Ten Days in Summer

by Susan Calder

  “Quit your rustling back there,” the driver said. “The noise gives me a headache.”

  Johnny’s voice. If she spoke, he’d know the gag had slipped.

  The van rumbled over what felt like gravel rather than pavement. How had they got to the countryside? They drew to a stop. Seconds passed. The van didn’t start up. If she screamed, would anyone hear? Would Johnny knock her out? The rope wouldn’t budge further. This was her only chance. She opened her mouth and shrieked. The van rocked and jolted forward. She paused between screams for a breath.

  “Stop that, you fucking moron, or I’ll—”

  She barked out sounds, her throat aching and hoarse. The van screeched to a halt, shaking her from side to side. Johnny crouched next to her. How had he got here so fast from the front seat? He aimed an object at her. She inhaled his odour of cigarette smoke, her eyes focused on the gun muzzle. She froze. He would kill her now, dead. Sam waited for her in Edmonton. She would never arrive.

  “If you keep your trap shut, I’ll do you a favour and leave the gag off,” Johnny said. “One sound and—” He clicked the safety catch.

  She shuddered into the wall, hoped he didn’t see her quivering in this almost darkness. She would not beg him for her life.

  Johnny shoved the gun into his holster. He leaned over her to check the rope on her wrists. “Looks good.” He duck-walked to the front seat. “Seems we’re still too early for our shootout at the corral.”

  “What corral?” she croaked.

  “Feel like a drive to ranch country?”

  A barn. No one to hear her or find her body for days. Would he bury her somewhere no one would guess? Her daughters would never know what happened to her. Forever a question.

  More gravel; sharp turns. They accelerated to cruising speed. The country song segued into another one, tune after tune after tune. Paula’s head ached. What shootout? With whom? Where? Good guys and bad guys. Mike, the good-guy cop, had antagonized Johnny in their interview. Mike’s neighbourhood streets were a mix of grid and curves. Had Johnny kidnapped her to provoke Mike into a confrontation? The gravel road might have been the lane behind his house. Cynthia couldn’t be in the passenger seat and have kept her mouth shut this long. Nor could Florence. Johnny was acting alone. Unless Cynthia or Florence was asleep, head drooped forward.

  The van felt stifling, Paula’s throat parched. “I’m thirsty.” She coughed.

  Had Johnny heard her above the singer’s wail, or was he ignoring her remark? She couldn’t risk his wrath by asking again.

  The Beckers’ neighbourhood was gridlike and curving. A gravel lane ran behind their house. Why would Johnny take her on a highway and return to the place where he’d abducted her from? Cynthia had said he was on a mission. Had Johnny asked Mike to meet him at Caspar’s? Was she the bait to lure Mike into the trap? How could she warn Mike when she was tied up like this? Where was her purse with her cellphone? The music shut off.

  “Why are you so quiet back there?” Johnny asked.

  Was this a trick to make her speak and give him an excuse to shoot her? She swirled saliva in her mouth. “I’m so thirsty.”

  “There’s a case of beer up front.”

  “What good will it do me there?” She should have said nothing, been docile, not snapped.

  They bumped over more gravel. No traffic sounds penetrated the van. Was he taking her to a secluded spot to—?”

  “I suppose you’re wondering who I’m shooting it out with,” Johnny said.

  She would kill for a glass of water or kill him, whichever opportunity came first.

  “Does it bug you that I figured out the murderer ahead of you and the cops, with their expert team and fancy equipment? Yes, Uncle Caspar was killed. It was no accident.”

  She licked her dry lips.

  “If I give you a drink, will you behave?” he asked.

  “Y-yes.”

  “I’d advise you not to fool with me, or you’ll be sorry.”

  The van pulled to a stop. Paula heard shuffling up front. A bird cawed outside. Johnny appeared beside her, the gun in one hand, a can in the other.

  She inhaled the aroma of beer. “I can’t drink lying down.”

