Mom Zone Mysteries 02 Staying Home Is a Killer (34 page)

I clicked off the light in the alcove and headed for the stairs as the shredder fell silent. The scent of smoke tinged the air. That picture of Jeff and Abby still bothered me. I walked slowly, analyzing the different parts of the photo. It wasn’t the people. Not the flower, either. The necklace of shells. I stopped walking. I’d been associating beads with women and jewelry. What if I reversed it and associated the beads with men? Just because they were made into necklaces didn’t mean men couldn’t buy them, too.

A memory clicked into place. I compared my thoughts with what I’d learned over the last few days. The necklace. Rory sitting in jail, not saying a word. The absence of Penny’s notes. It fit together. I realized I had a death grip on my purse strap and I forced my fingers to relax. I took a few steps down the hall, then pulled out my cell phone and left a message for Thistlewait.

I paused with my foot on the first step. Was that a shout? The squadron was quiet except for the buzz of the fluorescent lights in the stairwell. Even the shredder was silent. Then I heard a muffled thump.

I walked slowly back to the Hole and looked around the door frame, expecting to see Georgia efficiently stripping the posters off the walls. I didn’t see her. The smoke smell was stronger, but it was cooler with the outside door propped open. I almost called her name, but something stopped me.

A grunt and another thump made the hair along my arms stand up and pulled me into the room. I moved a few feet and saw a man holding Georgia down on the floor with his hands locked around her throat. Georgia was hitting him, her arms and her legs flailing back and forth. Her face was pale, and her eyes bulged with fear.

My mind registered that the man was wearing blues, the uniform of pale blue shirt and navy pants. It wasn’t his uniform I was worried about, it was his build. He wasn’t huge, but I didn’t think I could do much to help Georgia. I backed a step away and stuck my hand down in my purse, searching for my cell phone. But if I called 911, would they make it in time to help Georgia? I scanned the room. The ratty couch and a few folding chairs looked like the only possible weapons in sight.

The man kept up a steady, low monologue, but I couldn’t hear the words. The grunts and belabored breathing of the man revived my nausea, but I forced it back down and scanned the walls for a weapon from the “souvenirs” that crews brought back from around the world. Of course, there wasn’t a gun or sword in sight. Only beer mugs, bar signs, and a few framed photographs.

Georgia’s legs were barely moving. My fingers connected with my cell phone at the same moment I saw the bell on the bar.

I knew I didn’t have time to get out to the hall, call 911, and wait for them to arrive.

Without consciously deciding to do it, I set down my purse, then dropped to the floor and crawled down the length of the couch and over to the bar, trying to keep a few tables and chairs between me and the man. A faint haze hung below the lights, but then a sharp breeze whipped through the open door and blew smoke in my eyes.

I reached the far side of the bar and slithered a hand up and patted around until the cool, solid metal of the bell brushed my finger-tips. I pulled it to me and slid it off the counter. It made my arms sag beautifully.

I risked a peek over the top of the bar. The man still had Georgia pinned. He hadn’t noticed me. Georgia’s hands clutched at his arms, but her feet lolled out, toes pointing in opposite directions, like a doll dropped and forgotten.

Her limp legs made me hurry. The fire in the trash can popped, probably the wooden frame burning. Why didn’t the smoke detectors go off? Another blast of fresh cool air streamed into the room, and I realized the fresh air was probably dispersing the small amount of smoke. The fire alarm wasn’t going to go off.

I didn’t try to low-crawl back. I didn’t think I could because the bell was so heavy. I cradled it like a football against my side with one hand over the outside and the other around the clapper to keep it from ringing. I did a crouchlike run until I was behind the man. I gripped the lower edges of the bell and raised it over my head. Then I wavered.

I didn’t know if I could do it.

Over the top of the man’s head, my gaze locked with Georgia’s. He must have realized Georgia was looking at something because he half turned to look over his shoulder.

Georgia let out a raspy gasp and I brought the bell down on the man’s head with a loud clang as my mind processed the face and matched it to a name: General Bedford, wing commander.

Chapter Thirty

I
clasped my hand over my mouth as the bell rolled against my foot. I’d knocked the wing commander unconscious. Or at least, I
hoped
he was unconscious. He wasn’t moving. Georgia shoved Bedford off her and then lay motionless. She made another raspy noise.

