Death of a Domestic Diva (27 page)

And Guy . . . I wondered how he, and the others, were doing at Stillwater. Of course I knew Don Richmond had done his best to keep the reporters off the grounds, but Guy would have noticed all those new people outside the gates. And he'd have noticed the gates being locked. At the very least, I realized with a pang, this change would be unsettling to Guy.

Somehow, even with Tyra's revelation that she'd have come to Paradise even without my letter, I felt responsible for what was happening at Stillwater. To make it up to at least Guy, I decided that as soon as things got back to semi-normal, I'd make a picnic lunch and bring him here. For some reason, Guy always loved to come here with me, sit up on this hill, stare down at the old building. I didn't think he understood I'd lived here for a bit, but maybe at some level he did.

Or maybe there was some other reason—maybe something as simple as the shape of the building, or the view of looking down at a building, that appealed to him. Whatever the reason, the two places he did best on visits away from Stillwater were here, overlooking the old orphanage, and at ball games, where he counted all the pitches, tallying them on a little notepad.

So I sat there awhile and thought about Guy, and felt all tender and protective and mushy about him, the way I might about a little brother, although Guy, of course, was my much older cousin. Funny how, bloodline-wise, he was the same relationship to me as Billy, but how, heartwise, our relationship was a lot different. Guy was, in a lot of ways, like the brother I'd always wanted. Billy was like the nutty older uncle you never want, but are stuck with, and like anyway.

But Billy—ever since those T-shirts arrived in town and he hooked up with Aguila and Ramon—had been changing. He was almost respectable. Admirable. Good changes. I just wasn't sure how to come to grips with the new Billy.

And that brought my thoughts full circle.

I glanced at my watch. It was 9:30 already. I needed to get a move on if I was to meet Winnie on time. What in the world did she have to reveal to me that she had to treat it so top-secret, hush-hush? I walked slowly down the hill, back to my car parked by the berry bushes, more reluctant than curious to find out. It had been nice, sitting all quiet and peaceful. But I had a feeling that—with whatever Winnie had to tell me—my quiet moments alone had just been the calm in the eye of the storm.

15

Ten minutes later, as I drove to my appointment with Winnie, I heard this thucka-thucka-thucka sound. It sounded just like a tire going flat.

But, no, I told myself, it was probably just moisture from last night's storm in my carburetor, making that funny sound, making my car suddenly drive all jerky.

Denial is a powerful mental force, causing us to do all kinds of things, like keep driving at 35 miles per hour. On just a rim.

But the odor of burning rubber broke through even my fervent denial. So I eased my car off to the edge of the road, turned off my car, then got out to have a look.

My right front tire was shredded. It'd been losing air for a month now, and I kept taking it to Elroy's station and adding air, meaning to get a new tire, but time and money were tight.

I ran around to the back of my Chevy, popped open the hatchback, pulled up the cover to the well that holds the spare tire. I had a spare and a wrench, but no functioning jack.

I got my purse and keys, shut up the car, and started trotting down the road. I figured I was about a mile from where I was supposed to meet Winnie. I hoped—I prayed—she'd wait for me.

By the time Winnie's bookmobile came into view, I was panting for breath. The door to the bookmobile was open—which surprised me. I went up the steps—and stopped at what I saw.

No Winnie. Keys still in the ignition. Winnie's “So Many Books, So Little Time” go cup (which I'd gotten her last Christmas) sat in the cup holder, by the dash, still holding coffee. Several books were knocked to the floor, and the magazine rack had been pulled out of the wall, so magazines were scattered around too.

I swallowed, hard. I was worried about Winnie. She'd never leave her bookmobile—not unless she was forced to.

I heard a car pulling up outside. Banging doors. Then voices—at first too distant to hear, then clear.

“. . . Hurry up, will you? What if someone sees us?”

“In this godforsaken place?”

My stomach lurched. I knew those voices. They belonged to Steve and Linda Crooks. And they didn't sound so friendly anymore.

I looked around desperately. There aren't too many hiding spots in a bookmobile, but Winnie had a little desk and chair—both bolted down—in the back corner. I trotted back there, crouched behind the desk, and forced my breathing to slow.

