Helen shot Ike.
He’d gone down.
Panic curled around my thoughts. I felt sick to my stomach. Ike had to be all right. He’d worn the vest.
But it was dark in the kitchen.
She could’ve shot him in the arm or the head.
I stuffed a fist in my mouth to hold the anguish inside. I had to be strong, for both of us. If I didn’t stop Helen, she’d get away with multiple murders.
She will kill you if you don’t stop her.
A bat was no match for a handgun. Ike’s gun safe was in our bedroom closet upstairs, not that I knew how to shoot any of his weapons. The only thing I had going for me was the element of surprise. Helen didn’t expect me to be downstairs.
I had one chance to best her. One chance to knock her down with the bat. She was in my home, on my turf. Home field advantage counted for a lot in sports and during a home invasion.
A tiny beam pierced the darkness. Helen must have a flashlight. She’d quickly discover the bedrooms were upstairs. Blood rushed in my ears. Seconds dragged like hours.
The light neared. She’d turn for the steps, that’s when I’d move. My ears hurt from listening so hard. Finally, I heard a rustle of fabric. The floorboard near the steps creaked. A sharp intake of breath sounded. The light winked out.
Go!
I launched, baseball bat raised like a hammer. Estimating where she had to be, I swung with all my might. Hit something solid. The bat fell from my hand.
I rammed my body into the intruder’s.
We fell onto the steps, me on top, the intruder underneath. Someone screamed. The room lights flashed on. Ike towered over us, handgun pointed at the intruder’s head.
The wiry person beneath me squirmed, bucked, and yelled.
Ike made a chopping motion. Something clattered to the floor. I glanced down. A pink gun. Ike kicked it out of the way, did something to his gun, and pulled me up.
“Shoot her if she moves,” he said, thrusting his handgun in my hand and kneeling on Helen.
His weapon felt heavy and dangerous. If I moved wrong, I could accidentally shoot Ike.
Ike cuffed Helen and called to report the intrusion. “Help’s on the way.” He rose, secured Helen’s weapon, and pried his gun from my hand. “Thought you were waiting in the bathroom.”
“Couldn’t. Not with your life at risk.” I noted the gash on his head, the torn fabric of his vest. “You’re okay?”
“Feels like I took a fastball to the ribs, but the vest protected me. Because I was moving, the impact knocked me down. I nicked my head on the counter. Took me a second to regroup, but you had things well in hand. Thanks for the backup, partner.”
I basked in his praise. “Did you really expect me to shoot her?”
His lips twitched until a smile emerged. “Not possible with the safety on.”
~*~
“You people are making a big mistake,” Helen said to Ike after he’d gotten her situated in the interview room. She jangled the handcuff that attached her wrist to a ring in the table.
“Tell us about John Starling,” Ike prompted.
I sat beside Ike. He’d made me leave my phone in the office for this interview. It was going on four in the morning, and tomorrow was already here. Helen wouldn’t have many good tomorrows. She’d spend her life in jail if she was lucky and get the death penalty if she wasn’t.
An odd look came over Helen. Her gaunt skin turned orangey red like she’d been parboiled. “I don’t know anyone named John Starling.”
“John Starling of Mobile, Alabama. The man you slept with instead of pining away for your allegedly dead husband. That John Starling. We know you knew him. We have surveillance footage of the two of you at a restaurant here.”
We had no such thing, unless Ike found it and didn’t tell me. He must be bluffing. I crossed my fingers that Helen believed him.
“That’s a lie. We always ate at John’s place.”
Gotcha.
Helen wasn’t as smart as she thought.
“Was John your boyfriend?” Ike asked
“John was … a diversion. He wasn’t Lowell by any means. But he helped me.”
“With what?”
“Getting my revenge on Peggy Lou. She stole my man.”
From what I’d seen of Sonny – or Lowell as she knew him – he was a wuss. Nothing going personality-wise. I didn’t understand why these two women thought he was such hot stuff. Since Helen used Sonny and Deena’s real names, it followed that Ike would do the same for the interview.
