Murder Takes to the Hills (38 page)

“No. I hope they’re far away.”

The plane turned toward us and began to accelerate. It seemed slightly off kilter to me, and the engines sounded unsynchronized. I started to laugh. Then I saw a piece of metal drop down from the wheel well and scrape along the runway. I began to laugh hard.

Cindy took my hand and gave me a concerned look. “Alex?”

“It’s okay, honey, I haven’t freaked. They’ve got the wrong plane! Somehow Rho and Cassie got the propeller put back on and these idiots took the plane that can’t fly! Just look at that right wheel.”

As if on command, the right wheel crumpled, the right wing dropped several inches and the plane veered to the right, crossways on the runway. That move took care of the right propeller. It flew off, continued to turn in the air for a few yards and settled gently in the grass beside the runway.

The plane stopped just in time for four police cars to scream around us and surround it. The officers jumped out, crouching behind the doors. I hoped Nacho had remembered to mention the Uzi.

Sonny was immediately on the bullhorn. “Turn off your engines and throw your weapons out the door. Then come out slowly and lie down on the ground. I’ve got a SWAT team here and I’d love for them to get some practice.”

There was a moment when it seemed nothing was going to happen. Then the remaining propeller slowed and stopped, and there was silence. Then the plane door opened and the ladder went down. The getaway driver appeared in the door and tossed out the Uzi plus three pistols. He came down the ladder and lay down. Nice Guy came out next. At the bottom of the ladder he raised his hands and called “I’ve got to help this guy, he’s hurt. Give me a minute.”

Everyone tensed, but nothing happened except that Fatso half fell down the steps and had trouble getting down on the ground. I wondered what was wrong. Frank was the last man out, still cradling his hand.

Sonny looked at him curiously. “Which security man got you in the gun hand? That takes some shooting.”

“Neither,” Frank answered. “One of them spent the whole time lying curled up like a scared kid. The older one said we
oughta
surrender to him before someone got hurt and Earl shot him—dead, I guess.” He pointed at Nice Guy.

Yeah, I nodded, he looked like an Earl.

“So who got you?”

“The woman over there.” He pointed at me. “I dropped my gun, and she and the other one ran away.” He indicated Cindy.

Sonny looked at me, turned beet red and hissed, “How many damn times have I told you not to try a fancy shot when it matters? What if you had missed? He could have shot back. You could have hit a bystander. You could be
dead
. How would I have told Mom?”

“Shut up!” I hissed back. “You’re babbling. If you must know, I was aiming for the middle of his back. And you needn’t tell that to the world!”

“Jesus Christ, Alex…” Before we could add to this enlightening conversation, Rho and Cassie burst out the side door of the hangar and came running toward us, Cassie calling, “Thank God you’re here! Is everyone all right?”

“Pretty much so,” I answered. Hugs went around. And I finally got to ask, “How on earth did you rig it so they got the wrong plane?”

She and Rho both laughed. “The wheel was already on, like I told you,” Rho explained. “Between the two of us we managed to put the old propeller back on the engine—it wasn’t even fastened. I can’t believe it lasted as long as it did.”

Cassie added, “We pushed the plane out onto the tarmac, and left the keys in it. We closed and locked the hangar. It seemed probable they’d be in a hurry and not look at details…just start her up and run for it. And that’s what they did. Then we locked ourselves in the office, and peeked through the blinds.”

Sonny shook his head admiringly. “Sometimes I wonder where women get their ideas. Men would still be shooting it out. Hatcher! Come and drive our two wounded heroes down to the clinic.”

“I’m not hurt,” I announced. But I was, I realized, shivering in the warm sun. And for the first time, I noticed my left sleeve was bloody. Now what the hell was that?

“Take them in her car,” Sonny ordered. “Then call for a pick-up at her house.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

So once again I sat in Dr.
Gloetzner’s
office at the end of a totally draining day. Only this time Cindy was with me. The cut on her knee looked nasty and had taken two stitches, and she still looked a little pale. Any sympathy I had felt for Frank’s shattered hand had disappeared.

My “wound” was truly minor. A small piece of flying marble had lodged in my forearm.
Gloetzner
pulled it out with one painful yank, squirted something on it that stung and slapped a large Band-Aid into place. And that was it.

“How’s the security fellow?” I asked. “Did he make it?”

“Mr. Penny is critical, but stable.”

“I’ve never understood what that meant,” Cindy said.

“In Mr. Penny’s case it means he is out of surgery, not yet any better, but shows no sign of getting worse. With luck, he will recover.”

“What about the fat guy?”

“He got a sizable sliver of glass in his left buttock. We had to knock him out to go after it.”

“I’d have been glad to knock him out for you. Could I do it now?” I was feeling lightheaded.

“Thank you, no. If needed, we will call you.”

He swung one leg over the corner of his desk and said, “Now, ladies, I would speak seriously with you. On the matter of stress. It has come to my attention you have had a rough time of late. First a stalker.”

Thank you, Loose Lips
Lainey
.

