by Laura Childs
Suzanne drummed her fingers. She wasn’t high maintenance, but she was definitely a high-achieving type A. Even so, she projected a certain calm and sense of poise, looking polished but not prim today in a soft denim shirt that was casually knotted at the waist of her trim white jeans. But underneath that denim shirt beat the heart of a racehorse—a thoroughbred who was smart, kind, and the kind of crackerjack businesswoman who could drive a hard bargain or negotiate a sticky contract.
Suzanne shifted in her chair. She figured she had to be parboiled by now. After all, that wasn’t her morning spritz of Miss Dior that was wafting through the air. In fact, it smelled more like . . . what?
A few inches of sludgy French roast burning in the back room’s Mr. Coffee? A cranked-up curling iron? Someone’s hair being fricasseed by hot rollers?
Suzanne peered around suspiciously. Maybe it was Mrs. Krauser, who was tucked under the hair dryer directly across from her. Mrs. Krauser with a swirl of blue hair that perfectly matched her light blue puffed-sleeve blouse.
Wait a minute. Now she really did smell smoke!
Suzanne wiggled her nose and sniffed suspiciously. Was it her? Was her hair getting singed?
Tentatively, she touched a hand to the back of her head. She was warm but not overly done. So . . . okay. Peering around again, she felt a faint prickle of anxiety. It had to be Mrs. Krauser over there, blotting at her pink cheeks with a white lace hanky.
But wait, Suzanne told herself. There was something definitely going on. Something cooking. And it wasn’t Brett’s complimentary snickerdoodle cookies from his back-room oven.
So where on earth was that smell coming from?
Suzanne ducked her head out from beneath the behemoth hair dryer and gazed around the salon, where everything seemed copasetic.
Still . . . it really did smell like smoke. And, were her eyes deceiving her, or did everything suddenly look slightly ethereal and hazy? Like she was peering through a gelled lens?
Holy crap on a cracker! That was smoke!
Suzanne scrambled to her feet so fast every pair of eyes in the place was suddenly focused on her.
“I think there’s . . .” she said, and then hesitated. Standing in the middle of the beauty shop, with everyone staring at her, she felt a little unsure of herself now. No sense making a ruckus over nothing. But when she inhaled, she definitely detected a nasty, acrid burning scent. A scent that touched the limbic portion of her brain and sent a trickle of fear down her spine.
Smoke. I definitely smell smoke.
“Something’s on fire!” Suzanne cried out, trying to make herself heard above the roar of the blow dryers and the blare of show tunes playing over multiple sets of speakers.
Brett looked up from where he was shampooing a client. “What?” He sounded puzzled as bubbles dripped from his hands. “Something’s what?”
But Suzanne had already crossed the linoleum floor in three decisive strides and was pushing her way out the front door. On the sidewalk, smack-dab in the middle of downtown Kindred, the summer breeze caught her. It ripped the foils from her hair and sent her purple cape swirling out around her as if she were some kind of superhero.
And as Suzanne stood there, arms akimbo, knowing something was horribly wrong, she heard a terrifying roar. A rumble like the 4:10 Burlington Northern Santa Fe freight train speed-balling its way through Kindred. Within moments, the roar intensified, building to such a furious pitch that it sounded as if a tornado was barreling down upon the entire town. And then, without any warning whatsoever, the windows in the redbrick building right next door to Root 66 suddenly exploded with an earsplitting, heart-stopping blast. And a molten blizzard of jagged glass, chunks of brick, and wooden splinters belched out into the street!
Suzanne ducked as shards of glass shot past her like arrows! She felt the intense heat as giant tongues of red and orange flames belched from the blown-out windows as if they’d been spewed by World War II flamethrowers.
Fearing for her life, her self-preservation instinct kicking in big-time, Suzanne dove behind a large blue metal sign that proudly proclaimed Logan County Historic Site. She buried her face in her hands to shield herself from flying debris, hunched her shoulders, and prayed for deliverance.
A few moments later, Suzanne peered out tentatively and was shocked to see that the entire building, the old brick building that housed the County Services Bureau, was completely engulfed in flames!
Like a scene out of a Bruce Willis action flick, people suddenly came streaming out of all the surrounding businesses. Realtors, bakers, bankers, and druggists, all screaming hysterically, waving their arms and pointing at what had become a roiling, broiling inferno right in the middle of Main Street. Everyone seemed hysterical, yet nobody was doing much of anything to help.
“Call 911!” Suzanne yelped to Jenny Probst, who ran the Kindred Bakery with her husband, Bill.