“Did you sacrifice John to frame Peggy Lou?” Ike asked
Helen surveyed us as if we were underlings. “John said he’d help me.”
“He agreed to die for you?”
“I accepted his offer of help.”
I schooled my features to hide my disgust. Shooting him with a sharpshooter rifle. Not even facing him with her deception. What a coward.
“But Lowell took the blame,” Ike continued. “Your plan backfired, didn’t it?”
“He tried to save John. When that didn’t work, he fired both rifles, called the cops, and stayed in jail.”
“Why did you spare Lowell?”
“He’s mine, that’s why.”
“And Peggy Lou?”
“I wish her hair would fall out, and her new boobs would pop.”
I hoped my eyes didn’t pop. Helen’s nasty and spiteful voice took me back to adolescence. I’d run across my share of mean girls, but Helen was in a league of her own.
“Did you plan to kill her?” Ike prompted.
“She put herself in that hidey hole. If you didn’t find her, her death wasn’t on me.”
“She couldn’t get out – because of you.”
“No one will believe that.”
Ike whipped out a flash drive. “Think again. Lowell had cameras all over that house. We have you cold.”
Helen tried to jerk her hand free again. When that didn’t work, she burst into tears. If Ike was bluffing again, he got her good. If he had the video, Helen was doomed. I felt no sympathy for her. She’d killed a man and shot me.
“You failed, Helen,” I said, my voice quivering. “Lowell and Peggy Lou are free of you.” Time for me to try a white lie of my own. “And we know it was you on the call directing me to the restaurant. Voice recognition software is amazing. Plus, we learned you have the marksmanship to pull off that sniper shot. Peggy Lou did not.”
“You should be dead,” Helen fumed. “If not for that stupid dog, you’d be gone, and Peggy Lou would’ve been declared the killer. You ruined everything.”
Ike’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the text and smiled. “Give it up, Helen. We found the money in your car.”
Helen pounded on the table with her free fist. “That’s my money. They stole it from me.”
“It’s the insurance company’s money, and they want it back.”
She jerked against the restraint and started screaming. “It’s my money. Nobody else can have it. It’s mine.”
“You won’t need any money where you’re going,” Ike said, rising. He motioned me to follow. “We’re done here.”
Ike and I beat a hasty retreat. The crowd of deputies emerged from the viewing room and clapped Ike on the back. He accepted their praise and held me close. I couldn’t stop trembling. “It’s over,” Ike murmured in my ear. “She’ll never hurt you again.”
Chapter 18
By the time Sunday evening rolled around, I was nearly a hundred percent. No more headaches and only a twinge in my arm if I moved the wrong way and pulled the stitches. The entire family surrounded me, bellies full of Low Country Boil and elated by Cousin Janey’s engagement announcement. Junior Curtis, Janey’s beau, was beaming.
“Janey’s getting the man of her dreams,” I whispered to Ike when we had a moment alone.
“What about the man of your dreams?” Ike asked in a loud voice.
The silence rang. It clanged. It echoed. I couldn’t fathom the me
aning of his question. Me, the person who excelled at reading between the lines. I had nothing. Not even conjecture. We were together. He knew it, and I knew it. Why would he pose this personal question in front of our entire families?
Finally, I found my voice. “Ike? What’s going on?”
“Son,” Ike said over his shoulder, “it’s time.”
Trent walked up to me, solemnly holding Bailey’s leash. Bailey wore a new red collar, and something was tied to it with a pink ribbon. I dared not hope or dream. I couldn’t fathom where this was going. My nerves scattered to the four corners of the earth.
“Ike?”
He bent down on one knee beside Trent and Bailey. “Would you do me the honor of marrying us?”
I tugged on his arm, my cheeks flaming. “You don’t have to do this. I know how you feel about marriage.”
“We’re in life together, Linds. I want to make this official. On the books, so that everyone knows you’re mine. So I’m never excluded from your hospital room again, nor you from mine. What do you say?”
Through teary eyes, I glanced at him. “Yes. My answer is yes.”
