Stone Cold Crazy (Lil & Boris #4) (Lil and Boris Mysteries)

by Shannon Hill

  “You never saw anyone around the house who shouldn’t be?”

  She shook her head. “No. I mean, if I saw someone, I’d know them. Everyone knows everyone here.” She threw her mother a narrow-eyed glare of her own. “And nobody has any privacy.”

  “It’s for your own good, you have no idea what kind of perverts…” Vicky Weed abruptly appealed to me. “Sheriff, tell her that the internet is not an amusement park. It is dangerous! You never know who you’re really talking to, you don’t know if what you see is real…”

  I held up a hand and turned to Aida. “You want your parents to think you’re old enough and smart enough to figure this out on your own, right?”

  “Duh,” she drawled. “I’m, like, fourteen, not two!”

  “Okay. Fair enough. Do you understand that the bad guys are counting on you to be too young and too…” I chose the word wisely. “Too inexperienced. To figure things out.”

  Her pout notched up to a full sulk. “So?”

  “So,” I said, “you have any idea how many girls like you I’ve seen raped or beaten up or left pregnant? Hooked on drugs? Dead?” I did a quick count in my head. “Thirty-seven, if you only count the ones I’ve seen as a cop.”

  Vicky gasped. “Sheriff! That’s not appropriate! She’s only a child!”

  Aida’s eyes had widened. “That’s bull. You never saw so many.”

  I grinned the grin I learned from Boris. The one that cats grin when they’ve got the injured bird under their paws. “You want their names?”

  That shut her up. Just as well. I wasn’t lying about the number, but I sure as heck didn’t remember all their names.

  Vicky clapped her hands sharply. “Kids. Go up to the rooms. My turn.”

  I started easy. “What time do you leave for work?”

  “Seven.”

  “Get home?”

  “Five.” She seemed to think this required explanation. “I stay after a lot, get work done, meet with students, parents…” She rolled her eyes. “It never ends.”

  “Public servants never work bank hours,” I agreed. “So what unusual things have been going on? Any students with particular grudges? Parents? Administrators? Fellow teachers?”

  “I can’t think…‌I mean, I don’t know who…” She fidgeted nervously with her gold wristwatch. “I can’t think who’d hate us.”

  I tried again. “How about anyone who’d hate you? Specifically you?”

  She could’ve been a schoolteacher in some Victorian melodrama. She sat up like there was a poker in place of her spine. “What’s that mean?”

  For an English teacher, she was being awfully dense. “It means, do you have anyone who’d want to hurt you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You’re a high school teacher,” I pointed out patiently. “Someone’s going to hate you.”

  “Of course, people hate me. You asked if they’d hurt me. That’s quite different.”

  “Not as different as you think. Have you received any threats?”

  “No. Not even a single muttered profanity in my direction.”

  I was going to be double-checking that with the school and her husband. “Okay, that’s all I have for now. Thanks for your time.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I peeled Boris away from his chair and had gotten to my cruiser when my cell rang. It was Tom. “Lil, you gotta come right quick.”

  I started the engine and cranked up the air conditioner. “Why are you whispering?”

  “I don’t want them hearing me. Lil, get back here quick!”

  He hung up. Great. Now what?

  I rolled up to the office and found a dark blue sedan in my parking spot. Taking the only remaining shade.

  It had government plates.

  I got a very bad feeling. I opened the door to the office with my chest tight and my stomach twisting. Why would there be feds at my office? What was this, Old Home Week?

  The two guys might as well have had FBI stamped on their foreheads. Short hair, white shirts, dark suits probably gotten from a mall, conservative ties. “I’m Sheriff Eller,” I said, putting Boris on my desk. “What can I do for you?”

  “Give us everything you have on yesterday’s bombing.”

  I kept the smile nailed on. Aunt Marge did teach me manners. The tact didn’t stick, but the manners had. Mostly. “And to whom am I giving my case?”

  The older of the two men, probably in his early fifties, rolled his eyes slightly and handed over his ID. Authentic. “Special Agent Howard, and this is Special Agent Newsome. I’m afraid this case has gone federal, Sheriff.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t see how.”

