Hometown Homicide Read online

  “Maybe so.” Gabe, already finished with Marc, came over to stand beside her. “But it appears he thinks you do either have or know something to connect him to these murders.”

  “I know.” Guilt gnawed. “I know he does. Honestly, you’d think he’d have figured out that if I could identify him, I would’ve done so by now.”

  “You’d think,” he agreed.

  “And now, the twisted idiot put Maggie and Marc in danger tonight. Or I did.”

  “Not you. It’s all on him.” Lines crinkled at the corners of Gabe’s eyes. “Marc says he slept through most of the excitement. Didn’t wake up until it sank in those were gunshots he heard.”

  Lew snorted. He yanked a tiny bit of glass from her hand and, on a note of satisfaction, said, “There. I think that’s it. Rinse this blood off, Frankie, and let’s see how it looks. Marc is a heavy sleeper,” he added to Gabe. “I’ve noticed it before. Never knew Chris to sleep through a call, though. Or any of the others.” He twisted around and called over to the dispatch station, “Benton? You reach Chris yet?”

  “Not yet. I hope he’s all right.”

  “If he doesn’t show up in the next five minutes, I’ll send Rudy over to check,” Gabe said.

  Into the chaos of Gabe questioning everyone, including the bar patrons who’d followed the sound of his siren, Chris walked into the station, his hair mussed with a serious case of bed-head. Eyes wide, he took in the carnage.

  “Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”

  A regular chorus answered.

  Knees creaking, Frankie got up and headed for the sink. Hot water and soap stung the small wounds, but she knew no single cut was serious. She allowed Lew to disinfect and apply bandages to her palms, wondering how she was even supposed to wash her face at this rate.

  Her temper, as details of the attack came back to her, climbed into the red zone. “I can tell you one thing,” she announced at large. “After this, I’ll be carrying. No more ambushes for me. Enough is enough.”

  Gabe’s gaze locked with hers. Civilian with a gun? She could almost see the question rolling through his mind. Undeserved self-reproach showed in his face, and then he gave a short nod. Acknowledgment of her army training, perhaps. No argument, although, for a moment, he looked like he wanted to protest.

  Loose cannon? Not her.

  “You got a gun, Frankie?” Lew asked.

  “No,” she said. “But I know where I can get one.”

  The clock dial turned over to six-thirty. Frankie gave up on trying to sleep and threw back the lone sheet covering her. Slumbering at her side, the two dogs awoke as she moved, Banner jumping to floor to stretch out his hind legs one by one. Shine waited for help down.

  Frankie staggered out of bed, lifting the small dog with her. It had not been a restful night, what with her hands and knees hurting like hell and her worrying about the murderer taking another pot shot at her. It seemed inevitable that one of these days he wouldn’t miss.

  She teetered into the bathroom, clumsy, using just the heel of her partial foot. Gads! Talk about “rode hard and put up wet.” Unable to splash water over her gritty eyes, with a grunt of exasperation, she ripped the bandages Lew had applied with such care from her hands and eyed the cuts. Kind of a mess, the deepest still seeped pinkish blood.

  Ignoring the pain, she washed her face and struggled to don prosthesis and clothing without leaving bloodstains all over everything. Just what she needed, to ruin a brand new wardrobe.

  “C’mon,” she told the dogs who sat waiting for her to finish. The three of them pattered down the stairs, Shine taking the steep steps with care. The bichon was nearly recovered. Still got her meds, though.

  Unlike other days, no note informing her either of progress in catching the shooter or inviting her to help herself to whatever was in the refrigerator waited on the kitchen table.

  “Kids,” she announced to the dogs who were taking turns lapping water from the bowl, “I do believe we may have worn out our welcome.” Pausing long enough to see to Shine’s needs, Frankie checked her key ring and continued outside.

  Someone had been around earlier because her Ranger had been returned after being examined for any evidence following the shooting last night. Frankie’s anger swelled again at the sight of a bullet hole boring through the driver’s side front fender. Grandpa would roll over in his grave for sure if he knew.

