Dove in the Window (32 page)

“Thanks,” I said, picking up my hem and tiptoeing painfully across the carpet. “But if I drink anything, I’ll have to pee, and I’m not sure how I’d do that in this dress.”

She laughed. “If you absolutely have to, there’s a handicapped bathroom across the parking lot in building five. It’s quite a walk though. It’s supposed to be open just for folks like you.”

“Handicapped is exactly how I feel. How long until I go on?”

She checked her pink plastic watch. “You’re the last model, so I’d say about two hours.”

“I’ll definitely keep it in mind, then.”

Over in the green room, I found Greer dressed in her 1930s lacy tea dress and Parker wearing a gray business-woman’s suit from the forties. Both were sipping paper cups of orange juice. They burst into laughter when they saw me.

“Turn blue,” I grumbled and looked over the spread the Historical Society had provided. My mouth suddenly felt dry and my head a little light from not eating. Against my better judgement, I poured myself a glass of orange juice so I wouldn’t pass out in front of three hundred twenty-seven-odd people.

“Did you see Olivia?” Parker said with a giggle. I was glad to see that her spirits were a little lighter tonight.

“She couldn’t look any worse than me,” I said.

“A black Spanish mourning dress,” Greer said, grinning. “Circa eighteen sixty.”

“My sympathies,” I moaned.

As I suspected, about a half hour later, the orange juice I’d drank had worked its way down, and I knew I was going to have to make that trip to the ladies room. I left the group in the green room, which had grown to about fifty people in the last half hour, and started across the parking lot. It was crowded now with people arriving for the fashion show, so I didn’t feel nervous about going to the bathroom by myself, though the memory of the package I’d found on my doorstep was still fresh in my mind. Was it a veiled threat? Maybe. Then again, maybe it was just a neighborhood kid’s practical joke for the police chief. Where Gabe and I lived was certainly no secret in this town, and our house had been egged before.

Building five was open, as my makeup person promised, and it took a little hunting before I finally found the handicapped bathroom. It was apparently once a closet or something that they’d converted because it had double doors that provided a large enough entryway for wheelchairs even with the metal post in the middle. It took me almost five minutes to wrangle around my clothes so that I could use the facilities. I couldn’t help but wonder about what women did during the nineteenth-century—not drink at all? I was busy trying to put everything back in place when the lights went out.

I froze, listening. The eerie silence was almost worse than hearing any sound. If the person’s intent was to startle me, it worked. My mind raced with possibilities—was someone waiting outside for me? Should I go? Stay? Scream my head off? I groped around the bathroom, searching for something I could use as a weapon. The trash can? I felt around for it. Shoot—it was big one with a flapping lid. Too big for me to pick up and hurl at someone, especially confined in this dress.

“Dang it all,” I said softly. There was nothing in this bathroom I could use to protect myself. Remembering the self-defense class I’d taken one time, the element of surprise was all I had going for me. That and a real big voice.

I reached for the door with the plan to scream as loud as I could and hopefully surprise whoever was silently waiting for me on the other side.

It opened before I touched the handle, and a hand in a dark glove appeared. It pointed something at me.

I screamed and ducked.

But not quick enough.

What felt like thousand bees stung my eyes, and I screamed again. I stumbled backwards, clawing at my eyes.

Water, my mind commanded. Find water.

I felt my way to the sink, grasping the cold porcelain while I searched for the faucet. I scooped up handfuls and kept washing my eyes over and over, aware of my vulnerable position, but also knowing I couldn’t fight at all if I couldn’t see. Gradually the sting lessened, and I felt my way over to the door. My eyesight was still blurry from what I guessed was pepper spray, but I had to get to where there were people. I was more of a sitting duck in here. I inhaled as deeply as my corset would allow, preparing to scream and make a run for it. I pulled sharply on the door handle.

It didn’t budge.

I pulled again. Nothing.

I felt along the cool tile wall next to the door for the light switch and flipped it up.

Nothing.

I tried the door again. It was as if someone had nailed it shut.

I should have been scared. Instead I was pissed.

“Hey!” I yelled, pounding a fist on the door. “Hey, let me out!”

My voice bounced back and echoed slightly in the dark bathroom.

“Hey, somebody!” I pushed again, then kicked the door with my foot.