  “Senator Daniel Weed is concerned that this attack was directed at him.”

  I didn’t bother asking how Senator Weed heard about it. We’d made the news up in Charlottesville and down in Lynchburg. The family’s name wasn’t mentioned, but it wouldn’t take much to find out. One call to someone’s aunt or grandma or cousin would do it.

  I put up a fight, as much as I could. “Prove the connection, you can have everything. Till then, it’s my case.”

  Howard pulled out paperwork. “I’m sorry, Sheriff. At first glance, I agree there’s no cause for concern, but the flyer…”

  Newsome and Tom were locked in a high-testosterone chat, full of too-polite comments. I lowered my voice, one hand on Boris’s fur. “How the hell’d you know about that flyer? You ignoring Fourth Amendment rights?”

  Howard scowled. “They’ve been posted all over a three-county area. Including the senator’s home county.”

  I rallied. “Isn’t this more Secret Service stuff? Capitol Police?”

  For clarification, the Secret Service provides protection details when needed. The Capitol police investigate crimes against Congressmen. But the FBI does, in fact, investigate threats against them, too.

  “State police?” I tried. Lieutenant Breeden’s mother runs his life, and Aunt Marge is good at pulling her strings.

  “Look,” said Howard, “we’re not thrilled, but first he hears about those flyers a few days ago, now there’s a bomb…‌And you know that guy works for the DOT, so we could get pissy about it if you really want to.”

  He had me. Adam Weed works for the USDOT.

  I studied Howard. He studied me. We came to a silent agreement. I wouldn’t play SuperBitch, he wouldn’t be MegaJerk. “State lab has the physical evidence, I’ll e-mail you my notes on the interviews with the family.”

  “Thanks. I’ll let you know what we find out, and if we’re going to be arresting anyone in your jurisdiction.”

  “My jurisdiction is technically the county,” I warned him. “County appointed me special investigator.”

  “Understood.” He put out a hand. The one with the paperwork. I took it, then shook the hand. “Can you recommend a restaurant? A hotel?”

  I didn’t quite bust out laughing in his face. “We’ve got one of each. You might want to stay next county over anyway. You’ll have enough trouble with locals watching your every move.”

  “Point taken. Food?”

  “Old Mill’s good, there’s a café down in Gilfoyle that does a little more upscale.”

  He wrote that down, handed me a card. I gave him mine. Then he and Agent Newsome left.

  “Damn feds,” Tom growled once the door closed. A second later, he added a shamed, “Sorry.”

  I sat down at the computer and started typing up my notes. If I was going to lose my case to the feds, I’d at least hand them the best notes they’d ever seen.

  6.

  We were busy the next few days. The bombing had the town more nuts than usual, which takes some doing, believe me.

  Blanche Marshall over on Sixth got a sudden case of the vapors, most of which seemed to be coming off her not-just-iced-tea, and called sixteen times to report a prowler that was, in fact, the wind moving in the lilacs.

  Tammy Lynn Brady, one of Maury’s secretaries over at Morse Sanitation, suffe
red a case of the heebie-jeebies when she found what she insisted was a pipe bomb in the shrubbery, and I spent half an hour calming her down even when it turned out to be nothing more menacing than a piece of old gutter sticking out of the azaleas.

  Then, Saturday morning, Ronnie Lincoln’s very old pickup backfired going down Main, and Hiram Fuller, Andy Shifflett, and Joe Brady all rushed into traffic wielding, respectively, a shotgun, a thirty-ought, and a damn AK-47. Which, as you can imagine, caused a fairly epic traffic jam, and an involuntary bowel movement in Travis Murray over at the liquor store.

  After that, I don’t mind saying my hands shook clear up to my teeth.

  At the end of my shift, I sprawled in my new hammock. Roger had put it up for me. I was learning to enjoy lying there in the shade with Boris on my stomach, an iced lemonade to hand. There was something relaxing about staring up at the underside of branches. Peaceful. Restful. Blissful solitude. Recuperation from the day.

  “Lil!”

