questions.”
Patricia looked impatient and I realized I better get to the point or she’d put the tape on me just to shut me up.
“Why kill Dr. Bullard?”
“Who said I did?” she said with her eyes flashing. Then her expression changed to a thoughtful one. “It was perfectly done, wasn’t it? But I had a chance to plan, unlike with Drew.
“Dr. Bullard recognized me at the book signing. He got in touch with me and started to lay into me for causing him and his wife embarrassment. I knew he could be trouble when he mentioned he still had the brochure I’d made up.” Patricia smiled. “I’m good. I really am. I told him I was oh, so sorry about the whole thing and wanted to make it right. I said I had the real piece of Irish crochet I’d used as a model for the fakes and wanted to give it to him. I asked if he’d give me back the brochure so I could put the whole thing behind me.” She shook her head with disbelief. “He said yes. I actually don’t think he would have ever turned me in, and he never mentioned Drew’s death, so I don’t think he connected it with the fake antiques. All he cared about was having something real to give his wife. But I didn’t have any authentic Irish crochet to give him. So, I had to get him out of the way.”
Patricia didn’t seem to feel any remorse about what she’d done. But she did seem pleased with the perfection of her planning. She’d arranged to meet Bullard in his office in the evening. “I pretended to be his wife and ordered the soup and had it left in the reception area. When I arrived, it was there waiting. I dropped a roofie in it. They are way easy to get hold of,” she said as an aside. “I said he must be hungry after a long day and offered him the soup as a goodwill gesture.” She snorted out a laugh. “He actually thanked me for it and said he’d missed lunch. A few spoonfuls and he was out cold. I grabbed the brochure, set off the bug bombs and I was out the door.”
She looked at her watch. “I really must be going.” She lit another cigarette. “My, I am surprised they store something as flammable as this,” she said, pouring some citrus cleaning liquid on some rags and dropping them on the floor.
“Sorry I don’t have another roofie.” She found the box of paperweights and took out the one shaped like the bust of Teddy Roosevelt. “I think I have it down now. I should be able to knock you out with only a few smacks.” To demonstrate, she swung her arm with the paperweight a few times. I flinched and tried to move. She got ready to do it in earnest, but then the cigarette fell out of her hand and hit the rags, and they began to smoulder.
She glanced down for a moment and gasped at the growing flames. But still, she stepped toward me with the Teddy Roosevelt bust poised. Any second now, it was going to fade to black for me. I was helpless with my hands and feet taped together. Behind her I could see the yarn swift on the edge of the shelf. I couldn’t do anything with my hands or feet, but I still had my shoulder. With all the power I could muster, I threw my shoulder against the shelves. They made a rattling sound and shook. At first I thought it hadn’t done any good, but as the shelves vibrated, the yarn swift toppled off.
As it fell, it opened, revealing an inner structure like that of an umbrella.
The rags were really beginning to flame, and Patricia coughed and squealed. She threw down the bust and took a step back to escape. As she did, she stepped right into the yarn swift and her foot tangled in it. Panicking, she tried to break free, but the more she tried to pull out of it, the tighter it became. She tried to walk with it on her foot and lost her balance. Frantically she reached for something on which to steady herself. The only things to grab at were the shelves. I had merely tapped against them, but Patricia grabbed them full force, and as the big unit began to totter from side to side, everything on them began to shake, rattle and then roll off toward her.
I was feeling pretty panicky myself as the enclosure started to fill with smoke. Trapped by Patricia and the shaking shelves, I started to cough and choke.
The jars of tomato products slipped off the top shelf. They missed Patricia but crashed on the floor, spattering both of us with blobs of red. The plastic gallon jugs of brown liquid came next. One after another they fell over, rolled off and hit Patricia on the head. She was right. It wasn’t that easy to knock somebody out. It took three of them smacking her on the head before she finally crumpled. And as the jugs finally hit the ground, their plastic caps broke off and the liquid poured out. I cringed, afraid of an explosion. But as I smelled the onion scent I realized it was soup base. It poured over the burning rags, dousing the flames.
I didn’t waste any time getting out. Patricia still had the gun in her purse and her head wasn’t in a bowl of soup. She could come to. I tried to jump over her, but instead I fell on her and had to twist myself around to get my legs faced in the right direction. I hopped toward the door and finally outside—and collided with Adele.
“Pink, I have to talk to you,” she said, throwing her arms around me. “You won’t believe what Eduardo did. . . .” Then suddenly it registered that I had my hands and feet bound together and globs of red stuff all over me.
“Is something wrong?”
CHAPTER 25
“EDUARDO SHOWED UP WITH HIS GIRLFRIEND and her kids. He wanted me to get them into the tent,” Adele wailed. “I feel so betrayed.” We were sitting on the curb waiting for the police. We must have made an odd sight, she in her mortician beatnik look and me in my white shirt and khaki pants covered in blobs of tomato stuff. I thought
“Pink, you’re so right. There is somebody out there who is way better.” She went to hug me, but stopped when her eyes rested on the red blobs.
It had been Kevin who called 911 and cut me free of my duct-tape restraints. And not without a certain amount of pain. He’d looked up from his soup making, seen me through the window and rushed outside.
In the event Patricia came to before the cops arrived, I’d found the roll of duct tape in her purse and, after pulling the yarn swift off her leg, wrapped her ankles and wrists. I wondered if she would think it was such a great hint when she was the one wearing the duct tape. It was my second run-in with duct tape, and I hoped never to see the silvery stuff again. I made sure her purse with the gun in it was out of her reach.
I heard sirens in the distance and as they grew louder, I prepared for the onslaught. Moments later, amid a lot of flashing lights and noise, a fire engine, rescue ambulance, several black-and-whites and a black Crown Victoria pulled up in front of us.
Detective Heather got to me first. Her eyes took in a red speckle on my shoulder, and she waved the paramedics over, but I stopped her, explaining it wasn’t blood. She started to snicker when I said it was tomato stuff, but her expression changed when I brought her to the storage unit, explaining Patricia’s phony antique scheme and how all the pieces fit together to show she was the one who killed Drew Brooks and Arnold Bullard. I also mentioned she had confessed to me and then tried to kill me.
“Don’t believe her. She tried to kill me,” Patricia yelled. She’d come to and was sitting up, kicking her feet, and even with her wrists taped she was trying to grab at the shelf unit. She struggled to pull herself up, but everything that hadn’t fallen the first time started to fall now. For the first time since I’d met her, Patricia had a hair out of place. She was a mess.
And when she heard Detective Heather tell her she was under arrest, she kept yelling they’d gotten it all wrong. A uniformed officer pulled off the duct tape and replaced it with real handcuffs. Patricia screeched and said she needed medical attention for the tape burns as the cop led her toward one of the cruisers.
“We’re even,” Detective Heather said as she watched Patricia get in the backseat of the police car. “I’ll forget about the hanky tampering. There won’t be any obstruction of justice charge, either.” Our eyes met for a moment and I detected a flicker of respect. Then she turned away to make sure the storage unit was wrapped in yellow tape.
Another plain car pulled up. The door flew open and Barry jumped out. I saw him take in the scene, and his gaze stopped on my shirt. I knew he was looking at the red spots. His eyes flared with emotion and betrayed his bland cop face as he double-timed it across the street.
“Tomato sauce,” I said, pointing at the largest spot when he got within earshot. He rolled his eyes and I saw his shoulders relax. He seemed to let his breath out, too. Then he asked if I was really all right.
When Barry was working he never gave hugs or did anything personal. But this time he stood next to me so
