by Harper Lin
Unfortunately, he saw it coming and ducked away. Bubba thought the guy was retreating from him and charged forward.
Right into the cloud of pepper spray.
“Augh! Is this how you say your thank-yous for relieving severe back pain?”
“Sorry!” I said, clotheslining him with one arm as I tripped him so he fell flat on his back. Not a nice thing to do, but it was the only thing I could do to keep him from getting hit by Hammer Man’s next swing. He fell to the floor with a thud and an unprintable word of protest.
Now I had to look after myself. Hammer Man was coming for me.
I edged backward, grateful that Mr. Chong had managed to fix my back before I got into deadly combat. My only regret was I hadn’t had a chance to get my shirt on. My nudist friend probably thought that was funny.
How was she, anyway? I had been so occupied with my own problems for the last few seconds, I hadn’t given a thought to her. Very inconsiderate.
I didn’t have time to check, either. Hammer Man swung at me then dodged as I tried to send a poof of pepper spray into his face. I kept my finger on the button, chasing him with a cloud of noxious gas, and was rewarded by seeing him flinch then stumble over the coffee table to land on the floor, taking some of my best china with him.
I turned to check out how Liz was doing. She and the gunman struggled with one another, the intruder wrestling with Liz’s gun arm while she used her free hand to pummel him. Neither seemed to have much of an advantage.
The pistol with the silencer lay not far away. I moved over, stooped to pick it up, and stopped.
Liz’s bullet had put a severe dent right above the trigger. It looked like it had bent the chamber. A couple of hairline cracks spiderwebbed away from the dent. If I tried to fire that thing, it would blow up in my hand.
I stood for a moment, uncertain. Liz and the gunman bashed against a wall, knocking down a photo of Frederick as a boy, proudly sitting on a bright-red Raleigh bicycle he had received for his tenth birthday. The picture smashed on the floor. Strangely symbolic. Frederick fell off that bike more often than he stayed on it.
The two of them toppled on the floor, rolled several feet, and knocked over a side table, smashing a snow globe Martin had given me last Christmas. Water and fake snow splashed over the combatants.
A shadow and a rushing sound just behind and to my side warned me the second intruder was back up. I jumped to the side, my heart wrenching when I realized I wasn’t going to make it.
It didn’t matter. He wasn’t coming after me. He rushed up, gave Liz a kick in the side, and yanked his pal to his feet.
By the time my friend had recovered from this ungentlemanly treatment, they had disappeared out the back. I peeked into the kitchen, where a door led to the garden, and found they had broken a window by the door in order to get in. That was what I had heard before their sudden entrance. They hopped over the fence and disappeared.
I hurried back to Liz and helped her up. She wiped her eyes and let out a little cough. My eyes smarted, too, as did my nostrils. My little spray-a-thon had left traces of pepper gas all over the room. I went over to a window and opened it.
Forgetting that I was topless.
Just then the Gunthers, an elderly couple a few doors down, came power walking down the sidewalk, wearing identical blue jumpsuits and headbands. They stared at me, open mouthed. I squealed and turned away, only to reveal my hedgehog back of acupuncture needles.
I retreated farther into the room, where they couldn’t see me. At least they hadn’t heard the shot. A 9mm isn’t all that loud, and Liz had fired from inside a house with all the windows closed.
Mr. Chong sat on the floor, rubbing his swollen eyes. It looked like he had gotten a good whiff of that pepper spray. Dandelion was nowhere to be found. With her acute sense of smell, I couldn’t imagine what she thought of the whole affair.
“Are you all right, Mr. Chong?” I asked.
“My eyes feel like they’re on faa!”
“I suppose there’s no acupuncture cure for pepper spray. I do apologize. Liz, go get some water.”
She was already coming out of the kitchen with a large glass and a sponge. It looked like she had dealt with the stuff before.
Liz started applying water to his eyes, mopping it off his cheeks with the sponge.