I kept up the pounding and yelling for ten minutes or so until I realized that unless someone was forced to use the handicapped restroom like I had, I was stuck here. The fact that the person had obviously taken off and I wasn’t going to be attacked as I walked out the door was a small comfort.

My eyes still streaming from the pepper spray, I hiked up my dress and sat down on the cold floor. Like the Victorian lady who had probably first worn this dress, I was feeling a bit faint. Luckily, I was wearing a bustle that, my makeup lady had informed me, had been designed by Lillie Langtry. When you sat down, its metal bands pivoted up so at least I didn’t have to stand in the high-top button shoes that were already killing my feet. Every few minutes I’d yell out, hoping a passerby would hear me. Someone certainly had to come looking for me after two hours, I reasoned, if nothing else but on Elvia’s command to kill me for missing my cue. Just my luck that I was the last person on the program and not the first.

There’s something about sitting in a pitch-black room against your will that makes you look at life in a whole different way. It was the kind of darkness that your eyes never got used to since the door was so well made that not even a strip of light shone out from the bottom. Not that I’d be able to see anything clearly out of my still-streaming eyes.

Well, I told myself firmly, after what I’d calculated was an hour, though I couldn’t be sure,
at least you won’t die of thirst. And you do have a place to pee. Could be worse. You could have been pushed into a closet with a full bladder.

I do try to look at life’s little problems optimistically.

Especially when I felt myself teetering on the edge of hysteria. I knew someone would come eventually. I would be missed. Eventually.

That word
eventually
was the kicker.

After I’d run out of soothing hymns from my childhood, all the Bible verses I could remember, nursery rhymes, and my extensive repertoire of Patsy Cline hits, I moved on to singing under my breath—“The bear went over the mountain to see what he could see.” After that I’d be stuck with “A hundred bottles of beer on the wall,” and by the time anyone found me, I’d be stark raving mad. Maybe now would be a good time to start talking to the Big Guy.
And, pray tell, why is that always your last resort?
I heard a voice not dissimilar to Dove’s in my head.

Then I heard voices in the hallway. I struggled to my feet, screaming from my diaphragm.

“Help! I’m in here!” I yelled before it occurred to me that it might not be friendly forces out in that hallway.

At this point, I was willing to fight my captor face-to-face rather than spend one more minute in complete darkness.

Just in case, I was standing there ready to spring when light from the hallway flooded the room and I blinked up at a blurry Clark Kent in his baggy forties suit and neat fedora and a semifull beard.

“Superman?” I stammered.

“Are you okay?” Gabe grabbed me by the shoulders. Behind him was a sea of worried faces, Elvia’s in the forefront. I hoped that was worry on her face.

“I can’t breathe,” I said. My eyes still streaming, I saw blackness at the edge of them and felt my legs start to crumple beneath me.

In a flash I was literally swept off my feet and, feeling a bit silly but incredibly relieved, I relaxed as Gabe carried me through the crowd. He swore softly under his breath in Spanish.

“Out of our way,” he said roughly and looked over at Elvia. “We need some privacy. She needs to get out of this dress.”

“The business office is just down the hall,” someone called out of the crowd.

“Oh, Rhett, please, not in front of the help,” I said as he carried me down the hallway.

“Is there any situation where you don’t feel compelled to make a smartass remark?” he snapped.

Inside the slightly shabby office, Elvia clucked under her breath as she undid the buttons in back.

Gabe stuck his head out of the office door and yelled. “Somebody get her clothes.”

“I know you didn’t want to do this, but you didn’t have to go to such drastic measures,” Elvia murmured, helping me out of my bustle, corset and other nineteenth-century undergarments. A knock on the door and a discreet hand produced my jeans, flannel shirt, socks, and boots.

“What happened?” Gabe asked, his arms crossed over his chest in that stance that raised my hackles as surely as a dog protecting its dinner.

“Someone turned out the light when I was taking a leak and then sprayed me with what I think was pepper spray. Then when I tried to leave, they somehow locked the door. How’d they do that? I’ve never seen a bathroom door that locked from the outside.”

“They slipped a metal bar between the double handles,” he said. “Did you see or hear anything else?”

“The hand wore a dark glove,” I said. “That’s all I saw before they sprayed me. I told you they shut out the light when I was peeing. And when I tried to turn it back on, it wouldn’t work.”