Jenny nodded frantically. “We called. We already called. Fire department’s on its way.”
Two minutes later, a fire engine roared to the scene. A dozen firemen jumped off the shiny red truck even as they struggled to pull on heavy protective coats and helmets.
“There are people in there!” Suzanne cried to the fireman who seemed to be in charge. She pointed desperately at the building that was now a wild torrent of flames. “You’ve got to get them out!”
“Stand back, ma’am,” ordered one of the firemen, and Suzanne did. She retreated a few steps and took her place in the middle of the street along with the rapidly growing crowd.
A second fire truck arrived and a metal ladder was quickly cranked up to a second-floor window. To shouts of encouragement from the onlookers, a fireman gamely scrambled up. Then a siren blatted loudly directly behind Suzanne, giving its authoritative whoop whoop, and she was forced to move out of the way again. Sheriff Roy Doogie had arrived in his official maroon-and-tan cruiser, along with two nervous-looking deputies.
Sheriff Doogie, by no means a small man, hopped out and immediately began to bully the crowd back even farther.
“Get back! Give ’em room to work!” Doogie shouted as his khaki bulk quivered. “Get out of the way!”
Then a white ambulance came screaming into the fray and rocked to a stop directly next to Doogie’s cruiser. Two grim-faced EMTs jumped out, pulling a metal gurney with them, ready to lend medical assistance.
Thank goodness, Suzanne thought.
When Suzanne glanced up again, she was thankful to see a terrified-looking woman and a small child clambering over a second-story window ledge and into the waiting arms of the fireman on the ladder.
“That’s Annie Wolfson,” said a voice behind her.
Suzanne turned around and found Ricky Wilcox, the young man who was the groom in tomorrow’s big wedding, staring fixedly at the rescue that was taking place.
Good, Suzanne thought. Annie and her child have been saved. But what about the folks in the first-floor County Services Bureau? Bruce Winthrop, the county agent. And his longtime secretary, Hannah Venable. What about those poor souls? Were they still inside?
Suzanne’s question was partially answered when Winthrop, looking bug-eyed and scared spitless, suddenly crashed through the crowd. Arms akimbo, he caromed off her right shoulder and then continued to push his way toward the burning building.
“Hannah!” Winthrop cried, frantically trying to charge through the surging crowd. “Hannah!” He seemed ready to rush into the burning building and save her single-handedly.
“Whoa, whoa!” Suzanne cried out. She dashed forward a couple of steps, snagged Winthrop’s arm, and tried to pull him back. But the man was in such a blind panic that he simply shook her off. Suzanne made a final frantic grasp at the back of his tweed sport coat, found some purchase, and fought to reel him in backward. “Wait,” she cried. “You can’t go in there. You’ve got to let the firemen do their jobs.”
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Winthrop spun around to look at her, but was in such an anguished state that he didn’t display a shred of recognition. His face contorted with fear as he tried to jerk away. “Let me go!” he cried. Then, in a pleading tone, “I’ve got to go in and get her.”
“No you don’t,” Suzanne told him. She grabbed Winthrop’s arm and gave a sharp tug that made him suddenly wince. But at least she’d commanded his attention. “Better to alert Doogie,” she said. “He’ll send a couple of firemen in to rescue Hannah.”
“Gotta hurry hurry hurry,” Winthrop chattered.
Suzanne waved an arm over her head and cried out, “Doogie! Sheriff Doogie!”
Doogie heard his name called out above the roar of the fire and the nervous mutterings of the crowd. He swiveled his big head around, saw Suzanne, and frowned.
Suzanne pushed closer toward him, dragging Winthrop along with her. “Hannah Venable’s still inside,” she shouted. “You’ve got to send someone in to get her.”
Doogie’s eyes widened in surprise and he gave a sharp nod. Then, quick as a wink, he grabbed the fire chief and pulled him into a fast conversation.
“You see?” said Suzanne. She still had a firm grip on Winthrop’s arm. “They’ll get Hannah out. She’ll be okay.”
Winthrop just nodded woodenly as if in a sleepwalker’s trance.
The firemen shot thick streams of water at the building now, trying to beat back the flames. As water gushed from fat, brown hoses that crisscrossed the street, the fire hissed with fury but seemed to slowly retreat.
“I think they’re gaining on the fire,” Suzanne said to Jenny, who’d taken up a spot in the front lines next to them.
“I hope so,” she said.
Two firemen hastily donned protective gear—full breathing apparatuses and special asbestos coats. Then, after a hasty conference with their fire chief, they plunged into the burning building to make the daring rescue.
