Chapter 9—A Velveteen Grilling

  It was an hour later that Di and Mac were sitting around Doc MacDougal’s kitchen table again, Sgt. Peewee having been left back at Mac’s house. Amazingly, Nora was still alive, although in pretty bad shape.

  Right now, she was in the doc’s spare room with plans to move her to an Asheville hospital once she was slightly more stable.

  The surprising addition to the scene this time was Velveteen, whose assistants had alerted her. Despite her longstanding rivalry with Nora, she’d jumped in immediately to help, first moving the rest of her merchandise inside her store and then locking up with a key she’d found in the woman’s purse. After that, she’d found ways to make excuses for why they were wheeling the woman away, claiming to the few visitors who hadn’t been driven away by the off-key children’s choir that Nora was exhausted from the long day and that Cute ‘n’ Cuddly would be back in business soon.

  Admittedly, many of the visitors had headed back home or to the campgrounds or rental houses with sleeping kids in tow already, so there weren’t that many people left to see. It was also the night when the new resort held their Come One, Come All, Marshmallow and Weenie Roast Extravaganza, which—although only in its second year—was becoming a fixture of the fête.

  Now, having helped Velveteen bring Nora to the doc’s house, Di and Mac sat under their new mayor’s knowing glare with their untouched orangeade and lemonade in front of them, as Velveteen drummed her fingers on the table.

  Very little about her had changed from her elevation to head of the city. Today’s Indian textile dress was purple. She still looked much more like an old hippie than a mayor.

  Finally, without looking away from them, she called out, “Silas!”

  “Yes’m?” he wondered, as he came in from where he’d been helping his mother in the sickroom.

  “Your mom need you for anything in particular right now?”

  He shook his head.

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Good,” Velveteen nodded. “Then go in the living room and watch some TV. Y’know. The way you want to watch it. Loudly.”

  It took the boy a second, but he finally blinked and nodded.

  “Yes’m,” he agreed—apparently used to being ordered around by forceful women—and headed off to do just that.

  Pretty soon, they were hearing about the houseguests on Big Brother from the other room. Di hoped his brains didn’t rot out before Velveteen said whatever she was planning to grill them about under this cover of noise.

  “Tell me everything,” she ordered.

  And, surprisingly, Mac did immediately—at least up to the point she’d known about. Then, she turned to him and added, “What did you get from Nora before she collapsed?”

  Like a good boy, Di told them everything. After all, one of these women had his heart and soul and the other held all his secrets. Trying to hide anything would have been crazy.

  Once he finished, Velveteen spoke very softly.

  “So the sheriff has been poisoning people.”

  Although Di flinched a bit at hearing it said out loud, he nodded.

  Really, it was the only way it all made sense. While Aunt Mary had means and motive, she wasn’t a stupid woman. If she’d done this, he doubted she’d have been celebrating the mayor’s death quite so openly after it—and she’d never have poisoned him in her very own restaurant, not to mention that he’d never heard about any bad blood between her and Nora.

  Given what Barry had let slip earlier, too, it seemed the sheriff had been in the diner with Pocket soon before he collapsed. If he’d slipped something into Pocket’s peach pie, it might even be why he’d lost his taste for it later. While Di wasn’t certain what the man would have brought to Nora, just a cold drink would probably have been welcomed after a long day of selling at the fête.

  Still, for all it made sense, there were questions.

  “But, if the mayor was bribing Pommel—. . .”

  Velveteen held up her hand, and he got her point. Even with the TV blaring the antics of various, thoroughly unlikable houseguests, it probably was better not to say some things.

  But his question remained.

  “Then why . . .?”

  Sighing, Velveteen’s voice was so low it almost couldn’t be heard.

  “Oh, he was bribing him, all right. Although the sheriff came by City Hall before the fête this morning and offered to help me ‘move in,’ I’d already found and hidden Pocket’s books.”

  Mac seemed amazed.

