.
McCarthy raised his camera and captured one more shot. He turned away with a cheerful wave.
Jim helped me into the passenger seat with old-world gallantry. He brought my hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “May I call you tomorrow?”
I smiled up at him. “Yes, please.”
* * *
I let Pete pull out of the parking lot before I launched into him.
“Thanks for ruining a lovely evening! Between Emmett and those thugs of yours, Jim probably won’t want to have anything to do with me ever again.”
Pete saw the red light just in time and stomped on the brakes. “Cut me a break. He said he’d call you tomorrow.” He glanced over. “I’m sorry. I’ll get things sorted out, I promise.”
“So, Kinney. He’s the one you owe money to, right?”
He nodded.
“How much?” I sighed, thinking of my meager savings marked for building up my historical sewing business. Still, it would be worth it to send Kinney’s goons back to Hollywood. “Maybe I can help.”
He pressed his lips together. “I don’t even want to say. A lot.”
“Maybe you could give him a down payment or something, and you could pay me back later.” I tried to lighten the mood. “Otherwise, I might have to hire my own hit men.”
He kept his eyes glued on the road. “I’m not going to take any money from you. I’ll figure out some way to pay him.”
“You better hurry up before those guys come back around for seconds.”
He glared at me, his jaw tight. “I’ll figure it out! Okay?”
Chapter Ten
When I got up the next morning, Pete was already gone. Amazingly, Aileen was up, having her interpretation of breakfast in the kitchen. She gnawed on a cold chicken leg that she’d liberally sprinkled with Tabasco sauce.
I poured a bowl of cereal and sat down across from her.
“How did your gig end up?” I asked.
“Boring,” she mumbled through a mouthful of chicken. “We played until two without a single fight.” She tossed me the newspaper. “There’s a story about the murder.”
The headline read, “Civil War Reenactment Site of Murder.” I skimmed through the article, but it didn’t have any new information about Colonel Windstrom or Chris. There were quotes from Officer Carson to the effect that the full resources of the Laurel Springs police department, in cooperation with the Chester County District Attorney’s office, were dedicated to solving this horrendous crime as quickly as possible.
I folded up the newspaper with a sigh. “The police don’t have any leads, other than Chris, who is obviously innocent. They probably just arrested him to make the movie producers feel like their big stars are safe in their beds.” I got up and poured myself a brimming glass of orange juice. “I can’t believe they’re getting nowhere with a murderer on the loose.”
Aileen licked the Tabasco off her fingers. “I’ve got my money on your Civil War dude.”
I thumped my glass down on the table and sat down heavily. “What—Jim?”
She winked. “That’s the dude. Wouldn’t you say he’s the shifty-eyed murderer type?”
“I would not.” No one but Aileen could possibly look at Jim and call him shifty-eyed. His dreamy eyes had featured prominently in my dreams last night. I blushed at the thought.
Aileen laughed. She was pulling my leg, damn her! I whacked her with the newspaper.
“Okay, so what about McCarthy?” I said.
Aileen snorted. “That picture-ta
king newspaperman? There’s not a shifty bone in his body. What you see is what you get with him.”
“He sounds like your type, Aileen. You two were made for each other.”
She flexed her arms and cracked her knuckles one by one. “Ha! He’s got his eye on someone else. You better watch out for that one, Daria.”
I tossed the newspaper down on the table, tired of the whole conversation. “I’m sure the police will figure it out.”
She shrugged. “Whatever.”
I wandered into my workroom and considered my projects. I fiddled with some appliqué I was doing for the church’s new altar cloths, but my mind wasn’t on my work. When I found myself ripping out and repositioning a sunbeam for the third time, I threw down the fabric in disgust. It was only ten-thirty, but I grabbed my shoulder bag and caught the bus for the Commons. I could wander around for an hour or so and meet up with Marsha at noon.
The Commons was the high-end shopping hub of Laurel Springs. In the early nineties, a series of downtown streets were closed to traffic and repaved with bricks salvaged from the demolition of the historic Laurel Springs clockworks factory. The resulting outdoor pedestrian mall blossomed with quaint shops in the feel of an old-fashioned Main Street. I couldn’t count how many stores included the words “Ye Olde” in their names. Even though I didn’t need any more hand-dipped candles and couldn’t afford the local artwork, I loved strolling on the Commons. Sometimes I’d take a picnic lunch and sit on the benches surrounding the equestrian statue of Major Samuel Compton, Laurel Springs’s homegrown Revolutionary War hero. Today I planned to browse at my favorite bookstore, The Printed Page, to fill the time until lunch.
When I got to the far edge of the Commons where the Printed Page was located, an enormous crowd mobbed the front of the building. Curious, I wormed my way through the edge of the crowd until I could see the oversized poster on the door. Emmett McDowell was giving a lunchtime talk on his new book, and his hometown fans had come out in droves. Determined not to be associated with that misguided group, I skirted the crowd and ducked through the alley behind the store.
The alley was packed with cars parked in every imaginable spot. The parking police hadn’t been by yet, but I guessed that a number of Emmett’s fans would end up paying for more than his book. I picked my way between the cars until I noticed a white Honda with “A Nation, a Family at War” emblazoned across the driver’s side door panels. That ridiculous Emmett! I peeked inside the car, noting the stacks of hardcover books piled on the backseat and the fast-food wrappers strewn across the passenger seat. I had to consider him as a suspect in my investigations. I wondered if his car might harbor any clues to Colonel Windstrom’s death.
I glanced over my shoulder like a thief and reached for the door handle. Against all odds, it opened instantly. Evidently Emmett wasn’t afraid of people stealing his supply of books. With another swift glance around, I slipped into the passenger seat.
