by ACF Bookens
Tuck gave me another meaningful stare as he lowered himself to the stage and then looked at Lu, who looked terrified but resolute. She trusted her husband, and she wasn’t going to leave him either.
I took out my phone, opened Instagram stories, and pressed video. Then, I showed Damien the screen so he could see I was recording. I trained the camera on Tuck, and he began.
It felt like I was watching one of those TV dramas where the terrorists makes someone record a confession. It felt like that because it was just like that. Tuck said his name. He said he was guilty of not having stopped Bixley from committing murder. He said he was resigning because St. Marin’s deserved a better sheriff, and then he handed Damien his badge. It was heart-breaking. I tried not to cry behind the camera.
“Very good, Sheriff. That’s perfect,” Damien said before looking over at me. “Now, Harvey, don’t stop filming.”
I stared at him over my phone and gasped when he pulled an insulin syringe out of his back pocket. I’d seen enough of those things to recognize it instantly, and the terror climbed my spine like a spider. Tuck slid back, away from Damien, but Damien raised the gun level with Tuck’s face, and the sheriff froze.
“I’d say I’m sorry, Sheriff, but I’m really not. I’m sorry my dad died before you could stop this guy. I’m sorry I had to do your job and stop him. But I’m not sorry for making you pay for that. Not at all.”
Tuck stared at the gun and then the syringe. I could see, from the corner of my eye, Daniel and Lucas making their way silently to the front of the gym. I was praying they’d make it before that syringe reached Tuck’s arm, but Damien was closing in on the sheriff. A few more seconds and that needle would be killing Tuck.
And even though Bear was there, could maybe save his friend, I knew Damien would never let that happen.
Daniel was just a few feet away when Damien uncapped the syringe and grabbed Tuck’s arm, shifting the rifle into his side as he did.
Then, a shot rang out.
19
When I got up from having my face land squarely on the floor of the gym, I expected to see at least one of the people I loved mortally wounded, but instead, there, on the ground writhing, was Damien. His shin was bleeding, and he looked as confused as I was.
I quickly glanced around and saw Bear lay Tuck’s pistol on the podium before he reached down and gave John Green his hand. Green, for his part, looked appropriately frazzled but also grateful. Henri led him out of the gym as Tuck picked up first Damien’s rifle and then the syringe from where it had fallen by the wheel of my scooter. Then, Bear moved in, tore the sleeve off his dress shirt, and bandaged Damien’s wound. Once that was done, Tuck cuffed him and then looked at me and said, “May we?”
I gave him a puzzled look, but when he looked at my scooter I understood. “Sure. I’ll just wait here.”
Tuck nodded and then sat Damien on the scooter and rolled him across the gym. Then, and only then, did I start to shake.
* * *
A couple of hours later, everyone gathered at our house to debrief and drink lots of calming tea. I was glad I’d picked up a fresh batch of chamomile from my favorite tea shop in Annapolis a couple weeks back.
John Green had gone back to his hotel by Uber since he didn’t want to ask Daniel to drive him and maybe because he was – justifiably – a little terrified to be around any of us. But he had only left after staying, still, to sign the books of the few dozen people who hung around to ask him. Those people, I figured, were either such hard-core fans that they simply could not pass up an opportunity to meet their favorite author or complete psychopaths. Either way, Green was gracious, and I knew his place in my top tier of author admiration would never waver.
“Harvey, is there any way to get that video down?” Elle asked as she handed me a cup of tea and a ginger cookie.
I took a big bite of the soft, scrumptious cookie, and then I smiled. “I actually didn’t record anything.”
Every head in the room whipped toward me. “What did you say, Harvey?” Lu asked as she leaned in. Tuck hadn’t made it over yet, but he’d insisted Lu come be with us instead of waiting alone at home or at the station. I was really glad she was there.
“I didn’t record it,” I said again. ”I just hit the photo button, and Damien believed I was recording.” I looked around the room. “I guess you all did, too.”
Lu sat back in her chair, and I saw her shoulders start to shake. Mart slid in next to her and let her cry.
