Most likely, the killer panicked and then hit the chili cook on the head for good measure. I could sense the answer close at hand, but I was missing the one little piece to the puzzle that would prove to Lightfoot and Ellis that I was correct. No matter what they said, someone tinkered with Lucky’s pacemaker. Dani O’Neal.
All I had to do was prove my theory.
Lenny whimpered and wriggled in my arms.
“Shh. It’s okay. I won’t be but just a minute.” I set Lenny down just inside the van.
I wanted to feel the weight of the stun gun in my hand. Sure, I’d seen them on television and in the movies, but never held one. With extreme care, I picked one up. It had weight and heft while still being deceptively light, like a can opener. Part of my brain was saying Put it back, you’re trespassing. The other part of my brain, the crime reporter side, could’ve no sooner let it go than I could bypass honey with a warm sopapilla.
What a rush! And then goose bumps began to rise on my arms. “Why does he have these?” I murmured.
Lenny whined again.
“Hm . . . you may be right.” What would Frank, a fireworks guy, be doing with stun guns? Fireworks and stun guns—somehow it didn’t seem like such a reach for him to have an interest in both. And sleeping out here under the stars, he would need some type of protection.
“Meow.” Frank’s cat was glaring at us, her head sticking out from the gap in the curtain.
“Whoa, kitty.” She took a step forward. “Stop.” She stared, back raised, waiting to see what we would do next.
A nagging thought caught hold. These could be the stun guns that had been stolen from Pinyon Pawn. Old Frank could support himself with a bit of burglary on the side. Was it mere coincidence there were three in Fillmore’s van? There was only one way to find out.
“Lenny, stay.” I pulled his leash through the rear door handle and knotted the end. “This way you and the feline won’t get into a tussle, and she won’t escape only to be found by the coyotes.” I closed the door, careful not to slam it completely shut in case Lenny needed me.
“Watch out, cat. Here I come.” With Lenny conveniently outside, I waved my arms like a crazy person until the cat escaped through the curtain and into the front seat. I felt only a twinge of nervousness and guilt at invading Fillmore’s private lair. Frank would be preparing to launch his fireworks display, and once the show started, he’d be occupied for at least the next thirty minutes.
Carefully, I shoved boxes and crates to one side, the better to read the stun guns’ serial numbers while keeping an eye out for an angry feline. The inside cabin light was off, but the flash from the camera on my cell did the trick. My fingers turned into thumbs as I hurried to forward the images to Lightfoot. Only when I hit send did I notice my cell phone reception was at zero bars.
The photos would be enough unless Fillmore ditched the evidence. I’d changed my clothes for the fireworks. Against my better judgment, I grabbed a stun gun loosely with two fingers, wormed it into the oversized side pocket of my cargo shorts, and covered it with my shirt. It wasn’t exactly hidden, but if anyone looked closely, they might think I was carrying a bottle of beer in my pocket. Darkness should mask my covert operation until I could pass the weapon on to Lightfoot.
“Okay, Lenster. Let’s go.” Gingerly I lifted the box and placed it on top of the crate with the remaining two stun guns inside—exactly the way I’d found them. I pushed against the rear van doors, but they had closed. With my Maglite, it was only the work of a moment to find the handles, but the doors refused to budge. Ugh. Did cargo vans have child locks? Were the cat and I locked inside for our safety?
Great. I’d simply crawl around the boxes and crates, and whatever else was back here stabbing into my knees, and escape out of one of the other doors.
“Lenny, I’ll be right out.”
Suddenly a fist appeared and began knocking on the rear window. “What are you doing in there?” I couldn’t make out the voice, but it definitely belonged to a man. This was going to be extremely embarrassing if Deputy Barnes or, God help me, Lightfoot was on the other side of that door with their gun drawn. I’d be too embarrassed to walk down Main Street for at least a month.
And how was I going to explain myself? I’d start with the truth about finding the missile and then wing the rest. I rose up on my knees so whoever he was could see me through the window.
It was Frank, the fireworks guy. He carried a lamp made to resemble an old-fashioned kerosene lantern. He’d raised it up high, close to his face. No need to guess his reaction to finding me inside his van; I could read his disapproval and outrage in his suspicious glare and clenched jaw. Or maybe it was the way he stood with his legs far apart in a defensive stance.
“Hi, Frank.” I gave him a wave and a smile. “Mrs. Mayor, uh, I mean Mrs. Cogburn, sent me out here to see what time you thought, uh, you’d start the fireworks show.”
“When it’s dark.”
“Uh, right. I think she was hoping for a specific time.” My knees ached and I felt like a fool yelling through the window.
“I’ll decide when it’s dark enough. That’s
