In Plain Sight (30 page)
“You got enemies in the Mafia or something?” Hanson muttered. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and swiped it across his face.
No, no Mafia. But I had enemies.
The murderous Braxtons, who’d sworn to make roadkill out of me. Someone in that multitalented clan undoubtedly knew all about dynamite and car bombs, and dynamite would be readily available through Drake Braxton’s land development and construction business. I’d thought they didn’t know where I was, that I was safely in hiding, but I could very well be wrong. Maybe, for them, I was right out in plain sight.
Or it could be probable murderer Brad Ridenour. The man who’d wanted to “talk” to me about something. A man who’d worked for a mechanic in his youth and probably knew enough to figure out how and where to plant dynamite. I couldn’t think where he’d obtain dynamite on short notice, but he definitely knew where I lived and what car I drove.
And, for all I knew, maybe some of the other suspects in Leslie Marcone’s murder were after me. I was almost certain Leslie’s ex knew who I was, although he’d pretended not to. Maybe he figured he’d better get rid of me before I came up with something to prove to the police he was involved.
When you’ve raised the ire of more than one set of bad guys, it’s hard to know for sure who’s after you in any given situation.
“You want to call 911 or shall I do it?” Hanson asked.
He had a cell phone clipped to his belt, and I was feeling so shaky I wasn’t certain I could dial numbers if I got to the phone in the house. In theory, I knew the Braxtons were after me. In theory, I knew Brad Ridenour needed to get me out of the way before I blabbed. But this was no longer theory. This was three-dimensional dynamite reality: someone had honest-to-goodness tried to blow me and the Thunderbird to smithereens. “You can call.”
He made the call. His voice sounded like rusty springs, and he had to clear his throat several times, but he did a credible job of explaining the situation and giving the address. Then we just stood there looking at the two vehicles facing each other with hoods raised, like metal combatants ready to take a bite out of each other.
I wasn’t certain the dynamite mounted on the old ’bird wouldn’t spontaneously explode, and apparently neither was Hanson. He obviously did not intend to go back and move his pickup out of the danger zone. So we just stood there silently watching and waiting. I could see nervous sweat standing out on Hanson’s face. I could feel it running down my own ribs. I figured together we were making enough moisture to affect the humidity level on a weather report.
Finally, after what seemed like hours but was surely no more than a few minutes, we heard sirens. Hanson was still so pale that I tried to lighten things up.
“Still interested in trading your motor home for the old ’bird?”
He looked at me as if I’d told an off-color joke at a funeral, and I hastily switched to apology.
“I’m really sorry I got you involved in this. I had no idea it was anything but a minor repair problem.”
“A car bomb isn’t the kind of thing you think will happen in Woodston. You have any idea who’d do this?” He sounded both scared and bewildered, as if he still found the situation inconceivable. “It doesn’t look like a practical joke or juvenile stunt.”
“I … uh … might have some ideas.”
Another odd look.
What sort of person,
it asked,
knows people
who plant car bombs?
We’d been huddled together, but now he inched away from me as if he thought I might be wired for demolition too.
Two cars from the county sheriff’s department screamed down the driveway a minute later. Spotting our two vehicles, one officer braked so hard that the car behind almost rammed into him. Four officers jumped out. I didn’t recognize any of them.
“Okay, everybody stay back,” an officer yelled.
A superfluous order at the moment, since Hanson and I were the only two people present and we were already hiding behind the big black walnut tree. Within a few minutes, however, the situation changed. People showed up, seemingly materializing out of nowhere, just as they had over at Leslie’s place. They gawked at the yellow plastic tape an officer started stringing in a wide circle around the area and looked speculatively at the vehicles with gaping hoods, everyone asking everyone else what was going on. A fire truck arrived, then an ambulance, both with flashing lights and wailing sirens. A bomb threat obviously gets top priority from all emergency services.
None of the officers approached the two vehicles. The ones who weren’t stringing up the warning tape appeared to be searching for something in the trees and bushes and yard. The booby-trapped Thunderbird and the innocent pickup were as splendidly isolated as two slabs of roast beef at a vegetarian party.