Trent untied the ribbon on Bailey’s collar and handed something to Ike. A ring. The narrow band was white gold with twisted strands supporting the stone. The diamond flashed and sparkled as it slid on my finger.
A perfect fit, just like Ike.
“You like it?” Ike asked.
I pulled him into a one-armed embrace. “I love it, and I love you and Trent and Bailey.”
Trent jumped up and down and Bailey barked. “We’re getting married,” Trent boomed. Ike kissed me while our family cheered. Junior Curtis came up afterward and clapped him on the back. “Welcome to the family, dude.”
“I got here first,” Ike said, holding me like I was a precious gem.
“Now, now, this isn’t a competition,” I said.
“It sure isn’t,” Janey said. “We’ve been talking to Ike about a double wedding. You in?”
I eyed the crowd. “Everyone knew he would propose tonight?”
“They did. It’s the worst kept secret in town,” Janey added. She leaned in. “But I might beat you in the baby race. We’ve been trying ever since Junior proposed.”
My head swirled again, and heat radiated from my core. Engagements. Marriage. Ike and I had never talked about having children. It was scary and terrifying and wonderful.
“Double wedding, yes or no?” Ike asked.
“Yes,” I somehow managed.
“Good. That’s settled.”
Alice Ann circulated with champagne for the adults, sparkling cider for the kids. Ike cinched one hand around my waist as we toasted everyone’s happiness.
Ike must’ve noticed I was overwhelmed because he whispered in my ear. “It’ll be okay. I promise. Don’t you trust me?”
“I do.”
Ike flashed a mischievous grin. “That’s my girl.”
--The End--
Southern author Maggie Toussaint loves writing mysteries. She’s published twelve novels in mystery and romantic suspense. Bubba Done It, Book Two in her Dreamwalker series, is her latest book-length mystery release. The next Dreamwalker book, Doggone It, will be released in October 2016. Under the pen name of Rigel Carson, she’s published three dystopian thrillers. She’s a board member for Southeastern Mystery Writers of America and Low Country Sisters in Crime. Visit her at www.maggietoussaint.com.
All Hallows’ Eve Heist: Georgie Shaw Cozy Mystery #3
By Anna Celeste Burke
Editor’s Note: Date night for Georgie Shaw and handsome detective Jack Wheeler goes terribly wrong. A botched heist at Marvelous Marley World has everyone scrambling as trigger-happy bad guys head for the Halloween celebration in Arcadia Park.
Chapter 1: Knife Skills
“Knife skills.” I shouted those words as I turned around from the stove. When I did, I bumped into Jack. The now familiar snap, crackle, pop sensations brought on by close encounters with the handsome homicide detective zipped through me.
“No need to holler. I’m standing right here.” He grinned a sideways smile as he looked down at me. In the nine months since I had met him, those smiles had become a welcome part of my life. Jack Wheeler reminded me of an older James Garner, the actor who starred in The Rockford Files. Maybe it was the detective’s role that linked the two men so readily in my mind. Jack's easy smile had something to do with it too, as well as the dark hair and eyes.
“You shouldn’t sneak up on a woman with knife skills. Lucky for you the knife is on the cutting board.”
“That is a mean-looking one. A French knife, right?”
“Brilliant deduction, Detective.”
“To borrow a phrase from that better-known detective, Sherlock Holmes, ‘it is simplicity itself, my good woman.’ I’ve listened to you speak many times of former colleagues in the kitchen brandishing an enormous French knife to make a point. Risky business, I might add.”
“So is calling me your good woman. I can just hear those words coming from Holmes, in a snide, disdainful way, though. He was no fan of women.”
“Well, I am. A fan of one woman in particular.” Jack pulled me toward him and brushed my forehead with a kiss. As he did that, Miles wrapped himself around my legs. An affectionate cat, Miles couldn’t stand being left out if there was hugging going on. I heard him purring as he squeezed between us. Best buddies at this point, Jack bent down and scooped up the handsome Siamese. That got a gurgle of approval from Miles.
