Spin a Wicked Web: A Home Crafting Mystery

by Cricket McRae

  After a quick stop at the bank, I picked up a twenty-pound container of baking soda from the nice folks at the Cadyville food co-op, who let me order wholesale through them. I also went by the apiary supply store and bought several pounds of unfiltered beeswax; it was amazing how quickly I went through the stuff.

  Resupplied, I headed for home. The whole experience with the Kaminskis still sat heavy along my shoulders. I couldn't seem to shake it. Every day Barr had to deal with people lying to him, disliking him, even being afraid of him. Sighing, I signaled to turn onto Tenth Street, wondering how he handled it so well.

  I shifted my foot to the brake pedal ... and nothing happened. My attention snapped back to the present. The pedal sank all the way to the floor, but my truck didn't slow a bit. I tried pumping it.

  Zilch. Nada.

  Deep breath. Think, Sophie Mae, think fast. And whatever you do, DON'T PANIC.

  The speed limit in town was only twenty-five miles an hour, and as usual, I wasn't in enough of a hurry to break it. So it wasn't like I was careening down some winding mountain road, ready to tip off a cliff at any moment. If I had to lose my brakes at all, I probably couldn't pick a better place to do it than meandering through sleepy Cadyville, Washington.

   

  The Toyota was, however, headed down a hill.

  I yanked on the emergency brake.

  The truck didn't slow an iota.

  I tried to downshift.

  That didn't work, either.

  This might be more than faulty brakes. Another arrow of fear stabbed through my solar plexus. My fingers curled around the steering wheel so hard they hurt, but I didn't loosen my grip.

  The slope was gentle, but the pickup's speed was increasing. I eyed the edges of the street, thinking I could nudge up next to a curb. It wouldn't be great for the tires, but it would slow me down. But this street had no curbs. I'd go straight up on the sidewalk, and then into someone's yard. By now I was going fast enough that I might end up in their living room.

  There must be other options. Had to be. Think of something, Sophie Mae. Now.

  A cross street ahead, and a stop sign to go with it.

  No choice but to brazen it out. Clenching my teeth, I leaned on my horn and sailed into the intersection. A cream-colored Mercedes approached from the right, and the driver didn't even slow. Narrowly missing my bumper, she leaned on her horn, too, and yelled at me out of her window.

  It wasn't a very nice name to call someone under any circumstances, and given my current straits I yelled something equally not nice back at her.

  Heart hammering against my ribs, I considered bailing out and letting the truck veer on alone. My hand moved to unhook my seat belt, then stopped. There had to be a better way. Not only would a tumble like that hurt, probably a lot, but a runaway vehicle could do real damage. It could hit a child, for heaven's sake.

   

  There. Pine Street. It wended up a long hill, and if I could make the turn, it would serve the same role as the runaway truck lanes off interstate highways in the mountains.

  Turning onto another street would be risky. I calculated the approach, steered as wide as I could, and, teeth clenched, swerved right onto Pine. Rubber squealed against pavement. My sunglasses skittered down the dash and bounced to the floor, and the block of beeswax on the seat beside me slammed into the passenger door. For a moment the truck felt suspended, the wheels on the left nearly leaving the ground. I leaned against my door, as if that would keep it from overturning.

  Don't roll over, don't roll over, don't roll over. I muttered out loud to the Toyota, to myself, to the Universe and anyone else who happened to be listening. Panic praying.

  The truck made it through the turn, straightened, and began heading toward the hill.

  Before Pine began to climb, though, I had another short hill to go down, with Ninth Street at the bottom. Another stop sign. I leaned on the horn again, hoping to warn any oncoming traffic well ahead of their arrival.

  No one was coming, and I breezed cleanly through.

  Thank God this hadn't happened in Seattle. I'd have been creamed in no time, I thought as the truck reached the bottom of the hill and began to climb.

  Perfect.

  The Toyota continued up the hill, slower and slower.

   

  Creeping.

  Inching to a stop.

  I let out a whoosh of breath I'd been holding in my lungs for who knew how long. I was going to be okay. Really okay.