“Then according to your Aunt Mae, you visited Cindy’s cousin, I believe, in Tennessee and were in considerable danger, plus in trouble with their local police.”

Thank you Babbling Brook Mae.

“And now, the events of today.” He continued. “These things add up. They not only affect your emotional balance, they begin to put a strain on your physical health.

“So.” He reached back on his desk. “I have written you each a limited prescription for mild tranquilizers. They won’t make you a zombie, they just take the edge off. And if you would like to see a counselor—our man is pretty good, or there are several others you may wish to consider.”

He handed us the
scrips
. “And perhaps most important of all, I recommend you get away for a truly restful vacation. Not New York or Atlantic City—Vermont or Maine perhaps.”

I managed not to hit him. Cindy dredged up a smile and her social voice.

“Doctor, thank you so much for your kind concern. We will certainly fill your prescriptions and consider some psychiatric advice. As for vacation, I am convinced that Vermont would have an earthquake that would blow off the end of the Richter scale, and Maine would manage a tsunami with a sixty-foot tidal surge. The gods have forbidden us a vacation this year.”

“What we need,” I explained, “is our beautiful, calm everyday life—Cindy dealing with idiot clients, while I try to explain to an irate tourist that their B&B is not responsible for their getting drunk and falling into the goldfish pond. We need Wells to get in a boxing match with the neighbor’s tomcat and Fargo to eat my sugar peas off the vines before we can pick ’em.
 
We need to go to the cottage for a restful weekend and spend it helping Aunt Mae rearrange her herb garden and put up new shelves in the shop. And we look forward to a few good fights over decorating a new room on the house. This what we need.”

He smiled. “It may well be. Well, we are here if you need us.”

“We know that.” This time Cindy’s smile was genuine. “And it’s a great backstop.”

“Do you want to stop and fill the prescriptions?” Cindy asked.

“If you do, sure.”

“I don’t think so. I think a scotch and watching the sun set over the pond would do it for me.”

“Especially,” I added, “if the
furballs
are with us.”

Cindy nodded, so we stopped by the house just long enough to collect the little darlings and moved on to the cottage. The sunset was duly lovely. The little darlings had their usual tiff over the miniature soccer ball that Fargo liked to drop in the pond so Wells couldn’t play with it. We ordered lots of Chinese food that we all four liked and ate all of it.

We talked about a color scheme for the new bedroom.

We discussed what sort of thank-you gift we should send to Ken and Frances. We decided on the game of
Clue
to add to their small stack of rainy day board games. And a bunch of specialty breads from a very good bakery downtown, plus some fancy bottles of various “waters.”

Satisifed
with our creativity, we retired for the night.

We went back to the house Sunday evening so that Cindy could check her wardrobe for the week ahead. And so that I could make a list of things I needed to do in the coming week, a list Cindy was happy to assist me with.

Late Monday afternoon Harmon arrived to mow the lawn, saying I shouldn’t do it with an injured arm. How he knew it was even slightly damaged, I would never know—Provincetown’s jungle drums never missed a beat. I usually did the lawn, and could have easily done it today, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

And truth to tell, I was rather glad to let him do it. I had spent the morning at Peter and the Wolf’s B&B dealing with an obnoxious guest who had been sitting on the porch banister, lost his balance and fell into an azalea bush.
 
They had been happy to apply a soothing ointment to his several scratches, but thought that covered their responsibility.

He, on the other hand, wanted a doctor to check out his back plus punitive damages for his “emotional trauma.” He planned to sue. I pointed out to him that there had been four empty chairs on the porch, when he chose to sit on the railing. I added that he had been drinking. If he sued and lost, I added, he would be out enough money to have spent his vacation on the Riviera. He finally agreed.

While Harmon mowed I put in some radish seeds and planted the frail little lettuce plants he had brought as a gift. I knew they were a lot tougher than they looked, but I still felt I should tuck them in with a light blanket. As he finished up the yard, I gave the seeds and plants a gentle drink. I shivered slightly under the now cloudy sky and suggested we go into the kitchen for a beer. He agreed happily.

Just as we sat down, the phone rang. It was my mother.

“Hi, Mom, how are you?”

“Fine. It’s you two that have my concern. Is Cindy really all right? And what about you?”

“Absolutely fine, both of us. I got some radishes and lettuce planted while Harmon kindly mowed the grass.”

“How nice of him!”

“Nice indeed.” I winked at Harmon, who blushed. “What’s up?”

“Next Saturday and Sunday afternoon is the church jumble sale. I wondered if you and Cindy would be up to manning a booth?”

I cringed, but then, Mom did a lot of favors in a lot of places, and rarely asked for one in return.

“Sure! Wouldn’t miss it. Anything but clothing. Some of it smells of mothballs and it makes me sneeze.
 
But anything else would be fine.”

“Thank you, darling. I knew I could count on you. I must run—more calls to make. I love you both.”

I said we loved her, too, to a silent phone.

Harmon and I moved to a second beer and talked of garden things. I heard a car door close and assumed it was Cindy, but it was Sonny who came through the kitchen door.