  Gabe had locked the overhead garage door, as expected, up tight. Ditto the side door, with a padlock veiled over by cobwebs and a nest of yellow jackets glued between the steel clasp and the brass knob. The nest teemed with insects crawling in and out. As a deterrent against any would-be burglars, it probably served better than the padlock.

  “Huh,” she said to the dogs. “You guys better take up a different corner of the yard, just in case this goes wrong.”

  As though guessing what she had in mind, Banner grinned at her and headed into the shade on the other side of the wide back porch. Shine, the Samoyed’s constant shadow, followed.

  Frankie poked around an ancient lilac bush until she found some dead wood. With a strong wrench, she broke off a switch about three feet long.

  Switch firmly in hand, she slashed at the nest. Breaking away, it fell to the concrete pad in front of the door. Yellowjackets swarmed through octagonal openings, but before they could rise, Frankie stomped down with her sturdy work shoes. Shuddering, she pulverized the nest.

  Selecting one of the keys on her ring, she slid it into the slot and turned. Stiffly, the padlock tumblers clicked over. She removed the lock from the hasp and turned the doorknob.

  It was going to feel odd—sad, really—walking into the garage. The last time, she’d been here was with her grandpa, before she joined the service.

  Last time in the garage, last time she saw Grandpa. He’d died of a massive stroke not long after that, during her first tour of duty.

  She opened the door and slipped inside.

  Her curiosity got answered on one level. Gabe did have a personal vehicle. A slightly dusty, as if it hadn’t been driven in a while, Jeep Wrangler soft-top in a dark green color. It sat squarely in the middle of the garage, leaving room on either side for a lawn mower, rototiller, and an ancient snowblower. Shovels and garden hand implements hung from hooks on the walls. A workbench still resplendent with Grandpa’s well-kept tools was in front of the Jeep.

  Frankie flipped on the overhead light, a fixture with three fluorescent tubes, and headed straight for the bench, where an electrical outlet extended from the wall on each side. Taking up a screwdriver, she removed the cover from the one on the left—the one located in the darkest part of the garage. The cover gone, she reached into the aperture and pushed down on a metal latch out of sight beneath the electrical box.

  There was a click, and the wood panel covering the space between three studs slid aside. Grandpa’s gun safe. So safe—Frankie smiled a little—even Grandma, who had no interest in guns or shooting, hadn’t been quite sure of its location. But Frankie knew. It’d been hers and her grandfather’s secret.

  She studied the collection, finally selecting an Airweight .38 caliber pocket pistol. Small enough to be easy to conceal on her person, enough firepower to provide decent protection.

  “Thanks, Grandpa,” she whispered.

  For a second, it was as if her grandfather’s ghost stood next to her, then she moved, and the momentary apparition faded.

  In reversal of the opening procedure, Frankie slid the safe door shut, then left the garage. She didn’t even worry about Gabe noticing the yellow jacket nest she’d squashed on the way in. Didn’t everybody destroy them at the first opportunity?

  With the pocket pistol secured in a quick release ankle-holster concealed by her boot-cut jeans, Frankie set off with Banner and Shine for Spokane to search out a new apartment.

  A useless trip, as it happened. Nobody wanted one dog, let alone two.

  At five-fifteen, tired and angry, she got back to Hawkesford, barely in time to
change into her uniform before work and settle the dogs inside the house.

  What was she going to do if Gabe told her to pack up her dogs and leave? No one in Spokane that she could discover rented property to people with dogs. She’d never go back to Mrs. Lane’s overpriced and under-maintained hovel, for sure. Which reminded her—she’d never gotten her deposit back. No surprise on that score.

  Tomorrow, if she lived through the night, she’d try for a place in Coeur d’Alene. One, going by the balance in her checkbook, that didn’t require both a first and a last deposit.

  A middle-aged man she hadn’t yet met sat at the dispatch board with the headphones over his ears when Frankie got to the station.

  “I’m Al,” the guy said.

  “Hi. I’m Frankie.”

  He gave her a small salute, so she guessed he recognized her. Probably famous for the way trouble follows me, she thought.

  Lew and Chris were at the scene of a rollover down by the lake, or so Karl Mager, who emerged from his office, informed her. Marc had yet to arrive.

  “He’s leaving it to the last minute. He was pretty shook up last night.” Karl’s chuckle seemed forced to Frankie.

