Miz Scarlet and the Bewildered Bridegroom (13 page)

At quarter past three,
after it was thoroughly examined, photographed, and documented, the
container of quarter-sticks was deposited into the explosion-proof
barrel by the bomb squad, minus the dangerous wick, and
detonated.

“It could have been
worse,” one of the cops informed me a few minutes later. “If this
was daylight, you’d have every reporter within a thirty-mile range
camped on your door. Detective Valboa says we’re calling this
incident a prank at the moment, while Diana and David Wilkie are
investigated.”

“But you don’t think it
is one, do you?” I pressed him.

“I’m not able to say
one way or another,” he said, giving me a shake of his head. “We’ll
know more tomorrow after we’ve had time to investigate the
suspects.”

“Swell,” I muttered,
feeling frazzled. Why would the Wilkies do something like this,
especially since it could ruin us? Had someone hired them to harass
us? Or was their intent to actually cause us bodily
harm?

Detective Valboa did a
cursory check of the White Oak Room, searching for more evidence,
but he came up empty. “Can you lock this room for the time being?
We’ll be back sometime tomorrow, once we figure out how we’re going
to proceed with the case. Depending on what we develop and whether
or not we need warrants, we may be removing some
items.”

“Sure. That’s not a
problem.” I inserted the key and turned it, listening for the click
as the lock engaged. “What happens if you don’t want the Wilkies’
possessions?”

“We’ll cross that
bridge when we come to it. First we have to be able to charge them
with a crime, and for that, we need hard evidence; otherwise, they
go free.”

I went to bed with that
thought weighing on my mind. Tossing and turning for the better
part of an hour, I finally fell into a dark, disturbed state of
slumber, dreaming I was running barefoot at night, chased by a
black-masked stalker. I tried desperately to flee the dangerous
forest, as the sound of my pursuer’s footsteps on the soft earthen
path behind me grew louder. Gazing down at my feet, I saw they
bound by woven cord. It looked remarkably like the wick Dave Wilkie
used on his improvised bomb. I cried out: “Why, Dave?” He suddenly
appeared before me, grinning, even as he bent down to double-knot
the cords. Wrestling with him, I fought so hard to escape his
clutches that I woke myself up in the process. Drenched in
perspiration, I tried to calm myself. The Wilkies were in police
custody. I had nothing to fear. I was safe in my bed and the bad
guys were behind bars, even Ned Sorkin.

Sometime later -- I’m
not sure how long it was after that -- my mind unexpectedly went on
high alert. I realized I was back at the top of the stairs on the
second floor landing. Was I sleepwalking? Concealed within the
shadowy darkness, I watched another black silhouette set a second
bomb at the front door. This time, though, my hands were useless.
No matter what I did, I couldn’t operate my cell phone to call for
help. In the blackness below, I saw the flick of a lighter and the
long wick began to glow red hot. I tried to scream, but I had no
voice. I was running out of time as the burning wick began its
ascent up to the doorknob and down again, on its course towards the
dynamite.

Wake up, Scarlet.
You’re having a nightmare.

Hands trembling, I
turned on the bedside lamp. Huck was curled up at my side, sleeping
peacefully. Thank God for dogs, I thought to myself, our guardians
of hearth and home. I reached out to my canine companion, grateful
for the company and the warm, soft, furry body.

The phone rang at
twenty minutes after six. Groaning, I reached over to my bedside
table and picked it up.

“Um...yes?” I assumed
it was Laurel, calling to tell me I had overslept and it was time
to collect January for her early morning rendezvous with the fire
hydrant down the street. My mother had insisted on the little dog
staying with her after the police left. Considering I hadn’t
crawled into my bed until four, I thought I had a legitimate
excuse.

“Well, well, well.
Imagine my surprise when I got to work this morning and found a
highway incident report about flat tires, another one about a bomb
scare, and a message from a Detective Valboa about a pair of unruly
guests who tried to blow up the Four Acorns Inn last
night.”

“Larry!” I moaned,
rolling over in bed as I tried to rouse my brain back to
consciousness. I should have figured the Cheswick cops would
coordinate with the Connecticut State Police Major Crimes unit,
especially after the bomb squad was called in. “It’s been a
terrible night.”

“I’ve got more bad news
for you.”

Chapter Ten --

“What kind of bad
news?”

“David Paul Wilkie got
snatched up by a couple of ATF agents in the middle of the night.
It seems he’s wanted on charges he tried to terrorize someone’s
ex-husband out in Albuquerque.”

“I don’t understand.” I
sat up, now wide awake. “When you say
terrorize....”

“He wanted to scare the
bejesus out of the guy, so he strapped some firecrackers to the
underside of the victim’s car, made it obvious there was a
detonator attached, and hung around to watch the fun. As far as
deadly goes, it wasn’t. But whenever you attach dynamite with a
detonator to a vehicle, it’s automatically considered to be a
bomb.”

“Someone hired him to
do that?”

“Yup, the victim’s
ex-wife.”

“Were the Wilkies hired
to terrorize us too?”

“It seems likely. The
ATF agents are trying to get an extradition order from a judge, so
they can schlep Mr. Wilkie back to New Mexico. We might be able to
charge Diana Wilkie here, but we won’t know for a few hours. In the
mean time, we’re holding her.”

“Do you think Ned hired
them to get back at me? Is he still obsessed with us?” I asked her.
“Or was this about Jenny? Are those creeps in New Jersey trying to
pay her back for testifying against them?”