  “He actually kept records of the people he’d bribed?”

  She blinked.

  “And in a physical book?”

  For a moment, Velveteen chuckled softly.

  “What can I say? The mayor was seriously old school.”

  “But then why . . .?” Di asked again.

  “Because the sheriff’s reluctance to work with the state police was drawing attention—and that was the last thing Pocket wanted. He already had plans to replace the sheriff with you, which the man obviously knew about.”

  That the mayor had had plans to oust Pommelroy was certainly true—as the two men’s screaming match a while ago in his office had made clear.

  Still, eyes wide, Di just sat there, until he remembered how to speak.

  “Um, me?”

  She couldn’t have meant me.

  Then again, who else would she have meant? There weren’t a lot of other people in the room.

  Maybe Mac?

  Granted, she’d have been great at the job if she wanted it. Still . . .

  But Velveteen nodded once, confirming his guess.

  “Uh, why?”

  Di couldn’t imagine anyone less likely—Sgt. Peewee would have made a more logical choice—and knew that none of the officers, except maybe Alex, would listen to him, anyway.

  And the night shift would be even worse.

  They were mostly ex-rent-a-cops who hadn’t been able to stay awake on the job. Or whose malls had gotten closed down. They were mostly there to call in the day shift in case something real happened—although it never actually did.

  If you want to find a convention of old, snoring men, look to the Prospector’s Rest Sheriff Department’s night shift.

  Clearly, Velveteen saw this and nodded.

  “I think that was part of what he was hoping for, that you’d be too busy fighting off insubordination to get anything real done. Plus, he figured you’d be grateful and indebted to him.”

  “And it would look great when it came to the town,” Mac added. “I mean,” she went on at his look. “A small Southern town but with a black sheriff! Hooray! No racism to see here, folks. Move right along.”

  “It probably would make him and the town seem open-minded,” Di agreed.

  Which would help with the tourism. While, mostly, the town’s attitude to visitors was that any variety of them was fine, so long as they brought their money—and there were certainly citizens of all shades and creeds—the town was still pretty white, overall. And it held to fairly rigid old gender notions, too, as the fact that he couldn’t admit his main, stitching pastime to anyone made clear.

  Head still spinning at this idea, Di’s voice sank even lower.

  “So taking out the mayor was a matter of preserving his job. But Nora?”

  It seemed a lot of trouble to go to, just to cover up that he’d borrowed a book.

  “Well, Nora is about the biggest gossip in town,” Velveteen answered. “She’d already mentioned to two of my helpers that she was aiding him in creating a garden. When eventually there was no garden, only an ability to find poisonous plants, don’t think Nora would have kept quiet about it. Certainly, he knew she wouldn’t.”

  Apparently, they weren’t even using the man’s title now.

  “But why borrow it from her, then?” Di wondered. “We do have a library.”

  Granted, it was tiny and in an old house close to Main Street, but it had a definite gardening section. Trying to grow things in rocky, mountain soil was probably top three conversation starters around town, only second to, “How are your children/grandchildren doing?” and just above, “Did you see that last Tarheels game?”

  Velveteen snorted.

  “That man walks into the library. Full stop. You don’t think that’s going to be the main subject of gossip in town for at least the next three weeks?”

  Certainly, it wasn’t a likely scenario, so Di kind of got the point. But actually poisoning Nora still seemed ridiculously excessive.

  Apparently, Velveteen picked up on his thought, leaning in, her voice dropping yet further.

  “I know. Unfortunately, I think he’s gotten a taste for it now. He’s feeling like a god who can drop whomever he likes. We’ve got to find a way to wrap this up soon, or who knows who he’ll go after next.”

  It was a worryingly good point. After all, none of them wanted to be the next victim. Two poisonings at the very same fête were more than enough for one year.

  Chapter 10—Brotherhood of the Crochet Needle

  Later that night, their plans in place—even if none of them made Di feel any better—he was crocheting plush animals at about the rate of one every ten minutes. It was a pretty good way to keep track of how nervous he was. He was also on a videocall with Boomer.