“Hold on. I’ll get you some water.” I grabbed my purse on the way to the bar, found my phone. My hands were shaking so hard it took me three tries to dial 911. I told the dispatcher we needed an ambulance and the police. I snapped the phone shut and grabbed a plastic cup, filled it with water, and went back to Georgia.

As I helped her take a small sip, I heard noises behind me. “That was fast,” I said, but when I looked around it wasn’t the police. A woman with tousled hair and perfect makeup walked into the Hole followed by a young man toting a huge camera.

Chelsea O’Mara. She took one look around and motioned with her hand for him to start rolling, but he already had the camera up on his shoulder and a light blazing.

Chelsea knelt down beside Georgia and asked if she was okay.

Georgia pointed toward Bedford and rasped, “Tried to kill me.”

When it was apparent that was all Georgia could say, Chelsea swooped to me. “Did you see it?”

I asked a question of my own to avoid answering. “What are you doing here? Don’t you work for Channel Two?”

She smiled. “I signed a new contract last week. Chelsea O’Mara with
24/7
.”

Great. That was a national news magazine program that supposedly did investigative reports, but they tended toward sensationalism and trashy TV. “Georgia invited me here to document something big,” Chelsea continued. “What’s your part in this?”

“No comment,” I said as several flight-suited guys appeared in the doorway, lugging pub bags.

Tommy Longfellow dropped his pub bag and smiled. “We heard the bell. Who’s buying?”

The base fire department arrived next and efficiently put out the fire smoldering in the trash can. From the way they swarmed around General Bedford, I assumed he was still alive. The security police arrived, evicted Chelsea and her photographer, secured the area, and called Thistlewait and his colleagues.

Thistlewait shook his head and sighed when he arrived and saw me. After consulting with various groups working around the room, Thistlewait sat down beside me. The EMT had checked me over and pronounced me good to go. The security police had seated me at one of the tables on the far side of the room and told me to wait.

“Why am I not surprised to see you here?” Thistlewait asked as he pulled out a small notepad and pen.

I explained the video conference and he made a note. “Okay,” he said. “Tell me what happened.”

I recounted my talk with Mitch, the conversation with Georgia, my trip to Tessa’s desk, and the scene on my return to the Hole. “He was strangling her, trying to kill her.” I looked down at my hands firmly clasped together. I thought they had stopped shaking a few minutes ago, but I felt a tremor run through them again, so I held on tighter.

“I could only see his back. I hoped it wasn’t—I mean, I wished the whole thing wasn’t happening, but it was and—” I broke off, realizing I was shaking again. I took a deep breath. “I got the bell and hit him on the head.” It sounded so simple phrased that way. Cut-and-dry, this is what I saw, this is what I did. None of the panic and fear in Georgia’s face and in mine too, I’m sure.

Thistlewait flipped back a page in his notebook. “Georgia wasn’t able to say much before the EMTs took her to the hospital, but she said Bedford walked in and he asked where the prayer carpet was.” Thistlewait looked at me. “Know anything about that?”

Prayer
carpet! Not an area rug or wall-to-wall carpet, but a prayer carpet.

I had to skate carefully here because I wasn’t supposed to know about the phrase Penny had written in her journal. I said, “Georgia ripped a framed carpet off the wall to start the fire in the trash can. It looked like a prayer rug. She dumped it in the trash can, tossed the shredded posters on top, and lit it.”

Thistlewait stood and consulted with a few people in a clump around the metal trash can. I moved to the edge of the circle.

A bald man wearing gloves extracted the poster shreds, then the blackened wooden frame. A woman photographed his every move and each object he removed.

She photographed the rug at the bottom of the trash can several times. The man reached in and pulled out the rug. It was blackened and the fringe was gone on one side, but the general shape was still there. He laid it down on a tarp beside the other ashes and blackened poster strips. More photographs. I was practically hopping from one foot to another. “Turn it over,” I muttered. “We’re not on the red carpet.”