While the officers were securing the area, I picked a middle-aged officer and gave him my name.
“The Thunderbird is mine, and this is where I live,” I explained with a gesture toward the house. “When I came out this morning, the car wouldn’t start, so Mr. Watkins here came over to give it a jump start with his pickup. But he couldn’t find his jumper cables, and then we discovered the dynamite attached to the underside of my car.”
The officer looked at me doubtfully, as if suddenly suspecting they may have stormed in with a gangbusters reaction to what might be the wild imagination of a little old lady who watched too many crime shows on TV. “You’re sure it’s dynamite, not just something like, say, a loose muffler hanging down? Or a piece of paper sack or something caught underneath the car?”
Hanson stepped up. “It’s dynamite, all right. At least four sticks. I’ve worked in construction, and I can tell dynamite when I see it. And I was down there practically looking it in the eye. I’d guess it’s wired to go off when the engine starts, but lucky for us the engine wouldn’t start.”
The officer’s patronizing attitude changed as he turned his attention to Hanson. The questions he asked now were no longer doubting. Where, exactly, was the dynamite fastened to the car? Had Hanson seen any wires attached to it? I was relieved yet annoyed. I wasn’t totally invisible to the officer, but I may as well have been. Once, he asked Hanson, “When was the car driven last?” as if I were incapable of answering for myself.
“I drove it last night. I got home about 10:30,” I snapped. “Are you going to do anything or just leave the vehicles sitting there until they explode on their own?”
It was a more tart question than I’d have asked if the deputy’s attitude hadn’t suggested that my gray hair and wrinkles meant my mental capacity was a few points short of a turnip.
“We’re waiting for a bomb squad from the state police,” Deputy Simpson, as he’d identified himself to Hanson, said.
“What were the officers looking for out in the bushes?”
“Sometimes terrorists set up secondary devices intended to take out anyone investigating the scene.”
Would the Braxtons or Brad Ridenour or Shane Wagner do that? I doubted it. They just wanted to make hash out of me. But I didn’t know that for certain, of course.
“What happens when the bomb squad gets here?” Hanson asked.
“Depends,” Deputy Simpson said. “Last year we had a pipe bomb incident, and they set it off right there in the vacant lot where it was found. They have a special device for—”
“You mean they might blow up the dynamite right where it is, while it’s still attached to my car?” I gasped.
“I don’t think so, especially considering that the house is fairly close. But they can’t risk lives just to save an old car. So if they decide they can’t disable it safely, they might have to detonate it in place.”
I had the impression he’d be thrilled to see the old Thunderbird blow. I was beginning to long for Sgt. Yates and his inscrutable eyebrow.
“Ivy says she may have some ideas about who planted the dynamite,” Hanson offered.
“Oh?” Officer Simpson looked me over as if suspecting I’d come up with names of ladies from my knitting society with whom I’d squabbled about the luncheon menu.
“She’s the person who found the body of that woman who was murdered not long ago,” Hanson added. He nodded toward Tara of the Ozarks. “The woman in the lake.”
“Is that so?” Deputy Simpson regarded me with greater interest. Apparently being the Lady Who Found the Body gives one a certain credibility even if one is possum-gray and semi-invisible. Perhaps I should add this qualification to my resume.
He flipped his notebook to a fresh page. “And these persons might be … ?”
“Will Sgt. Yates be back soon?” I asked.
“Should be back by this afternoon or tomorrow. He had a bad tooth and went into Fayetteville to have it extracted.”
I was reminded that police officers aren’t always dealing with life-or-death crises; sometimes they just have bad teeth like the rest of us. Two more sheriff’s department cars arrived.
“I’ll wait and talk to him then.”
Deputy Simpson, who a few minutes ago had acted as if my speaking capabilities rivaled that of a stump, now frowned with obvious annoyance that I
wasn’t
talking. “We’d prefer to have the information now—”
“I’ll wait.”