  “Look, Di, I know you’re nervous, buddy. I get it. But you can do this.”

  Di was not at all as confident. Tomorrow, he was going to have to try to draw the sheriff into a private conversation they were then going to record. It seemed an absolutely insane plan.

  Of course, without it, there wasn’t much they could do. They didn’t have direct evidence yet, and arresting the top law enforcement in the city was already a fairly dicey prospect. They were going to have to have something to make a pretty good case against him, or else.

  Just “we think he did it” isn’t going to be enough for the state police. And, if we give our hand away without getting an excuse to arrest him, any or all of us might get poisoned, too.

  Still, he had to put down the bunny he was working on before he ended up making its face look more like a turtle. His hands were shaking.

  “Easy for you to say,” he sighed.

  For a moment, he rested his hands on the table in front of him and tried to breathe slowly.

  It didn’t help. He was still shaking.

  “I’m no hero. I wouldn’t even make a good mallcop outside of the tiny, no-crime burg I live in.”

  Although he was trying to feel tough, he wasn’t. He defined the term “big softy” and had all his life. He was basically 6' 4" of big teddy bear meant for cuddling and making cute things and . . . very little else.

  It’s no wonder Mac will never want me, he mused, feeling sorry for himself. She’s absolutely fearless and tough as nails.

  After all, the woman had once come across a black bear and her cubs in her backyard. When the bear was about to attack to defend her offspring, Mac had not run into the house or screamed or frozen. Instead, she’d stood up on her tiptoes and let out a ferocious yell which had echoed around the town. The bear had quickly sprung away, herding her kids in the other direction.

  Mac had been sixteen at the time.

  It had been her dad’s favorite story about her. He’d always wanted her to take over as sheriff after him—although he’d seen that as happening in about thirty years, not anytime soon.

  Continuing to let his fears out, Di gestured at the screen.

  “You and Mac, y’all are tough.”

  Although Boomer frowned, it might have been in confusion over what Mac had to do with this—even though, when talking to Di, Mac had something to do with everything.

  “Look at you. You went to another country and took on terrorists.”

  Granted, the man didn’t look like it now, as he was carefully crocheting a baby cap with a halo on it, but still . . .

  “I’m too scared to take on a porky little old man.”

  Sighing, Boomer put down the cap and stared at him. Di knew it was serious, as the man rarely put aside his crafts.

  “Okay, first, idiot bravado is not the same real bravery. Hell, every man in my unit was terrified, except for the ones who would have run at the first signs of trouble. The ones who’d be there when they were needed were all scared.”

  He shook his head.

  “Real, brave men and women are almost always scared when they head into danger. But they’re brave, ‘cause they do it, anyway. You, my brother . . .”

  He pointed to Di.

  “You’ve got a heart of pure gold. You ever punched anybody?”

  Di shook his head, as Boomer went on.

  “And yet you put up with being picked on by those idiots you work with every day. Now, do you do that ‘cause you’re scared?”

  “Of those guys? God, no.”

  He thought about it for a second.

  “Well, except . . .”

  “. . . When they start to turn into serial killers,” Boomer nodded, continuing. “And do you know why you’re not scared?”

  “‘Cause they’re all morons?” Di guessed.

  Boomer snorted.

  “They’re all morons you could take out with one punch. And they know it. And you know it.”

  Pointing at Di’s chest again, he went on.

  “It’s that heart of gold of yours. You don’t slap them down, ‘cause you know they’re just wilfully stupid and aren’t attacking anyone who can’t handle it. It’d be like stomping some yappy little dog. You don’t need to prove who’s stronger, ‘cause you know you are.”

  While Di couldn’t entirely disagree with this, he still wasn’t sure. He continued to listen, though.

  “Now, if they took on someone weaker . . .”