There was the sound of the Crookses' struggling into the bookmobile, dragging something that was thumping up the steps.

“Where should we put her?” That was Steve.

“How about we just dump her on the floor. Why'd you have to use so much ether on her, anyway?”

“Because she was hollering and struggling too much. What if someone drove by, noticed, called the cops?”

“In this godforsaken place?”

“You said that already—and didn't we pass a car a mile back?”

Linda gave a snorting laugh. “That broken down old heap? It's probably been there for years.”

That was my car she was talking about. I almost came out from under the desk to defend my Chevy's virtue. But I made myself stay put.

“Here, let's prop her in the passenger seat,” Steve said.

There was the sound of them struggling with Winnie—then a thwacking sound that made me wince, just hearing it. I hoped it wasn't Winnie's head. Winnie's prone to headaches.

“God, this woman weighs a ton.” Linda was panting.

Now that was downright unfair. Winnie had been struggling for 20 years to lose about that many pounds—hardly a ton, and a struggle I could surely relate to.

“There,” Steve said. “The information we got out of her was hardly worth the trouble.”

Linda gave another laugh. “Yeah, but at least we got out of her where we have to go next to—”

I didn't hear the rest of what she had to say. They'd left the bookmobile.

I started breathing again. Well, I'd been breathing all along, but barely. Then I got up on my knees, peeked over the top of the desk. The top of Winnie's head was just visible above the passenger seat. I crawled from behind the desk, down the aisle, up to Winnie. She was breathing, raggedly, but breathing.

Then I peeked out the windshield. Steve and Linda had just gotten into their car—a little red sports coupe—started it up, and were pulling out onto the road.

I swallowed hard.

Here I was again, in another fix. I couldn't let them go. I wanted to know who Steve and Linda Crooks really were—what they were really up to—where they were going that Winnie had told them about. Billy had said they were FBI agents. I wasn't sure if I believed that. But they sure weren't writers out to do a biography of Tyra Grimes.

Still, the notion of driving something big enough to need miniblinds in the side windows made my stomach turn inside out.

I gave Winnie a little shake. She moaned. She wasn't going to wake up any time soon.

I looked back out the windshield. Steve and Linda Crooks were driving down the road.

So I did the only thing I could think of to do.

I quickly pulled the seat belt over Winnie.

Then I sat down in the driver's seat. Turned the ignition key. And pulled out after the Crookses' car.

I grinned.

It was, after all, my first car chase—even even if it was with a bookmobile.

The bookmobile was easier to navigate than I thought it would be, although it did make my stomach careen a little, every time the rear of the bus fishtailed.

Steve and Linda quickly figured out that they were being followed. It's hard not to notice a bookmobile on your tail. I stayed right on them, right up until they sped up past 60 miles per hour.

Then I heard sirens. I glanced—very quickly—in the bookmobile's side view mirror. A police car was following me. Somehow I just knew it was Chief Worthy. I didn't want to think about the fine for hijacking a bookmobile, even with cause.

So I did my best to ignore him while I kept up in Winnie's bookmobile with Steve and Linda in their sporty red coupe.

Suddenly, then, Steve and Linda slowed enough to turn off on another country road—and then they floored it. I slowed the bookmobile, made the turn with the rear of the vehicle swaying wildly, and by the time I got more or less back in my lane, they were out of sight.

I kept driving, my heart sinking. Now what? I glanced around the countryside, as if the trees flashing by held an answer.

And—truth be told—they did. Because I realized exactly what route we were taking. I'd driven it a hundred times before, only in my little car. What with the up-high view from the bookmobile—and with everything else that was distracting me, like Winnie out of it in the seat next to me and the siren blaring behind me—I'd taken awhile to recognize it. We were driving the route I always took to Owen's house.

Pretty soon, Steve and Linda Crooks were out of sight.

So I slowed down—which was a relief—figuring I'd go on to Owen's house and see if my hunch was right. Besides, I didn't trust myself to pull the bookmobile over to the side of the road without getting stuck in the ditch. Or pulling in with too much tilt, and rolling the whole thing over.