He unfolded his arms, his eyes flickering as his brain processed that information. “They probably shut it off at the main circuit breaker.”

Elvia gathered up my dress and shoes and gave me a small hug. For her, that was extremely affectionate, so I knew she must have really been worried when I didn’t make my cue.

“I’m sorry, Elvia,” I said. “Really, I am.”

“Not your fault. I’ll take these back to the Historical Society. You just go home and get some rest. Call me tomorrow.” She eyed Gabe but didn’t say anything. She knew we were about to get into it and she was a wise enough friend to realize it was our battle. When she reached the door, she said over her shoulder, “By the way, your debt’s not paid.”

I gave a small laugh.
“La Patróna
has spoken.”

Gabe didn’t crack a smile.

“I guess we can talk about this at home,” I said.

“Count on it.”

After assuring the people who hung around and helped search for me that I was all right, I found my purse and headed for my truck, my grim-faced bodyguard following me like a loyal Doberman pinscher.

“I’ll drive,” he said, taking my keys from me. “I’ll send a patrolman for my car.”

At home, I reluctantly showed him the tongue that I’d found on our doorstep. After looking over the package thoroughly, he wrapped the meat in a plastic bag and stuffed it in our outside trash can. While he changed out of his forties costume, I fixed his favorite Mexican hot chocolate, hoping to sweeten the discussion we were about to have. It didn’t work. As usual, he thought I was too involved and I thought he was overreacting. We were sitting at opposite sides of the kitchen table, clutching our mugs and glaring at each other when Emory walked in.

“Whoa, Nellie,” he said, looking at Gabe’s face, then mine. “I’ll slink off to bed and see you two in the morning.”

When we were alone again, Gabe said, his voice tired, “Is there any crime that happens in this town that you aren’t involved in?”

“That’s an exaggeration, and you know it. As for being involved, you grew up in a small town yourself. You know what it’s like. I can’t help knowing as many people as I do.”

“I know,” he said, looking down into his still-full mug. “It’s just that you’ve come close to really getting hurt so many times, I’m afraid you’ve used up all your luck.”

I reached over and put my hand on his. “Gabe, don’t worry. You know this is strictly college high-jinks crap. I mean, a cow’s tongue? Locking me in a bathroom? Even pepper spray is something that you can get at any sporting goods store these days. If they’d been serious they’d have hit me over the head or something when I came out of the bathroom.”

He looked up at me, his face serious. “They could have. It was a metal bar they used to jam those doors shut.”

“You said yourself Shelby’s death was probably a spur-of-the-moment thing. Kip’s, too. So I’ll just be extra careful until the killer is caught.”

“And stop asking questions?”

I traced a finger over his knuckles. They were rough and slightly chapped. Faint black lines still stained their crevices from his patient and loving work on Sam’s car a few nights ago. “I won’t lie to you. Both Isaac and I have good reasons why we are investigating, and I know neither of us will stop. I will promise to be careful and not to break any laws.”

He took my hand and squeezed it gently. “I would prefer you didn’t ride your horse in the parade on Saturday. Not just for your safety, but for others. We don’t know how far this person might go.”

I started to protest, then stopped. He was right. Putting other people at risk was irresponsible. “All right. I’ll watch it from Elvia’s office upstairs.”

I was rinsing out the cups while Gabe was showering when Emory stuck his head in the doorway. “Everything swingin‘ low and easy, sweetcakes?”

“Everything’s fine, Emory. Come on in. What’s up?”

“Been working hard all day on your behalf. There’s lots of dirt to report.”

I glanced over at the closed bathroom door. Through it I could hear the shower still running. I was glad, for once, that Gabe took long showers. “Quick, tell me what you found out. Gabe’s being really cool about this, but I don’t want to press my luck.” I leaned against the counter and folded my arms.

Emory opened a small leather notebook and frowned, trying to decipher his own cramped notes. “First, Mr. Roland Bennett. Five years ago, he was a bunny’s whisker away from being indicted in regards to an appraisal scam he and another dealer were involved with. His specialty was recent widows who needed money quickly or were just too upset over their husbands’ deaths to think rationally. Apparently he’d appraise a work low, then his friend, claiming to be new in the business and a bit naive, would sweep in and offer a few thousand over Roland’s appraised amount. The widow would, of course, jump on it, and then Roland and his friend would sell it for double or triple the amount and split the profits.”