“That’s pretty incredible for a dude who fancied himself God’s gift to Instagram,” Cate said. “Studly Santa can’t tell if a video is recording or not. Go figure.”
I smiled at the idea that my nickname for Damien had stuck, but then I pictured his face as he moved toward Tuck. Felt like maybe Satan Santa was better somehow.
“Thank goodness,” Lucas added. “I hope people would have been understanding, but given the way people blow up over everything on social media, I think it might have taken Tuck some time to recover from that one.”
“Yes, thank you, Harvey,” Lu said. “You did just the right thing, even under all that pressure. I couldn’t even move . . .” Her voice trailed off. I couldn’t imagine what it must have felt like to see her husband almost die. I didn’t even want to imagine it.
“Let’s face it. I could have as easily not recorded it by accident. I know at least a few of you have gotten a ‘butt photo’ from me when I sat on my phone and accidentally texted the image. I’m not the most tech savvy.” I was feeling awkward with the focus on me for just not doing something. Bear had actually stopped Damien.
Now, though, the real hero had dozed off on his wife’s shoulder. Bear looked peaceful. I knew that many people – me included – find sleep a natural response to a really stressful situation. If Bear himself were speaking, he’d probably tell us about the fall after an adrenal response – at least that’s what he’d said when I’d conked out after I’d been in danger a few months back. His body was giving him space, time to process what had happened.
Henri put her hand on Bear’s cheek and smiled at me. “Something tells me you may know exactly why Damien did this. Am I right?”
I sighed. “I think I know. Maybe.” I told them everything Damien had said about his father, about the way Bixley had killed him just before his dad got to meet Damien’s niece. The room grew very quiet and very heavy.
“How long ago was that?” Woody asked.
“That I’m not sure of,” I said. “I didn’t ask a lot of questions when Damien was telling me the story because I didn’t realize, at the time, it was a clue, you know?”
Woody nodded. “I was just reading The Beautiful Mystery, and Gamache and Beauvoir talk about how an event often sets off a murder.”
“Clearly, I need to read that book,” Daniel said. “Seems like we have enough murder here that it might be worth it to know more.”
I squeezed his hand. “Well, that’s a novel, but I do think Louise Penny makes a compelling psychology of murder in her books.”
“If that’s the case, then something set Damien off last week,” Cate said as she stretched. “I wonder what it was.”
Just then, the front door opened, and Tuck came in. He looked haggard, not that I’d tell him that. That word is never taken as a compliment. Mart hopped up and got him a mug of tea as Elle slid onto the floor to allow Tuck to sit next to his wife. “You’re done for the night?” Lu asked.
Tuck nodded. “He confessed, obviously. Not much choice there.”
“It was about his dad’s murder,” Symeon said.
“It was.” Tuck sighed, “And finally, I don’t have to say ‘alleged’ murder. Damien had actually found proof that Bixley was killing people.”
Everyone in the room sat up a little straighter as Dad said, “He did?!”
“Yep, apparently, Danita had videotaped Bixley committing the murder of Petra’s father.”
I gasped. “What?! Why didn’t she turn over the video?”
/> “That’s a good question. My only guess,” Tuck ran his hands down his face, “is that she was scared. She told Damien though.”
Stephen groaned. “And when she wouldn’t give you the tape, Damien killed her.”
“Yes.”
I leaned my head back against the chair and let the heaviness of all that sink into me. One man killing two people because another man killed many. I wondered if Damien would ever realize the irony of his actions. I doubted it. It seemed to me if you were sick enough to revel in celebrity caused by a murder you committed because your own father was murdered, self-awareness probably wasn’t a high priority.
Tiffany suddenly leaned forward. “Did you tell Cynthia and Javier?” Her voice was tight but hopeful.
“First two phone calls I made,” the sheriff said. “I’ll give them the whole story tomorrow.” Then he stood and helped Lu to her feet. “Now, though, I’m going home to sleep.” He looked over at Bear. “Unlike our friend here, I would not be able to walk if I slept like that.”
“Oh, he will need an adjustment first thing in the morning,” Henri said as she gave Bear a nudge and watched him stir. “I’ll fill you in tomorrow, Mister. Let’s get you home.”
