Plan Bee (29 page)

“Oh, that,” Mom said casually, exposing her index finger, which obviously had been cut and was in the process of healing. “Tom and I had a cocktail before heading over to Stu’s that night. I sliced myself in Tom’s kitchen while I was cutting a lime. He bandaged it for me and got some of my blood on his shirt. We didn’t notice until you pointed it out.”

I looked around the table, at each one of Tom Stocke’s cheerleaders. It wouldn’t hurt to approach this problem from a different angle by starting with the assumption that Tom was totally innocent; not just that he’d killed his brother in self-defense, but that maybe he hadn’t killed Ford at all. Hard to imagine, because lately there was just too much stacked against him.

Once I opened up my mind to the possibility, though, and painted the big picture, I had a brainstorm. I was pretty sure I knew why Patti’s telescope (or telescopes in this case) had been targeted for destruction.

I muttered something vague about continuing our discussion later and hustled down Main Street. I remembered my Dinky obligation, so I used my cell phone to call back to Stu’s and ask Grams to take care of Dinky, who I’d left there in my moment of brilliant enlightenment.

I tried Patti again without a response, which had me worried. P.P. Patti was usually hanging around, waiting for the right moment to swoop in and land, like a buzzard circling roadkill. No way would she disappear for this long on purpose.

At her back door, I banged hard and loud. Nothing. Then I angrily kicked a pile of hickory nuts, scattering them across the yard before turning to face my ex-husband’s empty house. I had a creepy feeling that Patti’s snooping had led to more trouble for her. And that Clay’s house had something to do with it.

The house was locked up tight, and I didn’t have a key. Theoretically, Lori and my ex should be the only ones with
access. Except dumb Lori had rented out the house to a criminal element. That meant Ford had had a key, and who knew who else, like his partner, could’ve made copies to come and go any old time.

According to Hunter, anybody can get into a locked house without a key if they want to bad enough, and I planned on doing just that. Some people are natural experts at picking locks, using common items like bobby pins or credit cards. Based on my past efforts, which included attempts with paper clips and safety pins, I wasn’t one of them. The only way in for me was through a window.

I went around the outside of the house, testing windows, and ended up smacking one of the ones in back with a hammer from my toolbox. I hadn’t expected a little tap with a hammer to sound quite that loud. I held my breath like that would make a difference in whether or not I’d been caught. No one came running, which was good news. The bad news was that unfortunately, the glass in the window had cracked but not shattered. The only way in was to hit it a few more times.

I went home and returned with a towel, draped it over the end of the hammer, and banged away. Eventually the glass dropped in cascades around me. With the towel around my hand to protect myself, I pulled out large shards still embedded around the edges, then hefted myself up, and swung a leg over.

Judging by the amount of noise I had just made, I safely assumed that no bad guys were waiting inside or they would have shown themselves by now. So I swung my other leg over.

Breaking and entering was becoming my standard mode of operation. I wished I could blame Patti for that, but she wasn’t around to take the rap. She’d said she was up to something and didn’t want to tell me what. At the time, I felt relief; now I really wish she’d clued me in to her plan. I was worried about her.

Nothing had changed inside my ex-husband’s unoccupied house in the days since I’d discovered Ford’s body there. His camping gear was still scattered in the kitchen and bedroom. Johnny Jay had had the truck removed from the driveway during the initial investigation, but had left the interior of the house as he’d found it.

There’s something about basements that as a general rule, men love and women dislike intensely. A certain fascination that they have, which we just don’t get. Men tend to go rushing down the steps as soon as they get an opportunity. Women would really prefer not to. Also, basements in Wisconsin are damp. Mold grows quickly and spreads its tentacles over everything if you aren’t careful. Then there are bugs—spiders, millipedes, stink bugs, beetles, and all kinds of other tiny terrors.

I’m a big fan of some insects, considering the number of honeybees in my backyard, but some species give me the willies.

So I considered skipping the basement.

Any sane woman would.

But if Patti were along, she’d lead the charge downstairs, though I do question her mental stability. That’s why I had to go down. Because she wasn’t here to make the first move, because I could hear the scorn in her voice if I told her I didn’t want to. She’d taunt me about calling Hunter and having him take care of it for me, about depending on some guy again.

Patti’s imaginary badgering produced enough resolve for me to tackle the basement. I didn’t chicken out even when I flipped the light switch at the top of the stairs and nothing happened. Not a single lightbulb went on down there.

It wasn’t exactly pitch-dark. The basement had old-fashioned ground-level windows set inside window wells, not the best source of light, but better than nothing. So I could see in a sort of late-dusk outline sort of way. I used
my cell phone for a little added light, didn’t stop to consider why the electricity was off in case that gave me enough of an excuse to abort my mission, and went down.

At the bottom of the stairs, I tripped over something soft and barely stayed in control, physically and emotionally. I smothered a bloodcurdling, hair-raising scream of terror, teetered in the balance, found my footing, and noted that the thing on the floor was only a crumpled blanket, not a body.

I picked it up, wondering what the heck a blanket was doing on the basement floor. It concerned me. At this point I wanted to let my instinct for flight take over, so I could run away, and come back with my family for support. My other choice involved seeing it through like a grown woman.