Reason one was that I trusted Sgt. Yates more than I did this man who couldn’t even ask me directly when I last drove the car. Second reason was a fresh jolt of awareness about what this news about Brad’s relationship with Leslie was going to do to Tammi and Skye. For all Tammi’s bubbly, exclamation-point personality, she really loved the guy, as did Skye. Was it fair that they get hit like a bomb exploding in their faces when the police came to question or even arrest Brad for murder and/or car bombing?
It was, of course, going to be a devastating personal bomb for them whenever it went off, but maybe it would help if Tammi had some warning ahead of time about Brad’s involvement with Leslie. I wouldn’t mention my suspicions that he could be involved in the murder as well, of course. Or that he may have planted dynamite under my car. That was police business. But if I could just do something to prepare Tammi for the devastating revelation about Leslie …
Perhaps, if I talked to her, Tammi could even persuade Brad to go to the police about the relationship. Then, if he wasn’t guilty of murder, just infidelity (and I cringed when I found myself putting that
just
in front of infidelity, because infidelity is definitely not a
just
), maybe it wouldn’t have to become public knowledge and the family relationships could somehow be salvaged.
“Did you see anyone around the car between when you last drove it and this morning?” Deputy Simpson asked, finally directing a question to me.
“No, but I’ll discuss it all with Sgt. Yates. He’s already familiar with … the situation.” Part of it, anyway.
Deputy Hanson looked as if he’d like to set off a small explosive device under me, but I just stared back at him and held my ground.
Two more vehicles arrived. The parking area was large, but space was getting crowded. A couple of deputies moved the sheriff’s department cars out of the way to make room for the new arrivals. One of these was a car, the other a pickup pulling a trailer with what appeared to be a huge ball on it. Both car and pickup bore state police logos. The big ball baffled me.
“Bomb squad,” Deputy Simpson said. He went over to join the growing number of official types gathering near the new vehicles.
After a brief discussion, two men from the bomb squad returned with him to where Hanson and I were standing. They questioned both of us further, going into considerable detail with Hanson about the dynamite.
My big question was, of course, were they going to make mincemeat out of my old ’bird. Finally I asked.
“Right now, from what you and Mr. Watkins have told us, it sounds like a relatively unsophisticated explosive device. We have X-ray equipment we use in some instances, but that probably won’t be necessary here since the dynamite is readily identifiable. We’ll send someone in to take a look, and if we can safely disable the bomb where it is, we’ll do it.”
I felt marginally more hopeful. He sounded like a reasonable man. Definitely competent. But he hadn’t, of course, assured me they wouldn’t blow up car and all. I wondered how my insurance company would feel about a claim for a car detonated by a bomb squad. I suspect something such as this tends to raise one’s premium rates considerably.
Two guys from the bomb squad suited up in padded gear that looked suitable for space exploration. I hadn’t encountered this in my mystery novel reading. When ready, another officer lifted the yellow tape protecting the area, and the two men lumbered toward the cars.
“Suits must be heavy?” Hanson suggested.
“Something like 110 pounds.” Deputy Simpson spoke importantly, as if pleased to be able to show off his knowledge on this subject. “The men can spend only about 20 minutes inside a suit because of the weight and because it’s made of a special, nonbreathable type material that sometimes causes blood pressure to go sky high.”
I wasn’t even in a bomb suit, and I suspected my blood pressure was careening around up there in the stratosphere.
“Can these suits really protect them if the dynamite actually blows while they’re up close to it?” I asked.
“I’ve never actually seen the suits in use when a bomb went off,” Deputy Simpson admitted. “I’m sure they offer considerable protection, but still …” His voice trailed off as if he also had some doubts.
And scared as I was for me and the old Thunderbird in all this, I was suddenly much more scared for these two men. I didn’t want to have to find out whether or not the suits worked under full explosive attack.
Protect them, Lord, as you protected me!
The two men carried out their inspection slowly and deliberately. In spite of the bulky suits, they both got down on the ground. Their bodies blocked the view of what was going on under the car. Everyone outside the yellow tape was silent and motionless, as if any sound or movement might set off the dynamite. I found I was holding my breath.
Several minutes went by. No actual clock was ticking, but I could feel one ticking inside me. Or maybe it was my heartbeat. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