  “He’s not the only one.”

  “I may assign Darryl to help you cover EMT if Marc can’t handle his shift. Darryl says he’s had a bit of training. At least he’s some muscle to lend you a hand.”

  Boarded over windows—a result of last night’s attack—made the station unbearably hot and close. Frankie broke into a sweat at the simple act of stowing her purse in the locker. When Karl looked away to answer the phone, she surreptitiously adjusted the ankle holster. Wearing it was going to take some getting used to, especially in this doggone summer heat. She’d be lucky if the nylon holster didn’t rub a raw spot on her leg. But she’d checked in the mirror before coming to work. Her stiff cotton uniform hid the small bulk well.

  Another mental note. Next time she was in Coeur d’Alene, she needed to stop at headquarters and request an enhanced concealed carry permit. For now, she refused to worry. Legal or not, she was damned if she’d go unarmed.

  With a few minutes to spare, she went into Karl’s office as soon as he hung up the phone.

  “Heard from Deputy Zantos?” she asked, oh so casually.

  “You mean, you haven’t?”

  She shook her head.

  “Huh.” He tilted his swivel chair almost to the break-off point. “Well, the crime scene guys were here early this morning, pulling bullets out of the wall and your truck, and looking around outside.” Karl’s face crunched into wrinkles. “Far as I could tell, they didn’t find anything, not even any brass casings. Your shooter is a careful guy.”

  My shooter? “So no arrest pending.” Frankie hunched her shoulders, thinking of the long night ahead. But surely the guy wouldn’t be so bold as to try and strike twice in the same way. Or would that be the smart thing to do?

  “No arrest that I know of,” Karl said. “Although along about seven this morning Gabe took off like a bat out of hell. Said he had a couple people to talk to right away. Hope he comes back with some good news.”

  “Me, too.” Nobody wished it more than she did.

  Marc arrived for the shift he shared with Frankie, to her relief. Darryl made her a little uncomfortable, and she didn’t want to work with him. Though, when she thought about it, she had no discernible reason.

  Lew and Chris finished their run, returning the ambulance to the garage with replenished stores rattling around on the gurney. Which was fine with Frankie. Putting supplies in their proper place gave her something to do in the slack time.

  Lew insisted on looking at Frankie’s hands before clearing her to work, adding a stern admonishment to “bandage those open sores and wear gloves.” Nothing she didn’t already know.

  Chris wandered around bugging Marc and her for their take on last night’s shooting. What he didn’t ask, Darryl—hanging around the EMTs, as usual—did.

  Frankie decided he was a bit of a ghoul.

  To everyone’s surprise, Maggie tootled in while both shifts were still there, although Karl was digging car keys out of his pocket.

  “Gonna be a party,” she announced, determinedly cheerful and acting as though last night had never happened. “Saturday night at the Grange Hall. We can take turns covering the shift for a few hours, so everybody has a chance to show up.”

  Karl groaned. “I don’t like parties, Maggie. What’s up with this one? Middle of harvest, nobody will come. You better wait until fall.”

  “Can’t wait.” Maggie used her dispatching voice, cool, crisp, and efficient. “This community is holding an emergency fundraiser.”

  “Who for?” That was Chris, standing over by the lockers.

  “You mean ‘for whom,’” Maggie corrected, making Frankie smile at the look on Chris’s face. “And it’s for one of our own. Hasn’t it occurred to any of you except Gabe Zantos that Frankie McGill lost everything but her dog and her pickup in the explosion the other day? And her pickup just got used for target practice.”

  “Oh, no, Maggie.” Hot blood scalded into Frankie’s cheeks. “Really. It’s not necessary. I’m fine.”

  “Fine my foot. Oh, don’t worry. This isn’t going to be any big thing that’ll make you obliged to us for the rest of your life. But I think we’ll raise enough to get you going again.”

  “Please, no,” Frankie said.

  “This your bright idea, Maggie?” Darryl asked. Every one of the crew—except Frankie—turned a hard stare at him. He backtracked. “I mean, it’s a good idea. I just thought maybe we should kick in some extra for the guy burned in the fire out at Hayes’s place. What do you think?”

