Tin Foil (Imogene Museum Mystery #4) Page 6

  I shook my head. I needed to hear it — all of it. Take on the pain and get it over with.

  A juror fainted — just slid right off her chair and disappeared from view with a thunk on the floor.

  Otto hurried across the room and peered over the front half wall of the jury box. Her nearest seatmate crouched beside her and slapped her wrists.

  Judge Lumpkin declared a lunch recess and asked for paramedics.

  oOo

  The ill juror didn’t return after lunch. An alternate took her place, tentatively slipping into her seat as if the chair itself was to blame for her medical emergency. Maybe it had cut off her circulation. Or maybe the sight of blood in the ME’s pictures had done her in.

  Otto wrapped up the technical witness testimonies without leaving much for Alden to object to. The announcement of his next witness caused a murmur to ripple through the audience.

  Anita Hadley, a Clark County deputy prosecutor who’d been running against my ex-fiancé for a Superior Court judge position. Fulmer had accused her of offering to pay him fifty grand to kill her competition. Prosecutors become well-acquainted with a lot of unsavory characters during the course of their work. Comes in handy if you’re planning a crime of your own.

  Anita entered the courtroom dressed in a snug — and I mean super snug — pink jacket and pencil skirt. Five-inch leopard print stilettos lengthened her tanned legs. Her caramel-colored hair was done in a soft French twist, and her makeup was flawless when it should have been sliding off her face in the heat.

  She had proved to be a formidable opponent from behind the prosecutor’s desk. But on the witness stand, she was a knockout.

  Pete was staring. I elbowed him, and he glanced at me, grinning sheepishly.

  Fulmer showed the first emotion of the trial. From my angle, I had a good view of his profile. His jaw worked as though he was chewing gum, and his ears flushed red.

  Of course, Anita denied everything in a sultry alto. She painted Fulmer as a callous, life-long criminal who’d finally graduated to murder.

  “Lying whore!” Fulmer jumped to his feet and slammed both fists on the table.

  The jury jerked back in their seats and gasped.

  The corners of Anita’s glossed lips curled up.

  Alden tried to push Fulmer back into his chair, but Fulmer fought him off and lurched into a duck waddle toward the witness stand, his ankle shackles clanking.

  Deputies appeared out of the woodwork and tackled Fulmer in a pile of khaki uniforms.

  Judge Lumpkin banged his gavel against the swelling uproar.

  Pete cupped his hand near my ear. “You ready to leave now?” He was almost shouting.

  I nodded, and he pulled me out the side door.

  CHAPTER 8

  Pete had parked his motorcycle at the rear of the courthouse. And he’d brought an extra helmet for me.

  “I’m in a skirt,” I objected.

  “Well, wrap it around—” Pete gestured awkwardly, “and sit on it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’ll pummel any guy who whistles at you.”

  “That’s a consolation.” I climbed on behind him and wedged wads of fabric around my thighs.

  But I know why Pete loves his bike. Riding a motorcycle is therapeutic — releasing your troubles to the wind. It clears the mind.

  And it was exactly what I needed. I wrapped my arms around Pete and hung on. Because of the heat, even the insect population of Sockeye County was taking siesta, so my bare shins enjoyed an absence of painful zings.

  We roared sedately through town then picked up speed. Pete found curvy country roads I’d never been on before. I balanced behind him, leaning into corners and loving the feel of freedom as tree trunks flashed by. Take that, stuffy old courtroom.

  We emerged again onto Highway 14 and ran parallel with the river. At water level and without the relief of shade, the air felt heavier and smothering even as we sliced through it. I flipped my visor up. The Columbia was a perfect blue vein flowing smooth between parched brown hills. Talk about freedom. Not even a string of dams could fully tame her. Her current state was misleading, a hibernation phase — she was a different beast in winter.

  Pete pulled onto a side road and entered the parking maze for the county fairgrounds. We zigzagged through the lanes, following signals from a cadre of Boy Scouts in neon orange vests. Opening day, and already the main lot was full. A Scout who couldn’t have been more than eleven — freckle-faced and serious — siphoned us off to a secondary lot with a designated motorcycle area.