  “Too bad.”

  The gun pushed her bandana into her neck. With his other hand, Johnny poured beer into her mouth. She choked down the warm liquid, sputtered and spewed. It dripped down her chin.

  He sat back on his haunches. “Feel better?”

  She coughed to clear her lungs and throat. “Where are we?”

  “Killing time,” Johnny said. “The plan was for him to be in. I forgot on the weekend he’d be at those stupid garage sales.”

  “Who?”

  “Now he’s eating dinner, regular as a clock.”

  “Garner?”

  She pictured the round, rosy face of the man in his mid-sixties. Caspar’s friend, his only friend. “You think,” she said. “Why would he murder Caspar?”

  “Same reason as any of us. Cash.”

  “You think he stole Caspar’s jewellery and replaced it with—?”

  “Well, not for cash. He’d already taken the jewels. Caspar found out and threatened to report him. Nobody wants to go to jail. It sure isn’t much fun.”

  “Were you in jail?”

  He rocked on his haunches, staring at her. She wished she could read his expression beneath the shadow of his cowboy hat. He had no record of conviction, but slimy characters had ways to get records expunged. If she tried another scream, would he shoot? For sure, he’d gag her. No doubt, they were stopped at a spot where no one would hear any cries.

  “What makes you think it was him?” she asked.

  “Process of elimination.” He held out the can. “More beer?”

  She’d had enough to cut the thirst.

  “We’ve got to drive a little way farther for a good place to wait.”

  “On your buddy’s ranch?

  “You don’t need to know.”

  Johnny waddled to the front seat, leaving her gagless. He had spent his missing time monitoring Garner’s habits to prepare for this reckless shootout. She squirmed to try to rip the cord from the side of the van. But with no hands she was useless against a man who was stronger and had a gun. They continued bumping down a gravel road.

  Garner. She kept seeing the cherubic face with its wire-framed glasses, the man in spattered coveralls repairing his ‘finds’ in his garage workshop. He had shown up that first evening she went to the Becker house to ask the family about the funeral service. Had he really been returning to the scene of the crime? This was ridiculous. If Garner had stolen from Caspar, why wasn’t he rich? Could a non–family member have managed the thefts? The grandmother had kept her brooch and other jewellery in her sewing machine drawer. After her death, Caspar took the pieces down to his apartment.

  Country music filled the van. For years, Garner had visited Caspar in his apartment to talk garage sale shop. Most likely this involved Caspar showing him choice finds, like estate sale jewellery. Garner would have had opportunities to photograph the pieces when Caspar went to the bathroom or hunted for another item in the walls of junk. Garner could then have had duplicates made from the pictures and switched the items later. Through his garage sale reselling he’d have developed jeweller contacts. Had he come across one who would keep the duplication work secret? The shady jeweller whose father had fashioned the original wild mare?

  Paula had no doubt that Caspar would share the intriguing brooch tale with his trusted garage sale colleague and friend. He had also asked Garner to witness his revised will shutting out Brendan and probably explained he was doing this because he believed Brendan was stealing from him. Concerned he might get caught, Garner stopped the thefts, perhaps to purposely point more guilt at the absent nephew.

  Garner was possible, but was he plausible? The rosy face. Such a hardworking man, devoted to his family. Had he seen the treasures buried in Caspar’s clutter and been tempted, as Wilhelmina had been with
the wild mare brooch? Except this was more than a single instance, and Garner hadn’t stolen from a rich, haughty woman. He’d robbed his friend.

  If it was Garner. Just because Johnny had deduced it didn’t make it correct. Johnny wasn’t the brightest gem in the jewellery store. The van rumbled to a stop. The music shut off. Paula listened for outside noise. Nothing. Wherever they were was isolated.

  “Have we reached your friend’s ranch?”