  Maggie’s eyebrows took on a surprised arch. “Wow! I think it’s a great idea, Darryl. Good on you for thinking about him.”

  Nobody wanted to listen to Frankie’s protests to leave her out. Good lord, what a fraud. Her co-workers insisted on treating her like a charity case when she had a job and money coming in. Once Grandma’s house and estate got through probate, which should be in the next couple of months, she’d be well-off, comparatively speaking. Financially, things were just a little tight at the moment.

  Frankie’s phone jangled. Dr. Kelly was on the other end.

  “Hello, Ms. McGill—Frankie. I thought you might like to know I met your policeman today. He showed up at my clinic first thing this morning before I got the overnighters checked and fed. He wanted to discuss the Smoke Signals spreadsheet.”

  Frankie couldn’t tell if the veterinarian found this good or bad. “Did he agree with our summation?”

  “Couldn’t tell, but he asked good questions. And there was something else—”

  “What?”

  “Something he saw on the list, I think,” Dr. Kelly said. “I don’t know what and didn’t have the nerve to ask. Can you? Ask him, I mean.”

  Frankie didn’t have to think. “I can try.”

  “And let me know what he says.”

  “Will do. If he says anything. I’m not exactly in the loop around here.”

  “Well, whatever you can discover.”

  One thing still puzzled Frankie when they hung up. Why were so many people calling Gabe Zantos hers, when the man was only being polite?

  Chapter 21

  After a fairly uneventful night, Frankie staggered out of bed around noon, feeling heavy and thick—like an overstuffed rag doll, if that made any sense. Heat in the upstairs bedroom had already built to a sweat-inducing degree. Sunlight poured in through the blinds. Perfect weather for cutting wheat or recreation on the lake, but not for daytime sleeping. She and the dogs beat it downstairs where a window AC blew cooler air.

  As though she were peeking in the window waiting for the right moment, Jesselyn called just as Frankie poured her first cup of coffee, a liquid so stale and bitter she almost spit the first mouthful into the sink.

  “Hiya, Jesselyn.” She ran some tap water into the coffee to dilute it from pure mud to slur
ry.

  “What’s up?”

  “Don’t ask me what’s up,” Jesselyn screeched, almost deafening Frankie. “That’s the question I’m asking you.”

  Frankie held the phone away from her ear. “Does this mean you heard about the excitement at the station the other night.”

  “Excitement! Is that what you call it?”

  “I guess I could call it an attack by an armed man intent on killing someone—most likely me. Although by the way he was throwing bullets around, he didn’t appear to care who got in the way.”

  Jesselyn gasped. “I must say you sound awfully calm about it. My God, Frankie, you could’ve been killed.”

  “I’ve been under fire before.” Frankie couldn’t quite keep the dryness out of her voice. “And this time no one got hurt. Well, glass cuts, but that’s nothing. So I’m not going into hysterics.” Besides, she had her little pocket pistol handy now. She didn’t plan on going anywhere without it after this.

  “Did anybody see the guy?” Jesselyn asked. “Can’t any of you identify him?”

  Frankie glugged a swig of coffee. “Not that I know of, but I just got up. Maybe Maggie or Marc has thought of something. I hope so. Actually, I’m hoping the whole case has been solved by now. If so, nobody told has me.”

  What’s more, the idea seemed doubtful. She stared out the window at Banner, cavorting in the yard with a ball in his mouth she figured Gabe had given him. Shine ran after him, yapping. At least someone is carefree, she thought sourly.

  “One thing for sure,” Jesselyn said, “nobody can point a finger at Matt this time. He was with me—all night.”

  To Frankie’s ears, the all night part sounded a bit defensive. Hmm. Or maybe gloating. Not that she could blame Jesselyn. Who wants a boyfriend with the cops eagle-eyeing him every moment?

  “Do tell. Speaking of which, are you ready to introduce me to Matt?” Frankie was trying to change the subject and lighten the moment. Thankfully, the ploy worked.

  “You’re going to meet him, all right.” Jesselyn sounded resigned. “At the party the fire department is throwing for you on Friday night. He wants to meet you too, and says to save him a dance.”