Dead Head

I hoisted myself onto a narrow counter, flattening myself and holding on to a cabinet handle. I craned my neck just in time to see a tall slim woman shepherding the Sturgis kids into the house.

“Don’t worry, Edwina will look after them.”

I turned around slowly, struggling to keep my balance, and saw a very handsome but toothless man pointing a gun at me. In his other hand were two hunks of plastic and porcelain.

“Still want to buy the horse? Bridges. They have excellent dentists in Chicago when you have enough money. Once Caroline gives me my money, I’m getting implants. Good ones. Get down!” he ordered.

I did as he said, but hung back as far as I could, clinging to the edge of the counter.

He slipped the dentures back into his mouth and all I could think of was how I’d like to knock them down his throat. What would the Main Street Moms think about their new friend when they found out he was really a thief, a drug dealer, and quite possibly a homicidal cheerleading coach?

Kevin Brookfield banged on the door that led to the house and yelled for Eddie/Edwina to open up. He grabbed my arm and shoved me toward the door in case Eddie got nervous and shot first before looking to see who it was. “Eddie, let me in. It’s me, Hop.”

Nothing I had at my disposal could match a gun, except maybe my brain. At least that’s what I was hoping. I clutched the car keys in my pocket. I could stab him with them but only if I could get close enough. Not likely. And Caroline’s garage was so much neater than mine. There were no tools strewn about that I could use as weapons. Just a color-coordinated assortment of metal boxes that I knew held her neglected craft supplies, but I couldn’t tell if any of them was heavy enough to deliver a knockout punch. What was her last unfinished project-origami, shell art? Dammit, why was she so neat? I tried to think like Caroline. The pastel boxes probably held light stuff-felt, rickrack, calligraphy brushes. Then I remembered something Caroline had made for me. She’d painted the word PEACE once on a nice flat river stone. I guessed the gray box, three feet away from my right hand.

“Don’t do this,” I said. “There’s nothing in this house except a couple of kids. They don’t know anything. And Caroline didn’t steal your money. Kate probably did. She probably hid it somewhere before she died and it’s never been found. C’mon, you used to be a coach-you must love kids.”

“I hate kids. I only took that job so I could ogle young girls in short skirts. Then one of them fell off the human pyramid and broke my nose. Kicked out my last few good teeth, too. Dumb broad.”

Oh, brother-that was a tactical error. Overhead we heard footsteps and scuffling. Hopper called out again, but this time I did, too. And louder.

“Springfield police! Open up, Springfield police!” I wasn’t even sure we were still in Springfield, but it had terrified Grant and me when we were in the nursery, so it was worth a try.

“Shut up, bitch!” He screamed at me and slammed me against the counter and his dentures slipped. He yelled again. “Eddie, it’s me!” but it was so garbled, I wasn’t surprised Do

“Eddie Do

Forty-four

The Sturgis kids were unharmed and Jason was declared a hero for pushing his sister out of the way when he cracked Edwina on the head with his spare hockey stick.

When the dust finally settled, Edwina Do

Do

Kevin Hopper was charged with attempted murder and was also being questioned in the deaths of Kate Gustafson and Chase McGinley. When the body of Kate Gustafson was exhumed, it was learned that the deceased was actually a part-time waitress named Rosa

Lucy Cavanaugh’s freelance article “I Was a Fugitive” got bumped to the back of the newspaper when a baby whale got stuck in the Long Island Sound. To Babe’s surprise, but not mine, she was consoled by Mike O’Malley. They had their first date last week, but Lucy hasn’t shared details. Yet.

Under the tutelage of Hank Mossdale I have decided to take horseback riding lessons. He is working on my seat. Impressed with my skills as an investigator, Nina Mazzo has offered to sponsor me for my private investigator’s license. I am considering it from a hammock on a beautiful beach in Jost Van Dyke.

And Caroline Sturgis, née Monica Weithorn, was cleared of all charges, past and present. On the day she was exonerated, she got a congratulatory text message simply signed with the letter “K.”

Rosemary Harris