  There’s not a lot to do in Sockeye County, and the fair is the number one summer attraction. Where else can you learn your old fourth-grade teacher won a second-place ribbon for a semi-awful watercolor painting, stuff yourself in a pie eating contest, let your kids streak down a slide that looks like a Buck Rogers rocket ship, watch 4-H guinea pig judging, and see people you haven’t seen since the last fair?

  I pulled my helmet off and ran my hands through my hair. Ineffective, but at least I try.

  Pete grinned at me with those marvelous blue eyes, and my knees did a dipsy-doo. Wooo.

  He grabbed my hand. “Since I’m your official take-your-mind-off-it guy, how about some dinner?”

  “Anything but corndogs.”

  We got our wrists stamped at the blue gate and entered next to the junior rodeo ring.

  A preliminary round of the goat tying competition was in progress. I guess they think calf roping is too dangerous for the little cowboys and cowgirls. So the kids — wearing Stetsons wider than their shoulders — kick their ponies into a gallop, race to the end of the ring where a goat is tethered to a stake, jump off their trusty steeds and chase the goat around. Tying a ribbon on the goat’s tail and throwing your arms in the air indicates success. Try doing that without losing your hat.

  The kids who’ve been competing for a while, or are well-coached, know to step on the tether rope close to the stake and walk on it, effectively shortening the goat’s range until it can’t move.

  I always feel sorry for the goats. By the end, though, the wiser goats will have figured out the drill and just stand there, chewing their cud, while kid after kid ties ribbons to their tails.

  The scent of smoky barbecued chicken hit my olfactory receptors, brain and salivary glands all at the same time. My stomach rumbled with a mission, reminding me how long ago lunch had been. I’d gleaned from the jury’s leftovers — two dismal slices of deli turkey smooshed into a folded-over slice of white bread.

  Pete and I wandered down the food aisle. Triple-stacker burgers and curly fries, plump bratwursts grilled with peppers and onions, cilantro buttered corn on the cob, caramel apples, thick milkshakes, cotton candy clouds, churros and elephant ears, fresh-squeezed lemonade. The FFA moms scooped sixteen flavors of hard ice cream into waffle cones. A nutritionist’s nightmare.

  I was tempted to go straight to dessert, but Pete pulled me into the bratwurst line.

  “You know that Hadley woman from before.” He meant my old life in Vancouver. “Think she set Fulmer up?”

  I nodded slowly. “Yeah, I do.”

  Pete tipped his head, studying my face.

  “Whether or not she was actually going to pay him, I don’t know. It’s not like people provide receipts for those kinds of transactions.” I wrinkled my nose. “His reaction surprised me. Maybe they had something personal going on — as well as business.” I shivered.

  Pete rubbed my arms and ordered for both of us.

  “Think she’ll keep her job?”

  “You saw how cool she is. She may even be elected to the Superior Court bench since her new write-in opponent doesn’t have much financial backing. People might forget why her name’s familiar and just be glad to see someone they recognize on the ballot.”

  We carried our grease-slicked paper trays to a picnic table in the shade of the main exhibit hall. I didn’t come up for air until every bit of the brat was gone.

  Root beer floats in han
d, we meandered through the commercial exhibits, the livestock barns, the arts and crafts building, past the National Guard’s giant camouflage tent and Humvee display where recruiters were trying to sign up teenage farm boys and maybe a few girls. We ended up at the arcade.

  Pete tossed his empty cup in the trash and rubbed his hands together. “Oh, yeah. Where do you want to start?”

  “Maybe I’ll just watch you.”

  “Way to make me nervous. You have to play some. Come on.”

  Pastor Mort Levine, in a pair of navy blue swim trunks, occupied the charity fundraiser dunk tank. “Bring it on, Sills,” he shouted. “I’m getting warm sitting up here. I could stand to go for a plunge.”

  Mort’s wife, Sally, sold Pete three baseballs. She came around her table and gave me a quick squeeze. “How’s the trial?”

  “Crazy. But I think my part’s over.”

  A crowd of eager boys hung around the sandbag the grown-up pitchers had to stand on. They parted for Pete, silly grins on their faces.