“I thought you were out on the patio admiring the view.” A wave of amazement hit me as I took in the cozy tableau in my kitchen. Jack's presence in my life as I rushed toward sixty struck me as a miracle. Especially considering the awful circumstances in which we had met—during a murder investigation at Marvelous Marley World where I work for a very famous cartoon cat, Catmmando Tom, at the center of a multibillion-dollar entertainment empire.
A second chance at love had somehow come about in the wake of a murder at Catmmando Mountain. The site of The Conquest, an action-packed adventure experience, is an APEX attraction in Marley World parlance. Catmmando Mountain is the centerpiece of Arcadia Theme Park, where Catmmando Tom’s thrilling adventures come to life. Arcadia Park was no contender for the “happiest place on earth” on Valentine’s Day. A body at the foot of Catmmando Mountain created near panic for those of us who work at the Cat Factory. We feel as honor-bound as our founder, Max Marley, to make the place a shining example of family fun and worry-free entertainment.
“I was enjoying the view until I smelled something wonderful. What's on the menu, Chef?” He and Miles both stared at me expectantly, and I laughed.
That Jack and I are still together nine months after the murder is another miracle. The loss of my first love had kept me boxed up inside for far too long. I was certain we're only lucky enough once to find someone we can call a soulmate. Then Jack walked into my life and poof. My notion that love’s lightning only strikes a single time has vanished. Miracles are lovely things, but also scary. What if Jack and I are too set in our ways to make a second chance at love work?
I looked away to hide my doubts. “Tonight, we're having an old favorite from my cooking school days. In fact, this is the dish I prepared as part of my graduation dinner. Coquilles St. Jacques. Scallops poached in white wine and created in the old way: gratinéed and finished under the broiler. There are lighter versions out there, but this is still my favorite. We're going to eat it as a main dish rather than an appetizer so we can afford to enjoy the richer version. For your dining pleasure, Monsieur, tonight Chez Georgie’s serves the aforementioned Coquilles St. Jacques with a spicy pumpkin soup, fresh salad of locally grown baby greens, and warm crusty French bread. And, to accompany your dinner, a coquettish little Viognier.” I put on a lousy French accent to match my pretentious chef routine.
“Meow.” Jack replied, adding an appreciative murmur that was almost a perfect imitation of the sound Miles had uttered moments before. Mil
es looked up at him and snuggled a bit closer. “Do we get dessert, too?”
“Oui, oui, but of course, Monsieur. A decadent, rich chocolate mousse.”
Jack used one hand to pull me closer and took a deep breath, snuffling my hair.
“How did we get so lucky, Miles? She's lovely, smells like vanilla and spice, adores us, and whips up chocolate treats.”
Miles boomed his approval, most likely because Jack had uttered one of the magic words in Miles pampered-pet vocabulary--treats. My cat loves his treats. With those booming trumpet-like blasts, he rechristens himself daily, demonstrating his right to be named after one of my favorite jazz musicians, Miles Davis.
Jack loves his treats, too. The man has his priorities straight; I'll give him that. I had already learned he's an “eat dessert first” kind of guy. Easier for him to do, since he's far more dedicated to working out than I am. He hadn’t said it exactly, but I figure that “eat dessert” rule, and his workouts stem from the uncertainties that go with his job as a cop.
A few years older than me, he tries to stay in shape since on occasion he still has to dodge a wildly thrown punch or make a grab for a bad guy. Nothing as dramatic as the foot chases seen on TV. Jack has assured me that the suspects he pursues are typically in way worse shape than he is. According to him, the creeps don’t want to take a chance getting shot at. And if they do make a run for it, they have less than a 100-yard dash in them. Still, the whole cop thing is one of the scarier aspects of taking a second chance at love. As I mulled this over, Jack interrupted my reverie, returning to the subject of knife skills.
“I’ve heard of a French knife and a paring knife. That’s about the extent of my ability to name the tools of your trade. Oh yeah, thanks to that murderous colleague of yours at Marvelous Marley World, I did learn that chefs use a boning knife. Murder is not its intended purpose, as I understand it. Why were you shouting about knife skills?”
Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes Page 30