  The truck started rolling backwards.

  Of course, the brakes didn't work in that direction, either. I swore and concentrated on steering in reverse. Went back through the intersection of Ninth and Pine, and a little ways up the hill I'd just come down.

  Again the truck slowed to a stop, and paused, hanging on the verge of movement for a small eternity. My empty hope that the ordeal was over fell away like dust as the truck began rolling forward.

  A teenaged boy driving a beat-up Honda came up from behind and veered around me. He gave me a questioning look, but at least he didn't yell or make rude gestures.

  And then I was rolling backwards. The seesawing between one incline and the next felt like something out of an irritating slapstick comedy. Finally, the Toyota barely crept along. Slower.

  And slower.

  And stopped. Really and truly stopped.

  Smack dab in the middle of the intersection of Ninth and Pine.

  Nice.

  Trembling with relief, I unhooked my seat belt and reached for my cell phone.

  A horn blared. A really, really big horn followed by the shrieking of brakes. My head jerked up. Fear trilled through me. A semitruck bore down, trailer slewing as the driver desperately tried to stop. It was going way, way over the tidy twenty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit, and it was about to go over me, too.

   

  In one motion I opened the door and dove out of my little pickup. The grit of the pavement barely registered against my palms as I rolled to my feet and ran. The terrifying crunch of tearing metal sounded behind me. Over my shoulder, I saw the driver of the big rig had managed to slow down, but it still pushed my little Toyota pickup over, crumpling it in slow motion like so much cardboard.

  The five-gallon bucket of baking soda in the bed of my truck erupted into the air. The sun shone through the dusty cloud, giving the whole mess a romantic, surreal effect.

  The driver leapt from the semi and ran to me. "Oh, God, lady. Are you okay?" He peered at the wreck. "Was there anyone else in there?"

  I shook my head, curiously unable to speak. I looked down at my hands, fluttering at the ends of my arms like leaves in the wind. Oh, wait a minute. No wonder: my whole body was shaking like that.

  People began spilling out of houses up and down the street. The eerie ululation of sirens grew louder. I crossed my arms over my chest and eyed my poor little truck, still not quite believing what had just happened.

  A patrol car screeched to a stop. An ambulance was next, accompanied by a fire truck. But no one was going to be able to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

  I started to giggle.

  The truck driver looked at me with alarm.

   

  "Sorry," I gasped. "It's just so-" The laughter erupted again, cutting off my words. A paramedic hurried over.

  "She doesn't seem hurt," the truck driver said, deep concern in his voice. "But she started laughing like that a few moments ago."

  "Just a little hysteria," the paramedic said, reaching for his bag.

  "Nuh uh," I managed to snort out.

  "You'll be okay in a little bit," he said.

  "Sophie Mae? Is that you?"

  Tears streaming down my face, I turned to see Detective Robin Lane, hands on her perfectly proportioned hips, surveying the scene.

  "Oh, yeah," I choked. "It's me." I sniffed and rubbed the back of my hand across my cheek.

  She peered at me, then asked the paramedic. "What's wrong with her? Is she on dr
ugs?"

  A giggle sneaked out, and I clamped my hand over my mouth.

  "Nah, I don't think so," the paramedic said. "It's just a nervous reaction to almost getting killed."

  The urge to laugh disappeared completely.

  I had almost been killed. Oh. Wow.

  "What happened?" Lane asked.

  For the first time since my old pickup had gone to Toyota heaven, I was able to speak like a normal human being. "My brakes wouldn't work."

  Her forehead furrowed. "Just went out? All of a sudden?"

  "Completely." I went on to describe what I'd done, and how I had finally brought the little truck to rest. "Then this guy plowed into me." I gestured toward the trucker.

   

  "Hey lady, it wasn't my fault your vehicle was in the intersection like that."

  "You were going too fast," I said, my voice wavering a little. "And you darn well know it."

