LeGarde Mysteries Box Set, page 44
part #1 of LeGarde Mystery Series
When they reached the windows, Randy snapped Molly to his side, and slid his left arm around her waist. She placed her hand on his shoulder, and they both turned to the side, cheeks together. The music swelled, and Randy grabbed Molly’s hand with his, raised them high in the air, and strutted with her across the floor in the traditional well-known signature move of the tango.
Lou Marshall drifted over to us. “Do you tango, Miss Coté?” he asked with a shy smile.
She looked up at him with a smile. “Why, yes, Mr. Marshall, I do.”
He looked at me like a little boy asking for ice cream before dinner. “Do you mind if I borrow her, Gus?”
I nodded, but a jealous itch wiggled beneath my polite smile. He led her to the dance floor and moved in beside Molly and Randy, performing a more sedate version of the piece.
I lounged against the wall, wishing I’d taken the dance lessons Camille had suggested in July. I could manage a reasonable slow dance, but not much more.
Camille startled me with her graceful, sensual steps, and Lou Marshall was surprisingly light on his feet. The green demon knocked again, louder this time. I shoved the feelings back down and scolded myself.
Stop it. She’s marrying you, not him.
Nelson and Takeema watched their teacher in awe.
“Wow!” said Takeema. “She really does know how to move, doesn’t she?”
I nodded and sighed. Nelson dragged Takeema out to the floor. They mimicked Randy and Molly's movements. Several other teens started to copy them. Before long, a large group of dancers huddled around them, trying to tango.
I poured myself a cup of punch and took a sip, watching the crowd. A tall student, dressed as either a bunch of grapes or a Fruit-of-the-Loom guy, leaned against the far wall with a sullen expression and his arms crossed. Something about him seemed familiar. I tried to place him, but couldn’t. Purple makeup covered his face and he wore a body suit to match with a tight hood that hid his hair.
When Randy and Molly twirled past him, he pushed off from the wall and flung himself toward them.
Chapter Fifty-five
The boy in purple tugged Molly away from Randy. She shrieked and fell into a heap at his feet. With one fluid motion, he spun to attack Randy, shoving him to the ground. He straddled Randy’s waist and pummeled him. He seemed to be yelling at him, but the deafening music obliterated the words.
I raced toward them. On the way, I stopped Lou and Camille and pointed toward the brawling boys. “Get the lights and turn off the music. I’ll break it up.”
Marshall trotted to the DJ stand and I dashed toward the fight. Something told me the boy in purple had to be Armand Lugio.
By the time I reached them, Randy’s lower lip was split and bleeding. His right eye had already puffed up, and blood covered the front of his tuxedo.
Molly was trying to separate them, but she hadn’t managed to make any progress. “Armand, get off him!” She grabbed Armand’s shirt from behind, yanking at it. Her hair had come undone and she’d lost one shoe. The tango music still blasted in the background. She stepped aside when she saw me. “Help him!”
“Come on. Break it up.” I leaned toward Armand to pull him off Randy.
In a flash he raised a knife in the air, ready to thrust it into Randy’s neck.
I lunged forward and locked my fingers around Armand’s wrist, twisting it sideways.
Armand struggled and turned to me, eyes burning. Jerking the Zorro mask down over my eyes, he knocked me back, sitting astride me this time and screaming words in his native language. I still held his wrist, but with my free hand, I ripped the mask off of my face.
The knife swept back and forth, inches from my eyes. I flipped over and knocked him off, rolling sideways to my knees. I lost hold of him, and he rushed at me with the knife extended.
I jumped up and feinted to the left, avoiding the sharp blade. With a stroke of luck, I caught hold of his arm, spun him around, and shouted his name. “Armand!” I yelled. “Armand, stop.”
He jerked out of my grip and came at me again, his eyes sparking hatred.
I avoided a few thrusts of the knife, and tried to catch him again, but I missed. I was just starting to tire when Gene and Nathan galloped toward us. With one swift motion, they pinned his arms behind his back and slammed him to the floor.
In spite of their lowbrow mentality when it came to Nelson the other day, there definitely was something to be said for their brawn.