  “You sure you’re ready to get wet?” Pete hollered.

  Mort plugged his nose and made a bug-eyed face. And Pete nailed the bulls-eye before Mort had a chance to blink.

  Sally clapped. “He deserved that. He’s been taunting everyone.”

  Mort bobbed up and wiped water from his face. “Sermon on Sunday’s going to be extra long for that one,” he laughed.

  Pete held the remaining baseballs out to me. I shook my head, and he instead handed them to two boys in his entourage. Sally ushered them to the closer, kid-distance sandbag, and one re-dunked Pastor Mort.

  Pete and I strolled the arcade, casing the options to find the most challenging, or in my case, the easiest. Besides, I didn’t need a goldfish to care for. Under duress and cajoling from the hawker, I tried a ring toss game, aiming for a bag of taffy. The waist-high kid in front of me won two bags and handed one to his little sister. It was bigger than she was. I came away empty-handed.

  “It’s rigged,” Pete murmured in my ear.

  “Is not.” I poked him. “But my ego can handle it.”

  Pete chuckled and directed me to a slingshot and old-fashioned milk bottle game. The ammunition was miniature beanbags. In short order, Pete took out all the milk bottle pyramids. Good thing they were made of acrylic.

  I nudged him and held out my hand.

  “You sure?” Pete handed over the slingshot.

  “Uh-huh. This could come in handy.” I’d noticed one of the prizes was a slingshot just like the one contestants used. Harriet’s warning about not taking walks had worried me. I couldn’t buy and learn how to use a gun in short order, but here was a whole row of sturdy-looking slingshots with hefty black handles and red surgical tubing for the bands dangling from the booth’s rafters, tempting me.

  My first shot hit the proprietor’s teenage assistant as he bent over to retrieve some of Pete’s scattered milk bottles. And his behind was by no means the largest target presented.

  “Sorry. So sorry,” I called. Of all the stupid dumb luck.

  Pete cradled me in a bear hug from behind and grasped my wrists. His entire body was shaking with suppressed laughter. He brought his mouth close to my ear. “You’re going to hurt somebody with that.”

  He directed my aim and showed me how to pull the band taut but not too tight with the beanbag centered in the pouch. “You didn’t do this as a kid, did you?”

  “I was the little girl with coloring books and puzzles. Never occurred to me to pelt my friends or take out their parents’ windows.”

  To my amazement, a bottle pyramid toppled when Pete pulled my thumb and forefinger apart to spring the pouch.

  Pete released my hands. “You’re on your own.”

  I broke a bag of caramel corn, took out a few stuffed ducks on the back wall, bounced a beanbag into the open cash box, clanking change all over the place, and hit a support beam for the booth. The beanbag burst, spraying plastic pellets into the aisle between booths.

  “Turn’s up.” The proprietor snatched the weapon from me. “Waddya want?” he growled at Pete.

  Pete cast a sidelong glance at me and pointed overhead. “A slingshot for the lady.”

  The proprietor stretched, mumbling a few things I wouldn’t try to repeat, grabbed a slingshot and shoved it toward Pete.

  The phone in Pete’s pocket rang. He juggled the slingshot and phone for a second before answering.

  He stopped in his tracks and reached for me. “When?”

  It was bad. I could tell by the furrow between his brows, by how his body tensed. I clung to his shirt, leaning close enough to recognize Sheriff Marge’s voice on the other end.

  “We’re coming.” Pete clicked the phone off. “Someone tried to kill George.”

  I stared, open-mouthed. “Again? Now?” A hospital should be a safe place, protected.

  Pete’s jaw clenched in a hard line. He grabbed my hand, and we sprinted through the fair for the blue gate.

  CHAPTER 9

  We jammed on our helmets and piled onto the motorcycle. Pete had to go painfully slow in the gravel parking lot, but once on the paved road, we flew toward the highway.

  Highway 14 isn’t a controlled access freeway. This far out in the gorge, the highway crawls through a string of small towns, and there’s plenty of cross traffic at intersections managed only by stop signs. We sat in a left-turn lineup, breathing exhaust and obeying the rules of the road even though I desperately wanted Pete to speed on the shoulder.