  He stubbed his toe into the ground and looked up at Robin through the fringe of hair that had flopped down on his forehead. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  The paramedic poked and prodded at me a little, then pronounced me physically fit. He was recommending that I go to a hospital to make sure when Barr strode up and put his arm around my shoulders.

  "Robin called me. What happened?"

  I sighed and told the story all over again.

  "I'm taking you home," he said. "Stay here, and I'll be right back." He went to where Robin was questioning the truck driver further and spoke to her. She started to shake her head, but he shook his own once, firmly, and returned to where I stood waiting. In seconds he'd bundled me into his car and we were driving away.

  "Thanks for rescuing me," I said. "Just drop me at the house, and you can get back to work."

  "You dope," he said, the tenderness in his tone belying the words. "I'm taking the rest of the day off."

  Wow. Barr Ambrose didn't "take the rest of the day off" lightly. If it took the demise of my vehicle and me almost dying for it to happen, then so be it. I'd sit back and enjoy.

  But when I looked over, I saw the muscles working along his jaw. He was really upset.

   

  TWENTY-FIVE

  MEGHAN WAS APPALLED WHEN she heard what had happened, and commenced fussing and feeding. The three of us settled into the living room with tea and spice cake. Brodie waddled between us, urging us with his brown eyes, fox-like ears, and occasional corgi talk to share our baked goods while we discussed mechanical issues.

  "The emergency brake wouldn't work either?" Meghan asked.

  I shook my head. "Nope. And I tried to downshift, but it seemed like it was stuck in gear." I turned to Barr. "Was Scott Popper's patrol car ever checked out, you know, to make sure nothing mechanical was wrong with it?"

  "It's still in the wrecking yard. I wanted to get a little more information before calling his accident a homicide," he said.

  "There are an awful lot of cars killing or nearly killing their occupants in this case. There's Scott's wreck. There's what happened to me today. And there's the wreck that killed Ariel and Rocky's parents about ten years ago."

   

  Meghan's brow furrowed. Barr looked thoughtful, then chagrined.

  "What?" I asked when I saw his expression.

  "I was thinking what happened to your truck today had nothing to do with the murder."

  Which murder, I almost asked. I was starting to think we were dealing with more than one. So what was Barr talking ... hey, wait a minute.

  I stood up quickly, and Brodie gave a sharp bark of surprise. "Hang on. Are you saying you think your ex sabotaged my truck?"

  Meghan's gaze whipped from me to Barr. "Oh, you can't. She wouldn't. That's crazy."

  I began to pace. "Well, your mom said Hannah was a little crazy, as I recall."

  Barr held his palms up. "I've never known her to be violent."

  Stopping in front of him, I crossed my arms. "But you assumed it was her right away, didn't you?"

  He inclined his head a fraction. "I could be wrong. I hope I'm wrong. But I don't like how she disappeared from where she was staying and still keeps trying to talk to you." His eyes flicked to Meghan. "Two million is a lot of money."

  I grumbled a word that rhymed with "itch" under my breath. Then cocked my head. "Does she know anything about cars? I mean, would she even know how to do it?"

  "I don't know," Barr said. "She could have learned a lot in ten years.

  "Oh, no." I rubbed my palms over my face. "You know who else knows about cars? Besides your venomous ex?"

  They both shook their heads.

   

  "Gabi Kaminski."

  Meghan's head drew back in surprise. "Really?"

  "In Rocky's barn-turned-garage, he asked her to give him a clutch-compressor springie thingie or whatever it was. She knew exactly what he was talking about."

  Barr's forehead wrinkled while he untangled what I'd just said. "You mean a clutch-spring compressor? Was he working on a transmission?"

  "I think so." I waved my hand. "Whatever. But the point is that she knew what it was. I bet Gabi's just as good of a mechanic as Ariel was. She's pretty angry at me. Over the course of the several hours I spent with her and her family, a lot of information about Ariel came out. Then I saw Thea Hawke's roving, told you about it, and had the temerity to come back into her house and point it out to you." I took another piece of spice cake, ravenous after my brush with death. My teeth sank into the moist, cinnamon-scented crumb.