  “I need a beer,” Johnny said. “Care for another one? Warm’s better than a kick in the groin.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Paula asked. “If you have reason to suspect Garner, why not tell the police?” She sniffed a stronger acrid smell. Johnny must be smoking along with his beer. How relaxing for him. Or was he nervous about the shootout? “What did you mean by process of elimination?”

  “Cynthia and Brendan passed the test.”

  In the dark Paula waited for him to continue.

  “You were there when I carried up the jar with the jewellery from Uncle Caspar’s apartment,” Johnny said. “I’d found the stuff earlier but wanted to get their immediate response, especially to that horse brooch Ma said was worth a bundle.”

  What were their responses? Brendan had recognized The Treasure and brought it to the light. Cynthia called the brooch pretty until it pricked her.

  “What kind of a test was that?”

  A rustling noise outdoors sounded like wind in the trees. Paula supposed Johnny had concluded that Cynthia and Brendan hadn’t acted like they knew the brooch’s significance.

  “It got me thinking,” Johnny said. “Who else had opportunity?”

  “Florence?”

  “She wouldn’t have stolen from Oma and Caspar.”

  “Why not? Oma stole from the Duchess of Windsor.”

  “Who?”

  When Florence told him the brooch was valuable, she must have omitted that part of the story. If it was true.

  “From your perspective, the other suspect is me,” Johnny said. “That gave me an edge over you and the cops, because I knew I didn’t do it. Don’t feel bad for being slower on the draw. “

  Jackass. “Tell the cops about your test and suspicions, and let them take it from there.”

  “Don’t you think they’ve already looked into Garner and his motives and opportunity? He’s always lurking around, even coming to the yard sale today, Cynthia says.”

  “What’s her role in all this?”

  “All of the cops’ looking turned up fuck-all evidence against him. How would an opinion by someone like me add anything?”

  Was Garner high on homicide’s radar? Mike had only mentioned him to her in the context of routine interviews, Garner’s late reporting of Caspar’s contest to quit smoking and even later acknowledgement of witnessing the holograph will. Twice Garner had held back crucial evidence from the police. If this had made him a focus for homicide, it ticked her off that Mike hadn’t considered her fully on the team and included her in this suspicion. He expected her to share everything she learned.

  “If Garner killed Caspar,” she said, “why did he tell the police about Caspar’s contest to quit smoking, which suggests murder rather than an accident?”

  “He realized the cops would eventually learn about the contest from the neighbour, so he jumped in first.”

  “A pre-emptive move? Then why didn’t he tell the police about the holograph will, that turned suspicion on your mother?”

  “Uncle Caspar would have told him Ma knew about the thefts. If the cops came down hard on her, he was afraid she’d spill all to defend herself, which might lead them to stumble on stealing, not inheritance, as the motive for the crime.”

  “You’ve got this all worked out.”

  “Who says I’m dumb?”

  “Are you going to aim your gun at Garner to force him to confess?”

  “I’m wired to record his statement.”

  Something thumped in the front seat. Johnny tapping his chest?

  “Where did you get the wire equipment and the chemicals that knocked me out?” she asked.

  “It took me the past two days to collect it all and come up with the plan. The hardest part was getting the right anesthetic from the horse vet.”

  “A horse chemical?”

  “Don’t worry. You’re safe from long-term brain damage.”

  “But why kidnap me?”

  “I have a hunch about him.”

  “Who? What hunch?”

  “Are you with me or not?”

  “Of course I’m not with you,” she said. “Whatever you’re up to is illegal, dangerous and wrong.”

  “Then I’m going to have to gag you so you don’t scream.”

  Johnny crouched beside her again.

  “You’ll go to jail for this.” She squirmed to shake his hand off her bandana.

  “I like the colour today.” He stroked the cloth. “Blue as a western sky.”

  “You can’t see the colour in this dark.”

  Did his plan involve worse than abduction? She’d rather be dead. Johnny’s fingers slipped to her skin.

  “You’re only doing this out of guilt for your cousin Adam,” she said.