  I shot upright.

  Never ever try to sit upright in a hammock. Not without safety rails.

  Steve sauntered up, grinning. Boris hissed.

  Good kitty.

  “You dumbass,” I said without too much rancor, “you could’ve got shot.”

  He spread his hands wide. “I come in peace.”

  “Damn near left in pieces,” I snapped and stayed put in the hammock because it is physically impossible to look graceful getting out of a hammock unless you’re an Olympic gymnast. “What do you want, Steve? I’m off-duty here.”

  He leaned against a tree. Pine. Dripping pungent resin in the heat. I decided not to tell him what was getting on his overpriced polo shirt. “Thought I’d come play nice, ask you to dinner. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

  News to me. “I’ve got plans.”

  “Doing what? Microwave pizza?”

  I smiled sweetly. “You always sucked at interrogation.”

  He flushed, finally dropped the grin. “Look, Lil, you rate high with your cousin, and he’s making big mistakes on this project. You gotta talk to him. He won’t hear me.”

  Good for Jack. I kept smiling as sweetly as possible. “I respect my cousin’s judgment.”

  “He respects yours.”

  I chose honesty, since it’s often quicker. “I’m not getting in the middle. Bye, Steve.”

  “Lil, he’ll lose…” Steve stopped, peeled himself off the pine tree, and gestured energetically. “He really wants to save this town. He’s planning on loans…‌Lil, do you have any idea how insane his loan idea is?”

  I flopped back into my hammock. “Nope.” I put up a hand to steady Boris as he clambered onto my stomach again. “And I don’t want to know. Now buzz off, Steve, I’m relaxing here.”

  “You, relax?” he hooted. “With the Bureau working your case?”

  I’d gotten the identical reaction, more genteelly phrased, from Aunt Marge, Tom, and Bobbi. I growled silently. “I’ve had enough to do keeping this place from shooting off its own foot.”

  Steve laughed. The sound boomed off the trees. “Now that I believe. C’mon, Lil, come to dinner, let me tell you why you have to talk to your cousin.”

  “No.”

  “If not today, tomorrow,” said Steve, and waved airily as he walked back to the driveway and, presumably, his rental car. I closed my eyes, heard Boris give a warning growl, and opened them to Punk. Stalking angrily in my direction. I groaned.

  Punk’s face was flushed, his eyes tight. “What’s he doing here?”

  “Pissing me off.”

  Punk cheered up. “What’d he want?”

  “Take me out to dinner.”

  Punk’s face fell. “What for?”

  Well, there’s an ego boost. I found a smidgen of patience. Not easy. I’d used most of it up on the three gunmen that morning. “He thinks I can talk my cousin out of some of his plans.”

  Punk cheered up again. “Huh. Wonder why? He gets paid whatever your cousin does, don’t he?”

  “He do,” I said, and struggled upright. One nice thing about Punk, he wasn’t going to criticize anyone for being clumsy. “But I guess he’ll make more if Jack listens to him. So what brings you by?”

  For a moment, Punk looked extremely confused. “Well, I dunno. Just…‌came by. Say hi.”

  I slid off the hammock. “Check up on me?”

  If he hadn’t blushed, he’d have gotten such an ass-chewing. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “But, well, y’know.”

  I did. That was the problem. The words “We have to stop hanging out” got as far as my tongue, but stalled. Dammit.

  “Wanna order something from Old Mill? Or something?”

  What I wanted was to crawl into bed and not be disturbed until Monday. I opted for a warning. “I’m in a rotten mood.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  Men never do take a hint. On the other hand…‌I was hungry.

  “Okay, let’s get a pizza, extra-large. You’re paying.”

  ***^***

  Steve knows me. Knew me. Sort of. Point is, I wasn’t just giving up on the investigation. That was a house in my town someone blew up. That made it my problem, if not my case.

  Just how I’d go about solving it without the physical evidence was also my problem.

  Aunt Marge and Roger and Bobbi and Raj listened patiently to all that over Sunday supper. To which Punk had yet to earn an invitation. It wasn’t that they didn’t like Punk. It’s that they weren’t sure how much I liked Punk.