The music finally stopped and the lights came up. Nathan took the knife and cautiously placed it on the table. Gene sat on Armand’s back with his full two hundred and fifty pounds. He held the crazed boy in a vice-like grip and slammed him to the floor each time he tried to get up.
Finally, when he realized escape was impossible, Armand began to cry.
I looked away, suddenly feeling drained. Molly applied a wet paper towel to Randy’s bleeding lip. Tears streamed through her black mascara. “I’m so sorry, Randy. I should have known. I’m so sorry.”
Adam Knapp arrived with a fellow officer and snapped handcuffs on Armand, who had finally slumped into a purple defenseless lump, disconnected from the world. He didn’t respond to Adam’s questions, but looked straight ahead, his eyes unfocused and his mouth slack. The paint on his face ran down his cheeks in streams of tears. Adam tugged the hood off of his head, revealing curly black hair plastered to his scalp.
I spoke quietly with Adam for a few moments before he walked the lamb-like Armand out to the patrol car.
The boy would need some earnest attention, and would probably end up in an institution for a while.
Camille rushed to my side, concern flashing across her face. “Are you okay, sweetheart?” She stood breathless beside me, her warm brown eyes searching mine.
After a long embrace, she looked me over, inspecting for wounds. She cried out when she noticed a cut on my forearm where the knife had sliced through my jacket and shirt. “Gus, oh my gosh. You’re bleeding.”
I pulled off the jacket and rolled up the shirtsleeves. It wasn’t bad, and had already begun to bead over with congealed blood.
“I’m fine, honey. It’s nothing.”
I rolled down the shirt and rubbed my right shoulder where I’d wrenched it during the fight, realizing I’d been very lucky to escape with such minor injuries. I’d have to remember to thank our two football gorillas for their bravery.
I managed to reassure Camille, and then draped my arm over her shoulders. Glancing at my watch, I was surprised to see it was only nine.
Lou Marshall took to the microphone again, settling the crowd down and trying to instill a renewed spirit into the group. The party continued after the shock wore off, and by the time the jack–o-lanterns and costumes were judged, it had reached full swing again. Maurice and Takeema won for their unique costumes. Finally, most of the crowd headed home.
I wandered into the prop room to change. I'd left my clothes folded on a shelf in the corner, but didn’t see them. I searched on, above, below, and around the shelf, but they were gone. Who would want an old pair of jeans and a golf shirt? After five minutes, I gave up looking, tired of dealing with what was probably another prank from our nameless tormentor.
I drove home as Zorro, and after dropping off Camille, locked the kitchen door, climbed the stairs, and fell into my bed with visions of purple men and scarecrows dancing a mad tango.
Chapter Fifty-Six
The day had passed quickly, and I’d been grading papers for my students when I fell asleep in my chair.
In my dream, the streets were shrouded in mist. Wet cobblestones felt slick beneath my bare feet and the fog whispered moist threats as I hurried along. Rustling, evil words pushed me faster and faster, and an overwhelming sense of urgency pulsed through my body. I began to sprint in the darkness.
Black tree branches swayed over the streetlights, casting dancing shadows on the cars parked haphazardly along the road. I collided with the bumper of a 1963 Cadillac convertible and paused to rub my shin.
A dog barked in the distance. It sounded like Boris, echoing remorsefully through the town.
Agnes Bigelow materialized out of the hazy vapors swirling through the air. She had rounded a corner, vigorously pushing a baby carriage toward me. The antique fabric peeled from its sides and the rubber wheels disintegrated as it rolled, leaving pieces of rubber that came alive as swarms of white ants. With each passing revolution, the carriage jerked up and shimmied sideways. In the confused fog of my dream, I prayed her child was a sound sleeper.
Still dressed as Dorothy, Agnes stared straight through me, continuing on her purposeful march. I looked in the carriage and was horrified to see Boris neatly tucked under a pink blanket. He sniffed the air anxiously as she whisked him away.
A three-story brick mansion loomed in the murky night, set behind an intimidating wrought iron fence that ran for miles. White gingerbread trimmed each window and spiky lightning rods protruded from the peak of the steep slate roof.
