1 Lost Under a Ladder

by Linda O. Johnston

  “If she’s such a druggy, then why couldn’t I stop her?” I demanded, knowing how strange the question was. But talking was better than any action right now …

  “Good question. Well, she caught you by surprise so it was too late for you, but I saw what she did and was able to grab and bind her.” His voice was hard now, not at all the airy, frightened, strange tones he’d used before to lure me here. Nor was he still grinning.

  “Like I said, the cops are on their way,” I reiterated as strongly as my shaky voice would allow. I hoped it was true.

  “What a shame. They’ll be too late to save you from Martha.” He kept the gun trained on me as he edged sideways. He picked up a large, wicked looking glass shard from the top of a nearby box—part of the mirror—and held at an angle. I had no doubt that he was serious.

  What I didn’t know was why.

  I had to ask. For one thing, it might buy a little more time. Maybe I could figure out another way to distract this madman.

  What superstitions were there that involved insanity?

  “I don’t understand, Preston,” I said as calmly as I could despite the tremor in my voice.

  “You should,” he said coldly. “Like everything else, this is about money.”

  Not superstitions? Or was it about superstitions involving money?

  “I get it. You wanted more.”

  He nodded, his gun still aimed at me.

  I had to ask. “Why would you kill your own partner to get more money? I mean, he was the reason for the bookshop and its success, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, but we could have made a lot more money around here, thanks to him. Instead, he was going mad.”

  Interesting, coming from this man.

  “He didn’t even stop his stupidity when he spilled milk and tripped on it and got hurt—obviously suffering bad luck,” Preston continued. “A situation I planned, of course. He might even have figured that out. He was on top of the world of superstitions. The world-proclaimed expert. He knew they were real—or at least he should have known better than to question them. They were making us rich, at least till he changed. But he was even considering writing a second book, a tell-all about the gullibility of people rather than the reality of superstitions.”

  “Did he have reason to question them?” Maybe, on my possible deathbed, I’d find my answers about Warren and walking just once under a ladder.

  Not that I intended to die here …

  “He thought so,” Preston sniffed. “He saw that things considered lucky didn’t always work, and the same about supposedly unlucky things. But for either to be valid, you have to believe in them.”

  A rather circular argument, I thought, even if it was true.

  The thing was, I’d started to believe more in luck since I’d gotten here. And in the validity of superstitions—at least some of them.

  And now—well, I had walked under a ladder twice yesterday to save Pluckie. I had no regrets about rescuing my dog—even if it had resulted in the bad luck that brought me here, with a gun held by a madman pointed at me. But I hadn’t died immediately.

  Neither had Warren, though his death had happened fairly soon. But I now thought that the superstition of walking under a ladder, no matter how many times you did it, could be one of those that was real. Or not—if I managed to survive, which I intended to do.

  It would help to keep Preston talking. And maybe I’d get more answers.

  I was really uncomfortable lying there on the floor, so I shifted a little. I wasn’t far from where Martha lay. There were stacks of boxes containing books nearby, but I didn’t see anything I could use as a weapon or even a distraction.

  I glanced toward Martha. “Why did you decide to frame Martha in Tarzal’s death?”

  “The killing of two birds with one stone.” His brutal smile caused a shiver of fear to creep up my back. “Although that’s a saying, not a superstition.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know that thing Martha said about your black and white dog being an omen about a good business meeting?”

  “Yes.” I wondered if he’d gone off on some incomprehensible tangent.

  “Well, Tarzal and I actually had planned to meet with her. We—especially I—wanted her to sell to us the property that damned pet store sits on. I’m trying to buy up a lot more property in Destiny, lease it to the right kinds of businesses that’ll attract more tourists and pay more rent. That site’s a good one. I also intend to buy the property along Fate Street behind this store, but Destiny Boulevard is really this town’s prime location. Martha didn’t want to sell. Tarzal was wishy-washy about buying. So, getting rid of both of them would help with my goal.”

  “So how did you set Martha up?” I had to keep him talking …

  “I didn’t know at first if I could,” he said with a shrug. “But when I got to our shop early that morning I peeked in at the Lucky Dog and there she was, downstairs. She looked reasonably steady, though I saw her chug some pills down with water. The timing was perfect.”

  “So you killed your own partner.” I was disgusted and worried. I carefully stuck my hand in my pocket and manipulated that supposedly lucky penny.

  “Of course, before he spoiled everything.” Preston yanked my hand from my pocket. Seeing that it was empty he patted my pockets on both sides, then backed off. I guessed he wasn’t concerned whether any change in my pockets included a lucky penny. But had his nearness, his touching it vicariously, negated any potential good luck?

  “And now that he’s gone, things are better?” I tried to keep the disgust out of my voice.

  “Sure. I’m even selling a lot more copies of his book now that he’s an apparent martyr to superstitions. I’m winning all the way.” He glared at me. “But I don’t need any nosy amateur detective to ruin it.”

  I half expected him to pull the trigger then. “Didn’t you hear that the coroner saw your face in Tarzal’s dead eyes?” I asked, half in desperation. “They know it was you who killed him. And if you hurt me, you’ll be their main suspect.”