  Bristling a bit, Di had to agree—if only internally. Had any of the idiots he worked with tried to attack or bully someone it would actually hurt, someone who wouldn’t see it as more an annoying fly buzzing around, he would have ended it fast.

  “The reason you’re scared,” Boomer explained. “. . . is 1) ‘cause you’re not stupid, and you know you’re going up against someone dangerous. And 2) While you are more than capable of taking care of yourself, you’ve never actually had to step up and do it. No one’s ever been dumb enough to attack the weak while you’re around. If you had that muscle memory of what you could do, well . . .”

  Boomer laughed softly.

  “You’d still be afraid but not as terrified.”

  While Di supposed so, he still felt overwhelmed.

  “Think of it like this,” his friend guided him.

  Picking back up his halo, Boomer smiled.

  “You’re going to do this, because the only other people who can are either Mac or Velveteen . . .”

  To Di’s intense glower, Boomer smiled further.

  “. . . and there’s no way you’d let them do this alone.”

  Giving him a look, his point made, Boomer ended the call, and Di sighed, knowing he was probably right. There was certainly no way he’d let Mac anywhere near the sheriff now.

  Trying to keep his calm, even if he never did get any sleep that night, Di pondered Boomer’s advice. He just hoped he was worthy of living up to it.

  Still, by the morning, he had at least stopped shaking. And he had an entire crocheted, plush animal army to testify to how ready he was.

  Chapter 11—Caught in a Cute ‘n’ Cuddly Lair

  Saturday was always the fête’s biggest day. Now, among the crowds of kids and parents and crafters and snacks of every sort, with an oompah band playing covers of heavy metal songs on the nearest stage, Di had to figure out how to trap a backwoods sheriff well enough that he wouldn’t find some squirmy, redneck way out of it.

  Of course, the plans for this were all set, and only a few had had anything to do with him. Still, Di was half-mad to get started.

  It wasn’t that he wanted to do this, but the wait was only making him come up with a thousand ways this could go wrong. That the oompah band was chugging their way through something which might have been Black Sabbath’s “War Pigs” wasn’t making it any easier to think.

  “Di, cool it, willya?” Mac pressed him. “If you wear a hole in her carpet, Nora will seriously kill you when she recovers.”

  True, Di was pacing and could not calm down. The general environment wasn’t helping.

  The carpet he was abusing was pink. The color assault wasn’t making it any easier to think—and neither was the display of “Yes, Jesus Loves Me” items which had spread like a fungus over one of Cute ‘n’ Cuddly’s walls. They were printed on clothing for newborns through 5X and on everything from shirts to overalls, all in either pink or blue, just to be sure that everyone knew you held strictly to gender lines, as well.

  Possibly being around Fuchsia had made him notice this more, but, as a man who stitched, he’d never been very good at doing the he-man, Tarzan thing, anyway—and the saccharine assault was getting on his nerves.

  Trying to take in Mac’s advice, Di forced himself to stop pacing, but it didn’t make him feel any better.

  It had already been a ridiculously-long day trying not to give away their plans with his intense nervousness around Sheriff Pommelroy. The fact that he hadn’t eaten anything, for terror that the sheriff might poison it when he wasn’t looking, wasn’t making things any easier. It was a miracle he’d made it to almost 2 p.m. without passing out.

  He’d even brought in his own water bottle today, which hung from his belt. It was metallic, in cobalt and silver—the colors of their local high school—and said, “Prospectors Strike Gold!” The school had given them out in a fit of optimism a few years ago when the football team had made it to regionals. Despite the swag, they hadn’t made it any further.

  Pommelroy had laughed at it, too, but at least that was hopefully keeping him from noticing what they were up to.

  Outside, the oompah band slipped into Judas Priest’s “Another Thing Comin’” which meant they were working their way up to their grand finale, Iron Maiden’s “Run to the Hills.” That last one was such a ridiculously fast song that if only one of the tuba players passed out after it, it was considered a good day.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9