Bear stretched and sighed. “Sorry, everyone. Adrenal—”
“We know,” several of us said at the same time.
“Go home and get some rest – all of you.” I looked around the room at my friends. “I’ll see you around town tomorrow.”
I scooted toward the door and distributed hats and scarves as each person headed out. Soon, only Tuck and Lu hung back, and when I looked at the sheriff, I knew he’d done so on purpose.
“What is it, Tuck?”
“I just wanted to say thank you, Harvey. Your quick thinking with that camera saved me.” The sheriff leaned over and gave me a firm hug.
I smiled. “Do me a favor in return and satisfy my curiosity.”
Tuck rolled his eyes but didn’t walk out.
“Bixley was obviously drunk when he came to the store that night. But why did he come? I mean when you’re tipsy, a bookstore isn’t most people’s first choice. “
“Ah, yes, Damien did clear that up. He’d invited Bixley on the pretext that he wanted to thank the ‘hero-nurse’ for his good care of his father. Told him he had a special gift for him that could only be delivered when he was in costume.” The sheriff shook his head.
“And Bixley fell for that? Why would it matter that Damien was playing Santa?” Daniel looked as puzzled as I felt.
“I asked the same thing,” Tuck said as he slid a knit cap over his shaved head. “Apparently, Damien promised Bixley that he’d arranged a press conference where Santa would be thanking medical workers for their fine service.”
“Ah, so Bixley’s hero complex was revved up. He was celebrating, hence the drinks,” I said.
“What an egotistical jack—” Lu spat.
“Precisely, but Damien knew just what buttons to push. The man is no idiot.”
I sighed. Clearly not, but he was sick – sick enough to kill two people.
I closed the door on our friends and turned back to face Mart and Daniel. “I’m not sure I can sleep yet. Feel like watching something?”
“As long as it’s not Murder, She Wrote,” Mart said.
“Agreed,” I said as I slid back into my chair. “Agreed.”
20
The next couple of weeks whizzed by. The store was busier than ever – fed by good word of mouth, a dedicated Instagram effort by our favorite fan, Galen, and the remnants of scandal from Bixley’s death and Damien’s arrest. Apparently, he’d met someone through his social media posts, and she was continuing in his stead with posts about his heroism and bravery. Neither Damien nor his devotee ever denied that he’d murdered Bixley and Danita. In fact, they bragged about it so openly that Damien said there was talk about him not having to stand trial, a rumor Tuck quashed quickly by pointing out that the law requires due process and a fair trial to every citizen, even stupid ones. The trial wouldn’t happen until the new year, but none of us had any doubt that Damien would be held accountable for his crimes.
I tried to put the whole mess behind me as best I could, and given the swift sales and the follow-up to Green’s event – through which we raised over forty thousand for our local hospice – I was busy enough not to lose myself in the gossip. Mom had decided she was going to make goal of doing a major charity function every two months, and she wanted the store to participate by selling books related to each organization’s work. We were still making our schedule, but I was enjoying the thought of dedicating part of the store’s earnings and my time to this new mission of mom’s.
Plus, it was the holidays, and between the Hallmark movies that Mart and I were binging on and the escapades that they were inspiring for her, Symeon, Daniel, and me – let’s just say ice skating with a scooter is not wise – I was staying busy in my off hours, too. It was a good few weeks, but of course, something always happens.
On Christmas Eve morning, we opened the store as usual, and soon after, Max Davis strolled in with a wheelchair. I looked behind him to see if maybe an aging parent was making his way on a walker and would switch to the chair once in the store, but it appeared Max was alone. Alone and coming right for me. I sighed. I could not imagine what this was about, but I knew I wasn’t going to like it.
“Happy Holidays, Max,” I said with as much gusto as I could.
“Merry Christmas,” he said pointedly as if lobbing back my kind greeting with the weapon of a holiday phrase. “I brought you a gift.” He thrust the wheelchair in my direction.
I stared. “You brought me a wheelchair?” I looked over at my scooter and back at the wheelchair. “Why?”