  Bobbi carefully carried her spoon to her mouth. She had a towel spread over her belly. “I cannot wait to have this baby,” she declared, “and I don’t mean just to lose forty pounds in a hurry.”

  Raj reached over and patted her belly fondly. His grin was smug, insufferable, and too darn joyful to resent. “We’ll meet soon enough.”

  Bobbi gave him the look that meant he’d sing a different tune if he was the one with the puffy ankles, sore breasts, and backache. Aunt Marge quickly intervened, passing out little cheddar-quinoa biscuits. “Now try these and tell me what you think. Lil, dear, what do you think you can do?”

  I nipped off a corner of the biscuit. It was interesting. “What cops did before forensic science. Talk to people. And keep talking.”

  Roger eyed me shrewdly. “Can you do that legally?”

  A yowl interrupted us. I went into the parlor expecting to find Boris torturing Aunt Marge’s venerable Russian Blue, Natasha by name, neurotic by nature. Instead, I found Boris atop the cat condo, surrounded by Roger’s juvenile trio of catlings. One was a fetching little calico, whose eyes were pure demon. The two boys, both gray tabbies with white markings, flanked her and looked remarkably like the muscle in some old noir film with Humphrey Bogart.

  Boris yowled again. His ears flattened, and he looked at me beseechingly. Not for rescue. For permission.

  “Roger?” I called.

  “Let him at ‘em,” he called back. “They’re getting too big for their fur.”

  I walked to Boris, rubbed his forehead with mine, and whispered, “Have fun, sweetie.”

  I swear, Boris grinned.

  Back at the table, I explained, “I can’t investigate the pipe bombing, that’s true. But I can still investigate a clear case of trespassing. Criminal trespass.”

  Out in the parlor, I heard Boris’s war whoop. It was the feline version of a Rebel Yell, with a good dose of screaming hell.

  “How so?” asked Bobbi. “I didn’t hear nothing about trespassers.”

  “Whoever set the bomb had to trespass to do it. Besides, we found cigarette butts behind a tree just off the back yard, and the Weeds don’t smoke.”

  In the parlor, the howl became a snarl, abruptly muffled, as if Boris had a mouthful of something.

  “So he’s a smoker?”

  “Or she,” I admonished Aunt Marge.

  One of the gray tabbies scrabbled madly through the dining room and into the kitchen, ears flat, tail fluffed.

&nbs
p; “It’s an interesting tactic,” Roger remarked.

  “It’s what I’ve got.”

  The second gray tabby shot through, trailing wisps of fur. Out in the parlor there rose a dreadful shriek of rage, too high-pitched to be Boris. Or Natasha.

  Aunt Marge smiled brightly. “You know I will help any way I can.”

  “Me too,” Bobbi said eagerly. We’ve been best friends since elementary school, and as the best stylist in a four-county area, she hears a lot. She repeats it only to me, and she never embellishes. Between her and Aunt Marge, I have a network of information at my fingertips that is far more reliable than anything I could get off Google. Normally, I’d use them without hesitation, but I knew it’d take till Monday at the latest for the feds to come knocking on their doors. The less involved they were in my shenanigans, the better for them.

  Short version: Plausible deniability.

  I told them all that over the yowls, hisses, snarls, and screeches in the parlor. By the sound of things, Natasha was getting in a few shots of her own. Can’t blame her. Boris has terrorized her from Day One.

  “Are you sure?” asked Bobbi, pouting a little. “I could use something to take my mind off things.”

  “Positive. Sorry.”

  She sighed.

  Natasha sped out in a silvery gray blur.

  I heard Boris making muffled chirps under his breath, a sort of happy singsong. Oh boy.

  Raj cleared his throat of quinoa biscuit. “What do you expect to find out?”

  “Dunno. But I’m hoping the feds won’t find it first.”

  “Lil,” tsked Aunt Marge. “That’s pride.”

  “Yep.”

  “Lil,” she reproved. One syllable, and I might as well be ten years old again. I nearly shrunk up right there. And me with a gun at my ankle.