“Gosh darn, that smarts. Who were those damn Yankees?”
Liz and I exchanged glances. I motioned to her. It was her decision how much she wanted to reveal.
“We’re not entirely sure,” Liz admitted. “They’re trying to kill me.”
“Kill a cute little filly like you? That’s downright mean. Them boys is lower than a sow’s belly.”
After a few minutes, Mr. Chong felt better and we managed to get him all packed up and his cowboy hat on his head.
“You better steer clear of us until this is all over,” I told him.
“You ain’t going to call the law?” he asked.
“Don’t worry. I think it’s better if we handle it.”
His bloodshot eyes lit up. “Ah, you’re gonna have yourselves a necktie party. Well, if you catch them varmints, invite me along. I’d love to watch ’em swing.”
“You can have a front-row seat,” Liz told him.
“You sure you don’t need an extra six-gun at your side? I don’t like seeing ladies getting hurt. Makes me hotter than an Alabama summer.”
“We appreciate the offer, but it wouldn’t be fair. We’re not sure who’s after us anyway.”
“Well, if you do need my help, you got my number. I think I’ll go home and fix myself a mint julep.”
He left, with both of us covering his retreat from vantage points at the windows, ready to gun down anyone who tried to hurt the noblest acupuncturist Cheerville has ever seen.
After he drove off, we reconvened in my wrecked living room. Dandelion peeked out from under an armchair in the far corner, looking spooked. I knew better than to try to coax her out. She’d emerge in her own time.
“I feel terrible he got hurt,” Liz said, shaking her head. “He almost got killed.”
“He seemed to take it in stride.”
“Too many Western movies. Did you see how fast on the draw he was with those needles? Looked like a real gunslinger. He needs to decide what accent he wants, though, John Wayne or Rhett Butler.”
“He immigrated to the South then moved to Texas. It’s understandable,” I told her.
“What isn’t understandable is how they tracked us here. We should have spotted them if they were trailing us.”
“I think they know a lot more about us than we do about them. If only we had something to go on,” I said, looking sadly over my ruined living room. Then I spotted the hammer lying on the floor. “Eureka!”
“You don’t smell too good yourself,” Liz quipped.
“Har har.”
I picked it up, not bothering to handle it carefully since they had been wearing gloves and no doubt were cautious about wiping everything down before coming for us.
It looked like an ordinary claw hammer. Brand new. At the squared-off base of the handle, I noticed a price tag had been torn off. Some of the sticky stuff on the back of the tag remained adhered to the rough wood. Whoever did it hadn’t been careful, and enough of the top portion remained that I could read the letters “Chee—”
“Isn’t there a Cheerville Hardware on Seventh and Main?” I asked.
“I think so. I’ve never been there.”
“Neither have I, but we’re going now, and I hope they remember selling someone a hammer, because it’s the only lead we have.”
SEVEN
Cheerville Hardware was a stand-alone building in a small lot. It had a subdued concrete exterior with large windows in front showing off a wide variety of tools. Behind and to one side, I spotted a tall, spacious shed with different types of lumber piled in orderly rows on thick shelves. As we got out of the car, my nostrils filled with the smell of grease and sawdust.
&
nbsp; We passed through the door, a little bell tinkling an announcement of our arrival. We saw three aisles of tools and materials. At a counter by the door stood an older man with a beer belly, thinning hair, and muscular arms.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said.
If only.
We smiled and walked down the aisles. I had the hammer in my purse, along with my 9mm. I worried the leather strap wouldn’t be able to take the weight.
We found the hammers about halfway down the center aisle, hung on pegs by their business end. I checked the bottoms of the handles and found price tags identical in shape to the traces on the hammer used in the attack at my house.
After spending another couple of minutes wandering around and trying to look inconspicuous, we went up to the counter, where I put on my best Sweet Little Old Lady face.
