And then he had the nerve to start laughing at me.
I felt my face flush in an instant. “I won’t sit here and be made fun of,” I said and stood up and grabbed my purse off the back of the chair. “See you around.”
“Riley, last night . . . that woman, the one you saw at my apartment—”
But before Jay could finish his sentence I heard the squealing of tires and then a second later something came hurtling through the plate-glass window where I had been sitting just seconds before. I had barely processed what had happened when Jay jumped across the table and threw me to the side, shielding me with his body.
“Stay down,” he ordered, now sounding every bit the DEA agent he was. Glass pebbles scattered everywhere while people screamed and ducked for cover.
I felt dizzy with panic as I snuck a glance out from under Jay’s arm. There was a hammer lying on the tile floor surrounded by puddles of beaded glass. It had a massive iron head and a long wooden handle, almost more like an axe than a hammer. I immediately pictured what would have happened had I still been sitting when that thing came flying in, and for a second I felt like I might throw up.
“Everybody stay down,” Jay announced, and he stood up slowly and drew a gun that I didn’t even know he had been carrying. “I’m DEA. I need you all to remain calm and stay put.”
Mrs. Swanson and Betsy Norbitt huddled under the overhang of the counter, looking terrified. And Jonathan Gradin clung to the bottom of the cherry-printed café curtains that hung down against the wall, his fleshy face red and sweaty. A calm, grim-faced Rosalee had come out of the kitchen when the commotion began and was now on the phone, presumably to 911. Jay ran outside but the car from which the hammer had been thrown was long gone. I sat crouched under the table, shaking, confused—and wondering if that hammer had been meant for me.
CHAPTER 35
Everyone at Rosalee’s was ordered to stay onsite until someone from the sheriff’s office took our statements. Jay called in help from his office, and within minutes of the attack there were at least four uniformed law enforcement officers and several other “official” people milling around, snapping photographs, tagging evidence, and taking statements. At one point, Jay checked on me to make sure I was okay, but it was little more than a question-asked/question-answered exchange before he was pulled away.
There are basically two ways one can react to almost being cleaved in half like Newton’s apple: frenzied hysteria or complete and utter denial. I opted for the latter. I don’t remember making the conscious choice not to panic, but in the aftermath of the attack I found myself surrounded by eyewitnesses who wanted to do nothing more than tell their story. So when I suddenly remembered that I was a reporter, I took out my notebook and got busy doing my job. It not only made good sense, but it made for an excellent distraction from thoughts of What if?
I interviewed several people, one of whom was Jonathan Gradin, who gave me an animated account of how he bent backward on his stool—Matrix-like—to avoid flying glass and certain death. It didn’t exactly square with my memory of him clutching the curtains like a scared cat, but who was I to question his hero’s account? I was wrapping up with him when the mayor and Toby walked up to the café.
I extracted myself from Mr. Gradin, who seemed disappointed to be cut short, and ran out to the sidewalk. Upon seeing me, Shaylene Lancett threw her arms around me and pulled me into a tight embrace.
“Oh, Riley! Are you okay, sugar?” She sounded positively distressed at the thought that I might be hurt. “I’ve just been worried sick about you—about all y’all—in there.” She pushed me back to arm’s length, still holding me by the shoulders. “Were you hurt?”
“No, not really. Just a little spooked,” I said, taking a step backward. “Sorry I missed our meeting.”
She waved me away. “Nonsense. You and I can have our little chat any old time. In fact, let me just finish up with Carl here and then we can talk. Can you sit tight a few minutes and wait for me?”
You’d think that given that someone had just thrown a hammer through the window of one of Tuttle’s most iconic businesses, the mayor would have bigger fish to fry than being quoted in an obituary, but apparently not.
She turned to Carl, who was standing nearby talking to one of his deputies. “Carl, you don’t mind if I steal Riley for a quick few minutes, do you?”
He made sure that I had given my statement and then said I was free to go. “By the way, Lindsey Davis is going to drop the charges against Thad Davenport.”
It was the first bit of good news I had heard in a while, and I was deeply relieved.
Toby did not feel the same way. “But that man is guilty as sin!”
Carl ignored Toby and addressed himself to the mayor only. “She said we don’t have enough to convict.”
That made sense to me. All the evidence that had pointed to Thad was circumstantial, but in light of the attack on David and the threatening note left for me—both of which happened when Thad had an irrefutable alibi—a lawyer could easily make a case for reasonable doubt. It wasn’t a resounding declaration of his innocence, but it was good enough to at least kick the can down the road.
Mayor Lancett said nothing, acknowledging Carl’s news with a terse nod. She then turned to her nephew, “Would you please take Riley over to the shop? I’ll be along in just a few minutes.”
Toby turned to me and said a weary,
