“Right,” Kitty said.
“But,” Cora Mae asked. “Wasn’t it dumb to wear orange shoes? They led right to the Detroit gang.”
“Not to mention the stupidity of stealing paper,” I said. “Kent couldn’t have known he had a fistful of fake money. He had to have thought he had the real thing. And the orange shoes haven’t helped any of us solve the case. So maybe the shoes were a blind lead, meant to confuse us.”
“Well it worked,” Kitty said. “I’m confused. We have to straighten this out so we can quit hiding in this sorry excuse for a home.”
Cora Mae was thinking hard. “What if Bob set up Kent? He sent him in knowing he wouldn’t make it out alive. He and someone on the inside had already taken the money.”
“That won’t work,” I reasoned. “If Bob took the money, he wouldn’t want Kent to get caught holding paper. That would lead to a full investigation, which it did, and then everyone would know the money was missing, which they did.”
The more I thought about it, the more confusing it became. “All we have to do,” I said, letting Fred out of the trailer to do his business, “is find out why Kent stole play money, find out why Bob killed him, figure out who killed Bob, and find the missing money.”
None of us said anything for awhile. We were out of ideas. The orange shoe business had preoccupied us for too long. During the robbery, I remembered thinking the robber was insane to wear orange shoes in a holdup, especially if they led somewhere. Maybe it was a ruse, after all.
Maybe we should concentrate on our own backyard a little more. That left Shirley, Tony, Dave, and Sue. All were insiders and had opportunities to steal from their employer.
I scrapped my plate and started a sink of hot sudsy water.
That’s when someone opened up on the trailer with an automatic weapon.
By the time I whirled around and realized what was happening, Kitty had blown off the chair she was sitting on. She hit the floor seconds before Cora Mae and I took a similar dive. Only ours was voluntary action, Kitty’s had external force behind it.
“I’ve been hit,” Kitty screamed, clutching her chest and rolling onto her side.
Frankly, I was relieved to hear her speaking even if I hated what she said. Blood seeped through her fingers where she clutched her chest. She looked down. Her hands weren’t staunching the flow.
“I never expected to go out like this,” she moaned. “I always thought it would be my heart that gave out, with the extra pounds and all.”
“Shush,” Cora Mae said, “You aren’t dead yet.”
Up until now, Cora Mae has been the one with all the questions and insecurities. What are we going to do next? How are we going to handle this mess? Why do we have to drive around in this cruddy vehicle? Why? Why? Why?
I’d never seen her react under real pressure, but I was witnessing it now.
“Nine-one-one,” she screamed into her radio, louder than she needed to. I assumed for our attacker’s benefit so he’d know we had contact with the outside world.
I threw the kitchen table on its side and scooted between it and the refrigerator, dragging Kitty with me the best I could, considering she outweighed me by at least a hundred pounds. Her legs were still exposed, but there wasn’t anything I could do about that. Cora Mae was behind the wood-burning stove with her back up against the wall dividing the living room and bedroom. She continued to shout our emergency into her radio.
Where was Fred? At first, I thought he was inside with us, but then I remembered letting him out. Please Fred, be off chasing squirrels on the opposite side of Walter’s house.
Too bad Walter was down at Herb’s Bar or he would have taken care of the madman with his arsenal of stashed weapons. If only I could get to the house and find them. But I didn’t have a chance.
Another volley of firepower interrupted my thoughts. Windows blew out. Glass rained down. I had my radio out and changed the frequency to the one the local cops use. I screamed into it. “Machine-gun fire. One of us is down. Walter Laakso’s place. Ambulance. Help.”
Blood was draining from Kitty’s face and heading for the hole in her chest. I heard sirens wailing in downtown Stonely, calling in volunteers for an ambulance and the posse. Herb’s bar would be cleared out by now.
I hoped they wouldn’t be too late.
“Stay with us, Kitty,” I said. “Help is on the way.” Her eyes were fluttering. I wasn’t sure she heard me.
All was quiet outside. The shooter hadn’t anticipated our radios and our ability to contact outside help from the hunting trailer. He had to be gone by now. Only a fool would hang around until the entire town arrived.
“Go, Gertie,” Cora Mae said. “Get out of here. I’ll stay with Kitty. They’ll arrest you if they catch you here.”
I’d thought of that. If our local law enforcement found me here, they’d haul me in. I’d be behind bars with Blaze. Kitty would be in the hospital, and Cora Mae couldn’t even drive. Who would be left to save us?
“Go,” Cora Mae ordered. “I’ll tell them you ran after the person who shot Kitty.”
Another thought crossed my mind and that one got me fired up for flight. Cora Mae would have full access to George if I went to jail. Like I mentioned earlier, my mind does strange things under duress.
Sirens wailed and I estimated I had about two minutes, if that. I cautiously raised an empty gardening glove in one of the windows and waited. Nothing. I stuck out my left arm thinking if I had to lose one it might as well be the one I didn’t write with.
Nothing.
I grabbed my purse and glanced back at my friends down on the floor. Cora Mae was cradling Kitty’s head.
When I opened the trailer door, a note was taped to the outside of it. Just a warning
I looked at the blood covering my two friends and thought it had been much more than a warning.
Chapter 23
AS I’VE SAID BEFORE, WE love our weapons in the U.P. Most of us have at least three or four. Some of us have dozens. Automatic weapons might be illegal in this country, but Yoopers never consider themselves bound by the same laws as other United States citizens. We do what we want to.
Me? I had my purse full of weapons, but they only worked up close. That wasn’t good enough. Than I remembered Grandma Johnson’s pistol. I’d taken it away from her the last time she waved it around in the air, threatening me and my dog.
The run from the trailer to Walter’s rusty junker was the longest of my life. There’s not much scarier than the potential of a shot in the back by a hidden sniper. Every second I expected to feel the impact of a riddle of bullets ripping into my torso. While I started the truck, I anticipated someone out there beading into my forehead with a scope. My hands shook while I fumbled with the ignition.
I blew out of Walter’s driveway, amazed that I was still alive. Half a mile down the road, I spotted something resembling a big bear ahead of me. As I approached, I realized it was Fred running along the side of the road. He was heading home, the smart boy.
After a mutually warm greeting, Fred hopped into the truck and we raced home to pick up Grandma’s pea shooter. It wouldn’t stand up against the kind of weapon that was used at the trailer, but it was better than nothing.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the bullet hole in Kitty and the color draining from her face.
The guinea hens did their little alarm dance around the truck until I stepped out and they recognized me. Fred dashed for the house, only two steps ahead of flapping wings and pointy beaks. I opened the door, we stepped in, and I instantly smelled old lady.