“Actually, Scarlet,
it’s too soon to know for sure, but if I were to venture a guess,
based on what I’ve learned so far, I’d have to say neither scenario
fits. I believe there’s something else going on here. The cops got
a court order for the Wilkies’ phone records. They called the same
local number several times, which turned out to be a cheap
disposable cell phone bought at the Walmart over in Buckland Hills.
We were able to narrow down the cell towers to a range of fifteen
miles, but we’ve got no way to identify the anonymous owner of the
phone.

“Great. We’ve got
nothing.”

“No,” the experienced
investigator replied. “We’ve got something. We know that whoever is
behind this effort is in the area and probably even lives
here.”

“So?” I was
disappointed. “Can’t you force the Wilkies to talk? Isn’t there
some way to make a deal with them and get the
information?”

“They’ve already
lawyered up, Scarlet.”

“Crap.”

“If it’s any
consolation, this crime doesn’t look personal.”

“It has to be personal,
Larry. How else do you explain the harassment?”

“I suspect the Four
Acorns Inn itself is the actual target.”

“If that’s the case, it
probably is Ned Sorkin. You know how he feels about the Four Oaks
Pressboard Company!”

“That was a long, long
time ago. My gut says someone wants you folks out of the
building.”

“What?”

“Shoot! I’m getting
buzzed again. It’s my boss. I’ve got to go deal with a dead body up
in Granby. Stay safe.”

After I hung up, I got
myself dressed and went down with Huck to collect his Jack Russell
playmate. We did a loop through the woods.

The eager dogs
scampered ahead of me, poking their noses into tree stumps and
under bushes while I contemplated the situation with the Wilkies.
What did Larry mean? How could this campaign of terror be directed
at the Four Acorns Inn, but not at us? Did we have to worry that
someone really was determined to burn down the inn?

Shark Boy was up early.
He told me he was due at his job by eight. Kenny offered to drive
him to work on his way to Danny DiPietro’s garage to check on the
tire situation. I fed them both breakfast and saw them to the door
before anyone else came down.

“Stay safe,” Kenny
instructed me, kissing my lips warmly. I noted it was the second
time someone had made the remark this morning. Did they know
something I didn’t? “And call me if there’s any
trouble.”

“I
will.”

When the rest of the
gang stumbled into the dining room just before eight, bleary-eyed
and exhausted, I was ready for them. Dr. Van Zandt’s cancer center
appointment was at quarter after nine. Laurel had promised to
accompany him to the hospital, so I whipped up French toast on the
griddle, browned some sausage links, and sliced strawberries into
small bowls.

“This looks great,”
Thaddeus told me. “I don’t know how you did it after the night we
had.”

“Well, I wanted you to
have a good meal before your annual physical.”

“I appreciate
that.”

“Scarlet, please call
your brother and find out how he’s feeling this morning,” my mother
asked me.”I’m worried about that whack he got on the
head.”

“I’m sure he’s just
fine.” One look at Laurel’s perturbed face and I knew I was going
down a dead end street. She didn’t want to make the call herself,
just in case she was met with bad news. I scrambled to save myself.
“But let me double-check on that.”

No sooner had I pulled
my cell phone from my pocket when Bur limped in, accompanied by
Scrub Oak. The injured man seemed to have survived the night
intact.

“Look at what the cat
just dragged in,” I grinned, “literally. Mama was worried about her
baby boy.”

“I’m fine. Just some
bumps and bruises.” His right elbow was purple, slightly swollen.
Dr. Van Zandt asked to see it.

“Does this hurt? Does
that hurt?” The physician manipulated Bur’s arm in several
different directions, intent on determining whether my brother had
fractured his elbow. If he was trying to impress Laurel with his
medical prowess, I suspected it was working. She never took her
eyes off of him. “How’s your backside?”

“Sore,” he
acknowledged.

“Use ice packs and take
Advil if you’re bothered. You should see improvement within three
to five days.”

“Think my injuries will
hinder my golf game, Doc?” Bur wanted to know.

“Not unless you’re on
the pro tour, son.”

“Fat chance,” I
giggled. “They don’t call him the Cheswick duffer for
nothing!”

“This comes from the
woman who needs a Mulligan in miniature golf? Wow, ouch! You sure
scorched me on that one, Miz Scarlet!”

Scorched.
..the reference
made me uncomfortable after last night’s near-catastrophe. I kept
thinking about how close we had come to disaster. What would have
happened if those dogs hadn’t awakened me?

“Excuse me,” said
Laurel. “Do you two mind exercising some social decorum here? Need
I remind you that Dr. Van Zandt is a guest of the Four Acorns Inn,
not one of your rowdy peers?”

“Not to worry, Laurel.
With three kids of my own, I’m used to being referee,” he laughed.
“We should probably get going. I don’t want to get stuck in rush
hour traffic.”

Thaddeus went out to
collect the car while I fetched my mother’s purse from her bedroom
and made sure she had everything she needed, just in case they had
a long wait in the physician’s office. She wheeled herself down the
ramp and out to the driveway. Once she was seated in the car, the
doctor folded her wheelchair and stowed it in the
trunk.

“Drive safely,” I
called to them. My mother’s hand appeared through the open
passenger window to give me a wave.

Bur was lying on the
sofa in the living room when I returned, newspaper in hand. He
looked tired and stiff, par for the course after the night he had
had.

“Would you like an ice
pack?” I inquired.

“Do you have one
handy?”

“I actually do,” I
smiled. Unbeknownst to my big brother, I kept a supply of them in
the freezer, for guests who wanted me to pack them a picnic. Unlike
solid ice blocks, the gel packs were pliable, perfect for squeezing
into tight places. I pulled one out and wrapped it in a clean linen
dishtowel and returned to the living room.