  I rested my head against Pete’s back and tried to piece my thoughts together. Sheriff Marge knew about the murder attempt, which meant she had already taken appropriate security measures for George. The attempt couldn’t have been successful — she would have said outright. Sheriff Marge doesn’t believe in euphemisms.

  So George must be safe for the moment. But how badly was he hurt? What had his attackers tried to do? Snuck into a hospital at the least. Although just about anyone could come and go at Lupine Memorial.

  We’d crept to the front of the line. Pete revved the throttle, just about to push off, when he hit the brake hard. I bonked him with my helmet then swiveled to see what the problem was.

  A purple PT cruiser flashed by, going west. It was moving so fast, I couldn’t even guess how over the speed limit it was. Its wake buffeted us. Pete checked both directions again and pulled out.

  I craned my neck to track the PT Cruiser. It was a dark speck in the distance.

  The only purple PT Cruiser I’ve seen in Sockeye County is Frankie’s. I wasn’t sure — it’d been a blur — but I thought I’d seen two pale faces through the windshield. Frankie’s short, and she sits low behind the wheel. In fact, she’s so difficult to see in the driver’s seat, I’ve done a double-take a time or two when she’s arrived at the museum because it looks like her car’s on autopilot and driving itself.

  My stomach cramped — maybe rebelling against my dinner, but more likely from worry. First, George’s predicament. Then Frankie driving like a maniac, which could only mean she was dealing with an emergency of her own.

  oOo

  Sheriff Marge was waiting for us outside the automatic sliding glass doors to the hospital’s ER department. “You weren’t answering your phone,” she snapped in my direction.

  I cringed. “Sorry. I left it in the motorcycle saddlebag.”

  “Well, figured you two were together. Pete—” she nodded, “I have some questions for you.”

  She beckoned, and we followed in her charging wake. Her shoes squeaked rapidly on the waxed linoleum. She pulled up short at George’s room.

  Deputy Owen Hobart stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his bulletproof vest. Owen played football for Army, with three years starting at tight end, before doing his stint as a military police officer. He still cuts an imposing figure. “Meredith. Pete.” His biceps flexed — sort of an involuntary thing with him. “Got any weapons on ya?”

  I shook my head.

  “Pocketknife,” Pete s
aid. “And slingshot.”

  Owen’s brown eyes widened in surprise. “How ‘bout you leave those with me?”

  Every male in Sockeye County who’s over four years old carries a pocketknife. A slingshot is a little less common.

  The slingshot protruded from Pete’s back pocket. He must have jammed it there when we took off running. I groaned. That’s what had been so painful on the ride over. I was pretty sure I had a matching bruise on my inner thigh. We’d been in too much of a hurry to worry about getting situated for comfort on the bike. I also hoped I hadn’t given any other Highway 14 commuters a panty peepshow in our haste. Pete handed his weapons to Owen.

  “You carry this on a regular basis?” Owen asked, bobbing the slingshot to test the bands.

  “Nope.”

  Owen quirked an eyebrow, but let it pass.

  Sheriff Marge pushed us into George’s room.

  A slight woman stood quickly from her chair beside the bed. She had waist-length silky black hair that hung free. Her smooth, round face was dominated by huge dark eyes. She also had a noticeable baby bump beneath her pretty, sequined turquoise tunic.

  “This is Susan Sams, George’s cousin,” Sheriff Marge said.

  The young woman stepped forward and extended her slim hand. Pete and I greeted her.

  She held on to me for a few extra seconds and smiled. “I feel as though I know you.” Her voice was soft and soothing.

  I felt terrible. George had never mentioned her or any other family to me. Maybe because he knew I was an only child and not on the best terms with my mother and stepfather. Maybe talking about his own family would have felt like bragging.

  My mind jumped to a quick analysis of the two stunning women I’d encountered today. Susan was easy and confident, unpretentious compared to Anita’s brazen and conniving presentation. I already liked Susan.

  “How is he?” I asked, turning to the bed.

  George slept. It was hard to judge his condition behind the ventilator mask. His chest rose and fell evenly.