Chief Worthy wasn't giving up on me. He stayed right on my tail, all the way to Owen's house, his siren blaring.

At Owen's, parked in front of the fourth garage over from the house, was the car Steve and Linda had been driving, parked right next to Paige's SUV. They weren't in the car any longer.

I stopped the bookmobile and turned off its engine, leaving the keys in the ignition. I checked on Winnie. She was snoring. I stood up and almost crumpled to my knees, my legs felt so weak. Now that my bookmobile heist, tailing, and car chase were all over, I was shaking. But I pulled my hat firmly down on my head, straightened my shoulders, opened the bookmobile door, and walked down the steps and out the door, as tall and proud as my five-feet-three and three/eighths inches—and tufts of orange Bozo hair sticking out from under my hat—would allow.

Chief John Worthy was right by me, angrier than I'd ever seen him. He was breathing hard in an effort to keep his voice under control—but his voice shook anyway.

“Josie Toadfern, that beats all you've ever done in the past! Why, I'm going to arrest you for hijacking a bookmobile, operating a commercial vehicle without a license, fleeing while in pursuit—”

I pulled my arm from his grasp, kept going toward Owen's house. “Then you'd better add resisting arrest,” I said. “Because I'm not going anywhere with you until I know what's going on here—and why it's going on at my boyfriend's house.”

I was all set to stalk off dramatically to Owen's front door—but suddenly Steve Crooks came around the corner, waving a gun at both of us.

Chief Worthy started for his holster—all set for a shootout, I guess—but then Steve waved something else at us. A shiny badge. Even Chief Worthy looked stunned.

“FBI,” said Steve. “You'd both better come with me.”

Chief Worthy and I followed Steve around to the side of the garage, then through a door into the garage.

The normally empty garage held several boxes. I recognized the boxes—they held the hot Tyra Grimes T-shirts.

Billy leaned against one of the stacks of boxes, his arms crossed, a bemused expression on his face. Owen stood in the middle of the garage, looking so tense I thought he might shatter into a thousand little Owen-bits any second. Paige sat in a lawn chair, legs crossed at the ankles, hands in her lap, as if she might be served tea any moment. She gave me a little nod. Billy moved to her, put a protective hand on her shoulder. Which made Linda—who stood facing the Billy, Owen, and Paige lineup with a gun—frown.

Owen started hopping from one foot to another, as if he were doing a little kid's I-gotta-pee-now dance. “I'm sorry, Josie, I wanted to call you, but after Billy got me to agree to hide the T-shirts here, after he told me everything, I just knew if I talked to you, I'd end up telling you what was going on, and Billy didn't want me to—”

“Just what in the blazes is going on here? I'm a sworn officer of the law—”

“Shut up, Worthy,” said Steve Crooks.

Linda looked at Chief Worthy and gave him a little smile. “Pardon my partner's crankiness. We're FBI agents—we can't tell you our real names—”

“Or you'd have to shoot us?” That was Billy, smirking.

“Precisely,” said Linda. “And these boxes contain important evidence in a federal investigation against Tyra Grimes. They're stolen property. We've tracked them here to get them back—and to find the people who took them, who are also important witnesses. We were about to confiscate them from an abandoned building, but they disappeared. So we posed as writers to try to discover where the boxes could be—and also to learn as much as possible about why Tyra Grimes was here. We figured she must be up to something to counter the case we have against her.”

“Well, just hold on a minute, what does Winnie have to do with this—and why is Paige here—and—and—” I was so confused, I was hollering.

“Actually,” Steve said, “Winnie tracked us down at the Red Horse yesterday, thinking we were writers. She said she wanted to meet with us because she had some really shocking information about Tyra's background, and she wanted to see if we wanted to use it in our book.”

That sounded like Winnie. She wouldn't be able to resist helping with a book.

Linda went on, “But, she told us she couldn't reveal the information until she talked with you in private. We followed her this morning. Whatever she knew, we wanted to find out before you—God only knows what you'd do with it. We confronted her, took her off for a little—ah—drive—but she can be very—ah—stubborn. We finally did get the information from her, though.”