A quick rifle through the glove compartment yielded a handful of unpaid parking tickets and a vast collection of ballpoint pens. The floor on the passenger side was sticky with candy wrappers and soda cans. I leaned over the center console to check the backseat. I shifted the books on the backseat and gathered up a pile of papers and notebooks to look through. I had just started sifting through what appeared to be a bunch of fan letters, when the tinny notes of “Eye of the Tiger” made me jump. Emmett’s cell phone was ringing, nestled between the front seats. Without thinking, I shoved the pile of papers into my shoulder bag and snatched up the phone.
“Yeah,” I grunted, hoping whoever it was wouldn’t notice that Emmett’s voice was a few octaves higher than normal.
“McDowell, what the hell are you playing at? Where’s my money?”
I abandoned the charade. “I’m sorry, Mr. McDowell is not available. Can I take a message please?”
“Who is this?” It was a man’s voice, deep and violent, and no one I recognized.
I responded in my most professional tone, “I’m Mr. McDowell’s secretary. He’s doing a promotional event right now. Can I take a message?”
“What’s your name, honey?” Losing the violent overtones, the deep voice dripped with condescension.
“I’m Celia,” I chirped, checking behind me for any signs of Emmett returning. “What can I do for you, sir?”
All the violence rushed back. “You can tell that bastard you work for that Kinney is gonna get his due, either in cash or in blood. Then you can watch your back, my dear Celia, ’cause I’m not too particular about whose blood. He’s got twenty-four hours.” The phone went dead.
Kinney! My hands shook as I grabbed up my skirt and used it to wipe my fingerprints off the phone. Emmett had jeered that Pete was trapped between the cops and Kinney, but it sounded like he had his own issues with the man. Palms sweating, I replaced the phone and glanced behind me again. Was Kinney stalking Emmett right this minute, or was he safe in Hollywood, leaving his favorite thugs to do his dirty work? Feeling incredibly thankful that I didn’t really work for Emmett, I slipped out of his car and scurried away down the alley.
I headed straight for Leanne’s, arriving just before noon. I got a table and sat down with the menu, letting the atmosphere soothe my nerves. An obvious book lover, Leanne had small blond bookcases scattered throughout the room, transforming each table into its own reading nook. Glass-fronted bookshelves lined the walls, and yellow-and-white gingham curtains hung at the windows. The rich smell of chicken curry completed the cozy ambiance.
I paged through a P.G. Wodehouse novel to try to calm my mind while I waited for Marsha. I couldn’t get Kinney’s fierce voice out of my head. Did I have an obligation to warn Emmett that he had twenty-four hours before he needed to watch his back? How could I do that without admitting that I’d snooped in his car and talked on his phone? I couldn’t help chuckling at the thought of Kinney mentioning “Celia” to Emmett. But the lightheartedness didn’t last—they would probably never have that conversation, since Kinney sounded quite capable of shooting first and chatting afterwards. I sighed and checked my watch. It was already twelve-fifteen. At twelve-thirty, I finally ordered a bowl of curry, thinking Marsha had stood me up. Just as I was finishing the last bite, she walked in the door. She threaded her way between tables, closely followed by none other than Torey Brand. I tried to conceal my surprise as they both came over to my table.
“Here we are!” Marsha exclaimed, dropping into a chair. She nodded at Torey. “Do you know Torey? She’s a good friend of Chris’s. She wants to help get him out of jail.”
I smiled and nodded. Marsha sounded like she was ready to plan a jailbreak. “Hi, Torey. You’re a woman today, huh?” No one could mistake her for a boy in a purple paisley dress that accentuated her feminine curves. Purple paisley must be in these days—I’d seen a lot of it lately. I itched to ask her about Karl and Ivan, but decided to keep quiet in front of Marsha.
Marsha signaled the waiter and ordered a ham sandwich. Torey chose the curry. I ordered a piece of Leanne’s signature cherry cobbler to keep them company. We chatted about the heat until the food arrived.
“Have you found out anything that could help Chris?” Marsha asked with a mouth full of bread and ham.
I glanced at Torey, confused. I had anticipated a private talk with Marsha. How could I tell her about a possible attraction between Chris and Torey? Although, looking at Marsha’s troubled eyes, I realized that I couldn’t bring that up even if we were alone. I racked my brain for something useful. “It sounds like everyone hated Colonel Windstrom in the camp. Jim says they called him ‘Colonel Windbag.’ He was always yelling at people.”
Torey choked on her curry. “You got that right. He did more than yell.” She wiped her mouth with her napkin. “He thought he was the master of everyone else’s destiny. I told you I was trying to keep him thinking I was a boy, right? So keep in mind that he thought he was dealing with a teenage boy.” She took a big gulp of water.
Marsha picked up the sketchpad. “Did you do one of Chris?”
Torey’s hands shook as she flipped through the pad. She held it out to Marsha. I leaned over to gaze at Chris’s big head, a goofy grin on his face, with a hammer in one hand and a trailing roll of toilet paper in the other. Torey had captured Chris’s mischievous grin to perfection.
“What’s the toilet paper for?” Marsha squealed.
Torey chuckled. “He said he was going to TP the officers’ tents the night before the battle, to give them something other than gunpowder to think about.” She folded up the sketchpad and tucked it back into her purse. “Guess that’s not gonna happen now.”
We sat in silence for a moment. I tried to keep from picturing Chris in a stark prison cell with nothing but an aluminum toilet in the corner. What would a judge think of an inmate who TPd his cellmate’s bunk? Did they even allow toilet paper in the cells? Poor Chris!
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