“Excuse me. I wonder if you could help me. I hired a couple of men to put in window boxes for my flowers, but they made a horrible mess and left the job undone. I’m afraid I made the mistake of paying them before they finished, and now I don’t think they’ll come back.”
The man looked sympathetic. “I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am. You should always hire a licensed contractor. I can give you a list of local ones if you like.”
“Oh, that would be lovely. But you see, my son is in an awful state about it, and he says he wants to take legal action. I think that’s a lot of bother, but he says I should find out who these men were.”
“You don’t have their names?”
“Um, no. Silly me, I forgot.”
“Oh, I see. Did they give you a business card?”
“Yes, but now I can’t find it.”
“Can you tell me what these two men looked like?”
Whoops. I couldn’t exactly say they were wearing ski masks and carrying lethal weapons.
“Well, I can’t exactly remember. They were young, but everyone looks young after you get to a certain age. Both quite tall and strong.”
The man blinked. “Can you remember anything else?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“I see.”
He didn’t look surprised by my vagueness. One of the annoying things about getting old is that everyone begins to underestimate you. Of course, that can come in handy at times. It doesn’t stop it from being annoying, though.
He turned to Liz. “Did you see these men?”
“No, I just help her drive.”
The man nodded. “That’s very kind of you.”
I can drive myself, thank you very much!
“I was hoping you might know them,” I said, pulling the hammer from my purse. “You see, they left this, and I was wondering if they bought this in your shop. It looks almost new.”
He took it and turned it over in his hands. Then he looked at the bottom and the fragment of a price tag still attached.
“Oh, yes. This is from us, and now I know the people you’re talking about. Never seen them around here before. Two fellows in their thirties or so. One with sandy hair and blue eyes, the other Italian-looking with brown eyes and curly black hair.”
I suppose.
“That’s right. I remember now!”
“Well, I don’t think they gave their names, but I do remember them. They bought a whole load of stuff. Drills, wiring, a soldering iron, a bunch of fertilizer, you name it. Ran up a big bill. Felt like I could close early, they paid so much. And I think I know where your son can find them. The fellows paid in cash, had a big wad of it, and when the Italian one opened up his wallet, a card from Home Is Where the Heart Is popped out.”
I was familiar with Home Is Where the Heart Is thanks to my son, who is in the real estate business. It’s a collection of short-term rental properties on the north side of town.
I also knew why their business card popped out of the hitman’s wallet. It’s a heart-shaped card made of plastic that has some device in it that makes it beat like a real heart, complete with soft heartbeat sounds. It’s as creepy as it is impractical. One year Martin went to Halloween as a Heart Man. He managed to scrounge dozens of these cards and pasted them all over his body. The effect was terrifying.
As he talked, I kept looking around. There was something off about this hardware store. I noticed Liz checking it out too.
“So they’re living there,” I said. “I suspected they were out-of-towners. They didn’t seem to know about the Tick Tock Café when I mentioned it, or any of the other local places.”
“Yes, you always want to hire a local, ma’am.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Here’s a list of certified carpenters who can help you with your window box problem. Do you need any other work done? I have lists for plumbers, electricians, air condition installers…”
“Oh, that’s quite all right, thank you,” I said, taking the list. “And thank you so much for the information. Perhaps my son can track them down and get my money back.”
“I hope so, ma’am. I don’t like seeing people get cheated.”
The bell jangled over the door. A middle-aged man in overalls came in wearing a John Deere cap.
“Hey there, Clyde,” the hardware store owner said. “I’m just finishing up with these ladies, and I’ll be right with you.”
“That’s all right,” Clyde said. “Just need to pick up a box of nails and some engine grease.”
Clyde walked down the far aisle. We watched him go. There was something strange about him too.
We thanked the hardware store owner and left.
“Strange place,” Liz muttered as we closed the door behind us.
“Yeah,” I said, frowning. “It was different somehow. The people were different too. Not sure how, though. I can’t put my finger on it.”
“Cheerville Hardware. Weird name.”