They were the brave ones, Suzanne thought. They were the ones who risked their lives for others. God bless and keep them.
The firemen working the hoses were definitely gaining a foothold on the fire now. Flames were knocked back as charred beams and red-hot embers sizzled and hissed.
“Getting it under control now,” said Darrel Fuhrman, a man Suzanne recognized as one of Kindred’s firemen. He was tall with slicked-back dark hair and eyes that danced with wild excitement.
Suzanne wondered idly why Fuhrman wasn’t in the fray lending a hand, as she continued to keep her eyes fixed on the front door of the building, waiting to see Hannah Venable come staggering out. Hannah was the sweet-natured clerk who had manned the front desk at the County Services Bureau for the past fifteen years. She answered phones, kept the books, and handed out brochures on how to grow snap peas, raise baby lambs, and put up fruit jams and jellies without giving your family ptomaine poisoning.
Antsy and nervous now, Suzanne moved forward. She could feel the heat from the fire practically scorching her face, like having a too-close encounter with Petra’s industrial-strength broiler back at the Cackleberry Club. What must the firemen be feeling inside, she wondered? What must poor Hannah be going through?
Sheriff Doogie whirled around and saw Suzanne edging up to the barricade.
“Get back!” he yelled, waving a meaty arm. “Everybody, get back!”
Suzanne retreated two paces, and then, when Doogie turned around, when he wasn’t looking anymore, she crept back to where she’d been standing.
“Watch out!” cried one of the firemen who was manning a hose and shooting water through one of the front windows. “They’re coming out.”
Everyone peered expectantly through the drift of smoke and ashes. And then, like an apparition slowly appearing from a dense fog, the two firemen who’d made the daring foray into the burning building came into view. Their faces were smudged, their eyes red, their respirators dangled around their necks. But they carried a stretcher between them.
“They got her,” Suzanne whispered. Everyone in the crowd behind her seemed to relax and heave a deep sigh of relief.
Sheriff Doogie, who’d been clutching a blue blanket, stepped forward and laid it gingerly over the stretcher.
Thrilled that the firemen had been able to make such a daring rescue, Suzanne pressed even closer. “Is it Hannah?” she asked Doogie. She crept forward expectantly, practically bumping up against his beefy shoulder now. Surely they were going to load Hannah into the waiting ambulance. They’d rush her, lights twirling and sirens blaring, to Mercy Hospital, where Dr. Sam Hazelet, her boyfriend, Dr. Hazelet, would resuscitate Hannah and tell the old dear what an amazingly close call she’d had.
“Is it Hannah?” Suzanne asked again.
The brim of Doogie’s modified Smokey Bear hat barely quivered. A muscle twitched in his tightly clenched jaw.
“Is she . . . ?” Suzanne was about to say okay.
Doogie turned to her, his eyes sorrowful, his hangdog face registering total dismay, and uttered the two fateful words that Suzanne had not expected to hear: “She’s dead.”
Watch for the Next Scrapbooking Mystery
PARCHMENT AND OLD LACE
A scrap of parchment, a snippet of old lace. What look like pieces for a scrapbook collage are really clues to a murder.
And be sure to catch the next Tea Shop Mystery, also from Laura Childs and Berkley Prime Crime.
MING TEA MURDER
What begins as a black-tie event to celebrate the reconstruction of an antique Chinese teahouse suddenly spirals into murder. Who is this killer with a taste for blood and impeccable taste in Chinese art? Can Theodosia find him before she becomes a target, too?
Find out more about the author and her mysteries at laurachilds.com or become a friend on Facebook.
A WARNING TO READERS: AN ENTIRELY NEW SERIES FROM THE AUTHOR OF THIS BOOK!
If you enjoy pulse-pounding thrillers, if you like intriguing female protagonists, you’re going to love the first book in this brand-new series.
FINDERS CREEPERS
AN AFTON TANGLER THRILLER
by Gerry Schmitt
Writing as Laura Childs, this author has brought you the New York Times bestselling Tea Shop Mysteries, Scrapbooking Mysteries, and Cackleberry Club Mysteries. Now, writing under her own name of Gerry Schmitt, she is bringing you an entirely new series of sharp-edged thrillers. Gerry has ratcheted up the suspense, set the stakes even higher, and created exciting, memorable characters that sizzle on the page.
We know you’ll be intrigued by Finders Creepers, the first in this series that features Afton Tingler, single mom, Outward Bound enthusiast, and liaison officer with the Minneapolis PD, as she gets pulled into a bizarre high-profile kidnapping.