Mystified, I noticed the owner had fastened stuffed versions of her cats onto the fence. I moved closer, and was horrified to see she’d preserved only the faces of her dead pets, mounted with twist ties to the wrought iron bars. Yellow tabbies, black coons, tigers, and white angoras—hundreds of furry faces stretched along the fence.
In horrified fascination, I moved forward to inspect them. Abruptly, their eyes popped open in unison and they shrieked like banshees. “Open your eyes!”
I opened my eyes. Max lay beside the woodstove, snoozing comfortably. My reading glasses had slipped down the bridge of my nose and dangled precariously on the end, ready to plop into my lap. Blue exam booklets lay in a heap at my feet. The B+ that I had scribbled on a student's paper had turned into a long, red scrawl.
I looked at the mantle clock. Five o’clock. I had been dozing for over twenty minutes. What day was it? Sunday, I assured myself, the third Sunday in November. One more week to Thanksgiving and the expected birth of my second grandchild. Less than two weeks to the Spirit Me Away production.
The aroma of chili filled the room. I rushed to the kitchen to stir the pot. Thankful it hadn’t burned, I relaxed and headed back into the great room to grade more papers.
I’d made my way through three papers when Max lifted his head from the hearthrug. His ears perked up and his eyes widened. Barking hysterically, he shot toward the front door, racing in small circles.
“It’s okay, boy. Let’s see who’s here.” With a sigh, I heaved myself from the chair and headed for the front door.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
The brass doorknocker lifted and dropped three times before I reached the front hall. Max whined and scratched at the door. I straightened my clothing and cleared my throat before I opened the inner door, still feeling disoriented from the nap.
Cindi Fox stood on the porch wringing her hands and glancing fearfully behind her. A ragged red splotch resembling a handprint covered one cheek.
Grabbing Max’s collar, I opened the storm door, wondering who in the world had slapped her. “Cindi? What’s wrong?”
Her ten-speed bicycle was propped against the side of the barn. Apparently, she’d pedaled uphill all the way from the village. She didn’t answer, but looked back at the woods apprehensively, still breathing hard from the exertion.
“Cindi? Did you ride your bike all the way up here?”
She shuffled and looked at the woods again. Max pulled hard and sniffed at Cindi’s hand.
“What’s wrong, dear? Would you like to come inside and sit down? I’ll get you a drink.”
She looked up at me with a start. “I have something to tell you. It’s very important. It’s about Boris.” Swinging her worried expression toward the woods again, she twisted her hands back and forth. Her short red hair stuck out from her pale brow, and I noticed that she was perspiring heavily in spite of the chill in the air.
I held the door open, but she didn’t budge. “I know where he is,” she whispered. “I know where Boris is.”
I began to ask, “Where?” but was interrupted by the roar of an engine tearing across the lawn.
A loud crack filled the air. Cindi spun around, wobbling against me. The four-wheeler raced past in a blur and disappeared into the woods. She crumpled to the wooden floor of the porch. Blood oozed from the gunshot wound beneath her ribs.
Max broke away from me, racing across the lawn in pursuit of the vehicle.
I dropped to my knees and cradled Cindi’s head on my lap, pressing the heel of my palm against the bleeding hole in her side. Blood seeped through my fingers and ran onto the porch.
She looked up at me with her forlorn eyes, trying to speak. “He took Boris—” Her eyes rolled up and her head slumped to the side. A wet breath escaped her lips. One green-sneakered foot twitched and her head slumped sideways.
I checked her pulse. A faint beating met my fingers. Hurrying now, I grabbed my cell phone and called 911. With heart drumming beneath my ribs, I relayed information to the unruffled voice on the line, pressing my hand against the bleeding body of the woman who risked her life for the sake of a little dog.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
It seemed the whole world had shown up for Cindi Fox’s funeral. I walked up the brick pathway to St. Anne’s church. Dead oak leaves fluttered across the ground, inviting me to enter the vestibule. A line had formed at the door.