  His hand dropped away. In Caspar’s backyard, Cynthia had talked about Johnny’s guilt. Had Johnny heard from inside the garage? Would he listen to his sister’s view?

  “Cynthia thinks your vendetta is stupid,” Paula said. “Is that why she’s not along for this ride?”

  “I doubt Garner values her life enough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He always goes to his workshop after dinner. We still have a little time to waste, and I’m tired of your arguing.” He forced the bandana into her mouth, retied it around her head and checked the ropes binding her hands to the wall. “Ah, you’ve loosed them. Smart girl. That’s why I chose you as my partner. If you’d only see reason.”

  Reason? He tied the cords so tight they pressed into her wrists. Was he crazy, delusional?

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Johnny squatted beside Paula. With his right hand he unfastened the ropes behind her back. With his other hand he held the gun to her neck. “While we were cruising around, I hope you reconsidered.” He loosened the gag. The bandana dropped to her chin.

  “You’re not looking too innocent or heroic with this behaviour,” Paula said. “If you think attacking Garner will make anyone believe you didn’t—”

  The gun jabbed her artery. “One more peep and I won’t hesitate to use this.”

  Johnny yanked her to the rear of the van, opened the doors and hauled her into blinding sunshine. Her legs buckled. His fingers squeezed her arm as he propped her up. She shook her scraped wrists, her body stiff from being tied in one position. Johnny wore his black cowboy hat, shirt, jeans, boots; his bad-guy costume from the parade. Appropriate. She scanned the lane for anyone who might hear her scream. Her watch said five past seven. Sam would start to wonder what was keeping her, too late for him to do anything.

  Johnny shifted her around, dug the gun into the small of her back and pushed her down the lane.

  “His wife’s home,” Johnny muttered from behind her. “After dinner she works in the basement, too far away to hear.”

  The gun nudged her past Garner’s truck and Pathfinder. Paula glimpsed his garage door open. Garner sat inside, his round form dressed in paint-spattered overalls, his glasses resting on the bulb of his nose. Next to him was the bench she had chosen for Sam. Garner mixed turpentine into a can of wood stain. Could this industrious man have really—?

  Garner looked up. “Paula.” He shoved his glasses back to his eyes and looked past her. “Who are—?”

  “Close the garage door,” Johnny ordered Garner.

  “Pardon?” Garner rose.

  Paula felt the gun whip to her side. Garner gasped. The gun returned to her back.

  “Close it or I’ll waste her,” Johnny said.

  Garner stared at Paula behind his smudged lenses, pleading
and quizzical. His full lips trembled as he read the tension in her face.

  Why her and not Cynthia? The gun prodded Paula’s kidney and shoved her into the garage. Garner stumbled around the turpentine and wood stain cans toward the garage yard door. He was going to make a break for the house, leave her with Johnny and the gun.

  “Try to escape and I’ll shoot her,” Johnny said.

  Garner reached the wall. Paula cringed, waiting for the gun blast. The double garage door ground shut. She was trapped in almost darkness; the only light came from three bare ceiling bulbs and a rear window behind stacks of garage sale furniture, blenders, toasters—

  “Get back here, away from that door,” Johnny barked.

  Garner stood still.

  Please, she silently begged. Don’t leave me—

  “My wife will hear a gunshot,” Garner said. “She’ll phone the police.”

  “From the basement?”

  “She leaves the window open on warm nights.”

  The gun on Paula’s back wavered. “If she comes running toward the noise, I’ll shoot her, too.”

  “You’re an animal.” Garner edged toward them, his shoulders hunched.

  “Stop right there,” Johnny said.

  Garner kept walking past the bench.

  “I’ll kill her now,” Johnny said.

  Garner kicked the turpentine can. The gun left Paula’s body. Garner lunged toward them. Her one chance was to seize the gun. She whirled and stared into its muzzle. Johnny grabbed her, swung her around and secured the gun to her ribs. Garner halted.