  “Good try, bitch.” He brought the gun up and aimed it.

  But suddenly I heard the loud howl of a dog. It seemed to come from behind me, from the alley behind the stores, and reverberated through the room.

  “What is that? I didn’t set that one up.” Preston’s eyes bulged. “I fed superstitions by playing the sound of a howling dog over a loudspeaker the night Tarzal died, and on the mountain for effect, and last night, too, since I intend to kill you—and possibly Martha—today. But I didn’t do that one.”

  He looked horrified. He was facing in that direction while holding the gun on me.

  He gasped, and only then did I realize that the back door had opened.

  Pluckie dashed in.

  “No!” Preston shouted. He moved the gun to point at my dog. “You should have died on the mountain, mutt.”

  “You set that up?” I demanded, fury suddenly overpowering my fear. He’d nearly admitted it by mentioning the howling there, but … “You dognapped my Pluckie?”

  His grin toward me was evil—and thankfully, for the moment, got his attention off Pluckie. “It was easy. Tarzal was Serina’s guy. He’d told me where to find the master key for the rooms in case we ever needed to demonstrate a superstition to a guest. Nearly everyone was at the Welcome that night. I left early and sneaked into the B&B. No one saw me there when I grabbed your damned dog.” He swung his gun back toward Pluckie. “I wanted you gone from Destiny one way or another. I thought tying her loose on that mountain and setting up that ladder would mean the death of both of you. I set up rocks to fall on the path, too, as a backup just in case. I was wrong—but I’ll fix that now.”

  This time I was the one to yell “No!” I was immediately on my feet and shoving him, even as I grabbed his hand, fighting for the gun. He wasn’t going
to hurt Pluckie, not yesterday, not today, not ever.

  The gun fired, but I’d gotten hold of his wrist so the shot was high, entering the wall.

  “You bitch,” he shouted, fighting with me. “Your own dog just howled to foretell your death.”

  “Don’t count on it, Preston,” I hissed, still trying to get control of the firearm.

  Then— “Freeze,” came a shout from the back doorway, behind Pluckie, who’d run over to lick Martha’s face.

  And Justin barged in, holding his gun in the way I’d figured he had intended this morning when he’d seen me into the Lucky Dog.

  In moments, he aimed it toward Preston, even as I let go and backed away.

  thirty-one

  Justin kept his gun pointed at Preston until uniformed officers burst into the room behind him and grabbed the man who’d tried to kill me. They took his weapon and made him put his hands behind his head.

  “Come out of here, Rory,” Justin said, ushering me toward the door into the bookshop. “We’ll let my officers handle this.”

  That was fine with me. “Did you call 911 to get some EMTs here? Martha needs help.” I bent, picked up Pluckie who was now by my feet again, and hurried ahead of Justin out of the room—all the while recalling the last time Pluckie, and EMTs, had helped to save Martha’s life, at the back of the Lucky Dog Boutique, though, and not the Broken Mirror Bookstore.

  “They’re on their way,” Justin said.

  Pluckie started squirming in my arms. “What’s wrong, girl?” I asked—and then heard a crash followed by shouts from the back room.

  “Damn!” Justin again grabbed his weapon, told me to stay there, and, holding the gun in front of him, hurried through the door into the storeroom.

  Hugging Pluckie close to my face, I shivered at the amount of activity I heard—and the idea of what might have happened. Was someone hurt? Had Preston somehow been able to fulfill his intention of killing Martha? He’d missed out on me, but—

  A knock sounded on the shop’s front door. “Emergency Medical,” shouted a female voice.

  Still holding my dog, I got to the door as quickly as I could and opened it. “Come in,” I said to the first of the two uniformed medics who stood there holding large bags. “But you may have to wait. The patient is in the back room, but so are cops—and something’s going on back there.”

  I preceded them to the closed door. My turn to knock. I called tentatively, “Justin, the EMTs are here. Can I let them in?”

  The door opened almost immediately. Justin’s face was pale, his blue eyes almost haunted-looking. “Good timing. Come in. There are two people you’ll need to check out.”

  As the pair of paramedics edged by Justin, I reached out to touch his arm. “Two?” Had Preston somehow shot one of the cops?

  Justin closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “The other one’s Preston. Believe it or not, he tried to run from the cop who was leading him through the room and wound up skidding on a pile of salt that was on the floor. He slid against one of the tall stacks of boxes—boxes of Tarzal’s books—and the stack fell against him. He fell down at an odd angle, and appears to have broken his neck. I think … I believe he’s dead. But first he managed to say, ‘Dog howled. Someone had to die.’”

  Really? Salt? Time for me to close my eyes and bite my lower lip. “Oh, geez. He truly was—is—a believer in superstitions.”

  I couldn’t just assume Preston was dead. And the irony that he might be gone, thanks to a superstition—and the books of the partner he’d murdered? Much too coincidental. And eerie. Yet was a demon involved with that spilled salt?

  And was that demon Tarzal?