  "Well, we can't do anything until we know for sure that your brakes were deliberately sabotaged," Barr said. His expression was skeptical.

  "Of course," I said.

  "What if it was just an accident?" Meghan asked.

  Fat chance.

  "I don't know," Barr said. "But we're going to have someone look at it and find out."

  "Scott's, too?"

  He nodded. "We'd better."

  "Well, don't take it to Dusty's Fix-It," I said.

   

  "Why not?" Meghan asked. "Dusty does great work on the Volvo."

  "And they have the contract with the city of Cadyville, too. Maintenance on all the police cars," Barr said slowly.

  "Oh, wow. Didn't you know?" I drained my tea. "Zak Nelson works there."

  We all exchanged looks, and Barr nodded.

  "I'm sending both vehicles to the crime lab," Barr said, standing. "I know I said I was taking the day off, but would you be angry if I went and followed up on this?"

  I forced a smile. "Not a bit. I want to know if those brakes were an accident, or if someone actually tried to, you know..." I glanced at Meghan. "Kill me."

  "Because of your investigation," she said, bitterness underlying every word. "I swear, I worry more about you than I do about my own daughter." She stood and turned her ire on Barr. "She promised this wouldn't happen again, and then you had to go and ask her to get involved. Well, I hope you're happy." Shouldering past him, she went into her office.

  "Meghan, wait," I called.

  The door closed loudly behind her.

  I started to go after her, but Barr put his hand on my arm. "Let it be."

  "But-"

  "She's right. I should have asked you to leave CRAG, not get involved even further with that bunch of snakes."

  "Hey, I like it there," I said. "I wouldn't have stopped going just because you asked me."

  He gripped my shoulders. "Meghan's still right."

   

  I frowned. "I tried to be so careful."

  "Well" He leaned in. "The cat's out of the bag now. You watch your back."

  I nodded my agreement. Better late than never.

  Barr left, Meghan's one o'clock client showed up, and I took the cordless phone downstairs. Despite my suspicion that Gabi Kaminski had had something to do with my brakes failing, I wanted to follow up on Barr's initial thoughts about the cause of the incident.

  I dialed. Waited. "Hello? Is this Mrs. Ambrose? Cass
ie? This is Sophie Mae. Reynolds. We spoke the other day."

  "Hello, Sophie Mae," Cassie said on the other end of the line. "How are you?"

  "Well, I'm fine, though I must admit I've been better. That's why I called. I have a question for you."

  A pause and then, "All right. Shoot"

  I grimaced and plunged on. "Does Hannah know anything about car mechanics?"

  "Car mechanics? What on earth? What did she do, offer to change your oil?"

  My laugh sounded thin. "Hardly. I'm talking about something a little more sophisticated. Would she know how to cut a brake line?"

  There was silence on the other end of the phone, and when Barr's mother finally spoke the bantering note was gone. "I don't think so. Hannah's a tough little thing, and she can ride most anything with four legs, but she knows horses, not cars."

   

  "You're sure."

  "Well, we spend a lot of time together, but I couldn't say for sure, no. She has a life away from here. I don't know what all it involves. Not my business."

  I couldn't keep the disappointment out of my voice. "All right, thanks."

  "What happened?"

  Silence on my end this time.

  "Sophie Mae, did something happen to your car?"

  I sighed. "Yes, ma'am. The brakes went out on my little pickup."

  "Are you okay?"

  "I am. My truck wasn't so lucky. It was completely totaled."

  An intake of breath on the other end of the line. "I'm sorry to hear that. I really am. But why would you think Hannah had something to do with it?"

  "Uh, well, Barr kind of said-oh never mind. I shouldn't have called. It's just that neither of us is exactly neutral on the subject of Hannah, and I thought you might be able to, well, you know. Provide some perspective on the situation." The more I talked, the dumber I sounded. But did that stop me from saying more? No.

  "See, Barr talked to her, and she said she'd leave town, go home. She left the place she was staying, and he can't find her now, but she's stopped by my house to talk to me twice since then."