I stopped, suddenly figuring it out. “No, it isn’t. It’s a perfectly ordinary name.”
Liz’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, it wasn’t called Hard Up Hardware or Walk the Plank: Woodworking Supplies For Pirates.”
“And the people working and shopping there were ordinary too.”
“Nobody was walking around on stilts or wearing a three-piece suit made of balloons.”
I shook my head. “I really expected more out of this place. They’re not even trying.”
“This town’s going downhill,” Liz grumbled.
We got back in the car.
“If they know my house, they’ll know this car,” I said. “How are we going to scout out those rental properties?”
“Not sure. But we better act fast. I think I know what those wires, soldering iron, and fertilizer are for.”
“Something that will make your wedding go out with a bang?”
Liz nodded grimly.
“Yes.” I sighed. “I’m afraid you’re right.”
“Let’s rent a car,” Liz said. “I’ll pay. Do you know a place?”
I had a naughty idea. A grin spread across my face with enough cheekiness to rival Martin’s at his cheekiest.
“Yes, I know just the place.”
Hot Rod’s Hot Rods was Cheerville’s car rental agency for local showoffs. If you wanted to rent a gold-plated Mercedes for your bachelor party, this was the place to do it. If you wanted to impress your date by pulling up in a Lamborghini, you could find one here. If you wanted to do your supermarket shopping in a Bugatti, Hot Rod had you covered.
I had never been here, only knew about it because Frederick had rented a Ferrari 288 for his high school reunion.
Yes, a Ferrari 288. That kind of dates him. He really wanted one when he was in high school, and the closest he could come was to rent one to show off to a bunch of aging school friends.
He’s successful enough he could buy one now, but he’s more practical than when he was a teen. It’s hard to imagine when you’re raising a teen, but they do get practical one day. People grow up, get serious, and focus on the important things in life.
Well, most people.
Hot Rod was not one of those peo
ple.
You could tell that right away.
Amid a lot of gleaming, powerful vehicles expertly designed for speed and elegance, Hot Rod stood out like a peacock among warthogs. Yes, I should be comparing a peacock to another bird, but no bird is as ugly as a warthog, and if warthogs had wings, they’d definitely be the ugliest bird.
And Rod, to get back to my point, was a peacock.
From what I’d heard, Hot Rod had always been called Hot Rod. He had turned heads since high school, had been voted Most Likely To Break a Supermodel’s Heart, and surprised everyone by not moving to the big city to pursue whatever career impossibly good-looking people pursue.
Instead, he became Cheerville’s most successful salesman.
Hot Rod’s Hot Rods was hugely successful. It was a local tradition to rent an impossibly expensive car for the least excuse. Birthdays, weddings, christenings, monthly haircuts, a drive in the country, no event was too important or too trivial not to tempt Cheervillians from coming to visit Hot Rod and leave with one of his hot rods. I suspected everyone was just using it as an excuse to see him.
I understood why. He was stunningly attractive. I first noticed him walking down Main Street one day, and I turned to my daughter-in-law and said, “Oh my, Hot Rod really is as handsome as they say.”
I didn’t even have to ask her if that was Hot Rod. It was statistically impossible for there to be two people in the same town who were that stunning.
And now I was seeing Hot Rod for the second time, strutting through his lot of luxury cars as gleaming and high-class as the best of them. He wore a loose shirt unbuttoned except for the bottom two buttons to expose a perfect chest, a belt buckle in the shape of a pair of golden lips, and jeans so tight they’d make a nudist blush.
As a matter of fact, Liz was blushing.
“Oh. My. God,” she whispered.
“Never seen him before?”
“No,” she squeaked.
“Perhaps you should try to convert him to the naturist lifestyle.”
“It gives me a heart condition just thinking about it.”
Hot Rod strutted up to us. “Hey, lovely ladies, how can I get your motor running today?”
“You already have,” I replied. “And I thought I was all out of gas.”