“You aren’t exactly graceful on that, er, thing,” he said. “In this, you can be cared for until you heal.”
I felt my blood pressure rise and gritted my teeth. “I don’t want to be ‘cared for’ that way, Max. I do just fine with my scooter.” I should have stopped talking then, but I couldn’t help myself. “Who, exactly, do you think is going to push me around in this thing anyway? Or will I be wheeling myself around?” I thought of my friends in wheelchairs who were masterful at moving through tight spaces and around corners. If Max thought I wasn’t graceful on my scooter, he hadn’t seen anything yet.
“Are you ashamed of needing help?” Max’s eyebrows were almost up at his hairline. “I didn’t take you as someone who is too prideful to accept assistance, Harvey.”
I clenched my fists and took a deep breath. “There is no shame in being in a wheelchair if it is truly helpful or necessary, Max. If I needed one – which I don’t – I would use it. But I will not make more of my injury than it is, even if that means I look ungraceful.” I grabbed my scooter and pushed past him to the front door. “Now, I would like you to go.”
Max huffed and began wheeling the chair to the door.
“No, leave the chair,” I said firmly.
“But, you just said--”
“I don’t need it, but hospice always needs more chairs for their clients.”
Max turned a shade of red that fit the season and walked past me, mumbling something about people being ungrateful under his breath.
“Oh, I’m grateful, Max. I’ll even give the chair in your honor. Thank you,” I said with false joviality just as the door closed behind him.
That man.
* * *
Fortunately, the man I had actually chosen, the one who didn’t belittle me or tell me I didn’t know what I needed, had a much better gift. On Christmas morning, I opened a small box to find a folded sheet of paper. When I opened it, there was a picture of a Neapolitan Mastiff puppy. “Coming home in three weeks” the note said.
I looked from the wrinkled, charcoal gray face to Daniel and back again. “What is this?”
He took the paper from me and said, “That, Harvey, is a puppy. His name is Steamroller. Merry Christmas.”
“You got me a dog f
or Christmas?” I asked as the gift sank in. “A one-hundred-twenty-five-pound dog?
“Well, he’ll only weigh about five pounds when we pick him and Dozer up.”
“Dozer?” I was lost with all the equipment names.
“His brother, my new dog.” Daniel’s grin was huge. He was over the moon about these two new pups.
I looked over at Mayhem and Taco snoozing by the fire by the Christmas tree and then glanced at Mart’s gifts stacked nearby for her to open when she returned from visiting her family. “You do realize that this means we’ll have four dogs between us, don’t you?”
Just then, Aslan mewled from her spot beside me. I scratched her jaw and said, “I know, girl. But we’ll teach them who is queen.”
“Yes, we will,” Daniel said as he kissed my cheek. “I just figured we’d get a house with a big yard and the largest doggy door out there.”
“A house, huh?” I smiled. My life was good, so good. I just hoped the internet could give me tips on how to remove drool stains.
Scripted To Slay
A Free Preview of Book 6 in the St. Marin’s Cozy Mystery Series
I sat in my reading chair and looked out the window. The snow had started overnight, and the forecast was for it to continue well into the morning. I was so excited. We almost never got snow out here on Maryland's Eastern Shore, and I loved snow, especially if it snowed me in, which was the case today. All of St. Marin's was basically shut down because, well, because we didn't have a snowplow. The town had never invested in one, and I had to say that seemed wise to me. Now, all of us could just stay in and read with hot cocoa and extra marshmallows.
Many of my neighbors were not of my perspective, though, my mother included. She had texted no fewer than nine times to lament how awful it was that she couldn't get out. After the ninth message, I had replied, "Urgent meeting today? Medications to fill? Friend without food?" Her extended silence followed by the acidic "Hardy har har" in reply told me that she'd gotten my point. My mother was retired, and while she stayed busy with charity events - a volunteer gig that she was incredibly good at - she had no need to go out. She and Dad had enough food to keep the town fed in light of the apocalypse, and they'd put in a whole house generator when they'd bought their condo. So even if the power went out, they'd be warm and toasty.