  This was Destiny. And Preston was, in fact, dead. We learned that a few minutes later—yet not before a black cat, probably the same one, darted from the bookstore’s back room into the shop, eluded the barking Pluckie after I put her down on the floor, then managed to get out the partially ajar front door.

  _____

  Martha, however, although overdosed on her regular drugs, would be fine. We confirmed that a short while later, at the hospital. Justin stood at her bedside beside me.

  He held my hand, and I grasped his, too. For friendliness and reassurance, nothing more. Although I really appreciated his presence now. And definitely before, when he’d saved me.

  Martha was conscious by then. I wasn’t sure if they’d given her an antidote, or she was so used to the drugs that her body somehow dealt with them, but even though she still lay there, looking weak, she opened her eyes.

  Though I hated not having Pluckie with me, I’d left her with Millie and Jeri at the shop. I trusted the assistants more than I did most people in this town and had never considered them genuine suspects even before I knew who the killer actually was.

  That doesn’t mean I didn’t give them explicit instructions and dire warnings if Pluckie so much as got into an extra container of treats while I was gone.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked Martha now, my voice soft.

  “Okay. No, better than okay. I’m no longer a suspect in Tarzal’s murder.” Her smile was weak but it lit up her whole aging face.

  “Then you know what happened?” I’d hoped that the one benefit to her being drugged was that she’d have slept through the confrontation at the rear of the bookstore.

  “Pretty much.” She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again they were moist. “I kept my eyes closed, but I could hear Preston.” She shook her head. “I really liked my next door neighbors. Both of them. That doesn’t mean I wanted to sell my property to them. I liked the location and my apartment upstairs. They kind of indicated I could rent it back from them, but I didn’t know for how long. And it’s mine.”

  I nodded. “It’s yours,” I repeated.

  She wriggled a bit, then used her hand to grasp a button that she pressed. The bed beneath her head rose just a little.

  “You’re a good guy, Chief Halbertson,” she said, looking at him. Justin just smiled.

  “He is,” I agreed.

  Martha looked at me. “I know you’re a bit confused about my relationship with my nephew, Rory. Arlen’s basically a good guy, too, but greedy. And interfering. I had him work in the shop for me when he first came to town. He kept telling me about things to change, more items to sell, how, if he was in charge, he’d make sure the Lucky Dog was the most popular store in Destiny.”

  That little speech seemed to exhaust her. She closed her eyes again.

  “There’s nothing wrong with that,” I said. In fact, I liked that idea. I hadn’t even started my planned weekly talk about pet superstitions that I intended to present tomorrow—Friday—night, and I’d had other ideas, too, for popularizing the store.

  But I also respected Martha and presented suggestions to her in a way that I thought was helpful, not critical of what she’d already accomplished—and I had the sense that Arlen’s approach had been way different.

  “Of course there’s nothing wrong with it!” The vehemence of Martha’s exclamation startled me. “I want my store to be the most popular in all of Destiny. Everyone loves pets—and everyone should love the Lucky Dog Boutique, especially with your wonderful lucky dog around.” Her voice remained loud but started to get hoarse, and I leaned down toward her.

  So did Justin. “Sssh, Martha,” he said quietly. “Just relax for now.”

  “I will,” she said, settling back against her pillows once more, “if Rory promises she’ll stay here and continue to run the store.”

  That startled me, or at least the timing did. Was she trying to use my sympathy against me?

  “For a while,” I said to calm her. “Until you’re well enough to take it back yourself.”

  “That would be tomorrow or the next day,” she said, “now that I’m not a murder suspect. But that’s not what I mean. I want you to stay here permanently, Ro
ry. Run the Lucky Dog Boutique and use your great ideas to build it up more. Those ideas of yours sound good, very creative and potentially useful. You know the kinds of things Arlen suggested?”

  “No,” I said.

  “How about selling hair dye so anyone could dye their dog black and white for good luck? Or figuring out a way to bottle dog saliva as a salve against sores on the skin. Or other bottles of stuff that we’d market as pseudo–dog fat to fight rheumatism. Ugh.”

  I grimaced in response. “Ugh,” I repeated.

  A nurse came in just then to check Martha. “It’s time for us to go, but we’ll be back later,” I promised her.

  Justin and I ducked into the wide, sterile-looking hallway. Visitors and staff walked by, but it was a lot less crowded in here than outside, on Destiny’s sidewalks. We joined them, walking toward the elevator.

  We were the only ones inside the car down to the ground floor.

  “Are you considering what Martha asked?” Justin’s gaze, looking down from beside me, was intense, but did I also catch a hint of hopefulness there?

  We reached the lobby then, so I used the opportunity to avoid answering.

  “I’ll walk you back to the Lucky Dog,” Justin said, his expression still inquisitive.

  Even as we started our stroll back to the shop, I didn’t respond to his question. Not yet.

  Instead, I finally asked what I’d wanted to learn from him for the hours since he’d shown up at the Broken Mirror at the most opportune time. Luck? If so, it was certainly good luck, on my part. Because of the heads-up penny?