Thistlewait frowned, realized I was watching, and opened his mouth to order me back to the table, but the bald man turned the rug over. I let out a whoosh of breath. A bubble-wrapped bundle was secured to the back with tape. The man slit the plastic and delicately removed a book with a worn leather cover. They had to take more photos before he used a thin tool to gently inch the thick cover open. I saw faded strokes like the ones I’d shown to Marsali. “Send it to the lab,” snapped Thistlewait.

“That’s it. That’s the letter,” I said, stunned it had been hidden in the squadron. “That’s why Bedford was here. He must have come to either check on the manuscript or retrieve it, so he could move it. When he saw the prayer carpet burning, he must have lost it and attacked Georgia.”

I wondered if Penny had written
lie like a rug
during her “interview” with Bedford. It gave the phrase a kind of double meaning, a clue to the hiding place of the manuscript and her opinion of Bedford. She must have realized by that second interview that he was a liar.

Thistlewait escorted me back to the table and said, “Okay, explain that message you left on my voice mail.”

“It’s long and convoluted,” I warned. “There’s a picture on the squadron’s bulletin board of a guy wearing a shell necklace, and it got me thinking about the jewelry, necklaces, stuff like that, and men. I remembered I’d seen a rosary made of castor beans at the Bedfords’ house when I was there organizing the closet. That fact clicked with a few other things like Clarissa said Bedford did all the cooking. He could have taken a few castor beans from the rosary, dipped them in chocolate, and slipped them into the gold foil bag Penny had in her backpack.

“Her car was broken into the week before she died. I bet that’s when Bedford slipped the poison into the bag. She was glad the thief hadn’t noticed her backpack in the trunk, but I bet that’s what they were after, not her radio. Bedford may even have delegated that job to Rory. But what bothered me the most was Sam and Rory, sitting in jail, not talking. It would seem like one would rat out the other to get a deal. So I wondered, were they taking the fall for someone else?

“And I’d wondered where Penny’s notes were from her interview with Bedford. You didn’t find any, did you?”

Thistlewait stopped writing and shook his head. I leaned back in my chair, unclasping my hands. I felt better, steadier.

“She didn’t take any,” I said. “It wasn’t an interview. I think she found the manuscript the week before she died. Jill Briman said Penny cleaned in here after Muffin Monday. She must have found the manuscript, but left it where it was. Maybe it was too delicate to move. She photographed it, then hung around the squadron to see what would happen. That was the day she had a video conference with Will. If Rory came in from his flight, stored some artifacts in the squadron, and dropped some off with Mr. Baseball Cap or Victor, Penny would have assumed Rory was the person who’d hidden the manuscript behind the carpet.

“She’d have gone to someone to turn him in because she was so passionate about artifacts. I don’t think she’d have tackled Rory directly. It wasn’t her way. She wasn’t confrontational. She could have gone to Briman, but he’s on his way to a new assignment and it’s pretty much known that he’s coasting along until it’s time to PCS. Jill told me herself he doesn’t want anyone or anything to rock the boat during the time he’s got left. That left either the police or Bedford. She had a rapport with Bedford back in the fall, so she must have decided to go to him, thinking he’d handle it. But she was actually going to the head of the smuggling ring.

“She met with him in the middle of the week. His secretary said probably Wednesday. Bedford asked for a few days and Penny gave them to him. Marilyn thought Bedford was asking for a few days to find photos for the exhibit, but he probably convinced Penny he needed a few days to contact the right people. He may even have held her off by saying that the investigators wanted to let the operation go on to give them a chance to catch everyone involved.

“Instead of contacting anyone, Bedford got the ricin in Penny’s chocolate-covered espresso beans and waited for her to die, but she didn’t die. At least, not fast enough for Bedford. Maybe he didn’t realize it could take several days for the poison to kill her. By then it was Monday and she was back for their second ‘interview,’ which wasn’t really an interview. By then she must have suspected Bedford was in on it. That’s why she downloaded the photos to her disk and hid it at my house. That’s why she asked for my help, too. I’d dealt with you before.”

I swallowed hard and said, “Since the castor beans hadn’t worked, Bedford sent Rory to kill her Monday and make it look like a suicide. Neither of them, Rory or Bedford, would have known she was pregnant, and that fact, for Penny, would make a suicide attempt out of the question. Then just when Rory and Bedford thought they had their operation running smoothly again, Clarissa demanded a cut of the profits.”