The scent of incense and lilies filled the air. When I entered, my attention was drawn to the ceiling. Dark timbers arched overhead, accenting a vaulted white dome. At the front of the church, silver organ pipes covered one wall. An intricately carved wooden statue of Christ hung behind the altar.
I followed the crowd of mourners who edged into the sanctuary and spotted Joe Russell sitting in the center section, about twenty-five rows back. I sat beside him on a purple pew cushion.
He looked at me with a cagey expression. “Hey, Gus. You ready for this?”
“I guess so. Is everything set?”
Joe raised his right hand from his lap and twisted it side to side. “We’ve got video cams stationed at all entrances, and a few up there.” He nodded toward the choir loft.
“How’s she doing?” I whispered this part, knowing he wanted to keep the fact that Cindi was recuperating in a local hospital a secret. His plan had been to fake the funeral and flush out the killer. I’d seen things like that in movies, but apparently the tactic wasn’t just a Hollywood idea. According to Joe, killers often take pleasure in basking in the aftermath of their destruction. Things were escalating, and Joe wanted to nab the bastard before he tried to kill anyone else.
“She’s holding her own.” He peered around me. “Where's Camille?”
“Home with the flu. She's got a 103 temp. She argued with me, tried to make it, but I wouldn't hear of it.”
More people shuffled into the pews around us. Some genuflected and made crosses on their chests. I felt a little nervous about the protocol of the unfamiliar service and turned to Joe. “You’re Catholic, right?”
A puzzled expression crossed his face. “Yeah. Why?”
“Can you help me through the mass? I haven’t been to one since I went with Jimmy Murray in the third grade.”
Joe pushed a meaty hand through his silvery black hair, carefully scanning the pews around us. “No sweat, Gus. It’s probably not all that different from your church, anyway.”
“Thanks.” I looked ahead to the altar; amazed to see it was as spacious as the stage at the school auditorium. An older man and woman sat in high-backed chairs on either side of the pulpit. I opened the program and noted that a deacon, Mr. Thomas Long, and a lector, Mrs. Ariel Breatnich, were listed. A small raised podium stood to the right of the altar next to the organ. Behind it, a woman with long, blond hair stood quietly waiting with her hands folded on the stand.
When the organ began to play, celestial music swelled through the church. The woman at the podium began to chant in a strong, pure voice. I searched the bulletin and found a reference to the cantor, Evelyn Reece. I rose with the rest of the congregation when the priest entered, bumping my ankles on the padded kneeling bench at my feet.
A priest in white robes welcomed the community and addressed the family. I wondered how Joe had prepared them. Of course he’d had to tell the family the truth. It occurred to me that they must be real troopers to agree to go through with the emotionally exhausting pretense of burying their beloved Cindi. Of course, if it worked, their daughter would be safe from such evil in the future.
Everyone but me traced crosses on their chests in one fluid motion. It happened too fast for me to try to mimic them.
Cindi’s seven brothers and sisters lined the front row, all with red hair. Mr. and Mrs. Fox sat in the front row corner, closest to the altar. The gray-haired father draped his arm around his wife’s shoulders. Although Cindi wasn’t dead, she’d been through a great deal in the past few days, with two surgeries and a close call with death. How must this family feel that their sweet and innocent daughter/sister had been targeted by a madman? And how awful to have to pretend to bury one’s child.
My heart ached for them.
The organist announced a hymn. Two different hymnals stood in the slotted shelf in front of me. I searched the program for a clue and finally noticed a “W” scribed next to hymn number 579. Joe picked up the red book with a “W” pasted to its binding, and I copied him.
Joe was good. Although he went through the motions of the service, I saw him carefully scan the church constantly, slowly, purposefully.
Was there anyone new in the crowd? Anyone unexpected? Would Cindi’s killer come to gloat? Would we find it was one of us? Someone from the show or school?
We sang a hymn I didn’t know and sat down. The service progressed, and I cast my eyes around the crowd. Students from the school gathered in one section. Quiet weeping came from all corners of the church. Frank and Jonesy sat three rows ahead of us. They bowed their heads in sorrow, and I saw Jonesy’s shoulders shake a few times.