Before I could hightail it up the steps and out the door, I saw motion in a corner. I took a step forward. “Who’s there?” I said, forcing myself forward, refusing to listen to the more cautious part of my cerebrum.

I was greeted by thrashing and snarling. A wild animal of some sort? Maybe a gigantic raccoon? Now I wasn’t so sure the thing was human. In fact, I was sure it wasn’t.

So I tossed the blanket over the top of the animal and kicked with my flip-flopped foot, connecting with something through the blanket. An almost-bare foot just doesn’t have much power, though, and the thing didn’t stop struggling. Part of its lower extremities popped through the bottom of the blanket. Only it didn’t have paws or claws like I’d expected.

It had a foot and a shoe. And I recognized that shoe.

Ripping the blanket away, I came face-to-face with the rabid, foam-dripping creature.

It was P.P. Patti Dwyre.

She was tied up with tape across her mouth exactly like last time. Only this time, her eyes were taped, too. While I experienced a sense of déjà vu, I slowly removed the tape, careful not to rip out her eyelashes.

“Are you okay?” I said, fumbling with the ropes, realizing how useless my efforts were without better lighting or a knife to cut the bindings. Shining the little bit of light from my cell phone into her face wasn’t helpful. She blinked rapidly and squeezed her eyes closed.

“Now I know how a blind mole feels,” she said, her voice cracking. “Get me out of here.”

“What are you doing down here in the first place?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Patti said. “Just relaxing after a long day.”

She hadn’t lost her spunk or her sarcastic tongue, that was for sure.

“The knots are too tight. I’ll have to go for help.”

“No! Don’t leave me here alone.”

“I’ll call for help.” Remembering the phone in my hand, I hit speed dial. A phone inside one of Patti’s pockets rang. At this point, I had to admit, I was pretty frazzled.

“You’re calling my phone,” she wailed.

“I’m shook up. Stop yelling.” I tried again. For a damsel in distress, Patti sure was bossy.

“And don’t call that cop boyfriend of yours,” she said. “Not until you hear what happened.”

I disconnected before it rang on Hunter’s end. “This is ridiculous. You shouldn’t be dictating terms. Do you want help or not?”

“My arms and legs are numb. I can’t feel them.”

“You’ll get feeling back as soon as we get the ropes off, once you start moving them. Just like last time. I’m going to go upstairs and get a knife from the kitchen.”

“This is an empty house. There isn’t any kitchen equipment unless you dig through some of that camping stuff.”

I worked the ropes again, feeling for a loose end. “I should call 9-1-1.”

“No! We don’t need local cops butting in.”

I gaped at her. “You’re roped up like a cow in a rodeo, blindfolded, and gagged. I can’t even image what would
have come next if I hadn’t found you. Why don’t you want me to get help? Who did this?”

“Just get me untied and I’ll tell you the whole thing.”

I gave up on freeing Patti. “Either I call for help right this minute, or you’ll have to stay alone while I run home and get a knife.”

“Go, but hurry.”

And with that, I pounded up the basement steps.

Once Patti was free and we were away from Clay’s house, she seemed to take her imprisonment in stride, which was a really scary indicator of her ranking on the crazy meter. Either the woman was full-blown certifiable or her need for finding news was off the charts. Or a little of both.

It made me wonder even more about her background since she clearly had a high degree of tolerance for the most unpleasant situations. After being stuck in a basement all day, bound, gagged, and blindfolded, without food, water, or bathroom facilities, she sure had bounced back quickly.

“I suspected something was going on over there,” she said from a seat at my kitchen table, a hot cup of herbal tea in front of her. “I mean, why else go after my telescope unless something was going down within its range?”

“That’s exactly what I came up with,” I said, although she’d certainly beat me to that realization.

“So this morning I went on another search mission.
When I went into the basement, somebody must have hit me with something because when I woke up I had a huge headache and I was all tied up and duct-taped. I never even got a look, but I heard voices. More than one person, I’m sure of it.”

“Male or female voices?”

“Hard to tell. They were whispering.”

“You were tied up exactly the same way as last time,” I said, getting an ice pack out of the freezer and handing it to her. She applied it to the back of her head. “So it must’ve been the same person both times. You must have some idea who’s after you.”

Patti shook her head.

This was unbelievable. Patti had been physically attacked twice by a nasty and violent person, both times in broad daylight, and she still couldn’t come close to identifying him? Patti wasn’t a lightweight and the person who manhandled her had to be even tougher.

And stronger. Like Bob Petrie. Maybe the hickory nuts were his calling card, like what the villains in comic books always left at the scene of a crime. I told her about my exchange with Bob and how he had a hickory nut tattoo. And what Hunter had found out about our two jailbirds knowing each other.

“I knew I should have kicked him harder,” Patti said, showing me a rope burn on her wrist. “Look at that. I better get compensation from
The Reporter
for my injuries.”

“You should see a doctor and you should report it to the police, Patti.”

“I can’t. It’s for the greater good. Without me the whole situation might implode.”

I stared at her. “That’s why we aren’t telling the cops? Because you think you’re some kind of superwoman, and you’re out to save the world?”

“No, that’s not all of it,” Superwoman said. “I like to follow through with my commitments. Unlike
some
people.”