A Hoe Lot of Trouble (19 page)

I needed a full moon.

I needed my flashlight.

A gun would have been nice too, but I hadn't thought to bring one.

Reaching out, I searched with the pads of my fingers for my flashlight.

My heart beat so loudly I was sure it could be heard across the room. Heck, down the block.

"Trespassing is illegal."

No shit. That's why I did it when no one was around. Well, when no one was supposed to be around. The man's voice was familiar but odd. It was as if I'd heard it before, but muffled or changed in some way.

I tried to listen for his breathing, to place him in the room, but my own breathing was too loud.

"You can talk, you know," he said.

Honestly, I didn't think I could. I was pretty sure my vocal cords had frozen in terror.

Where was that damn flashlight?

I willed myself to calm. I needed to be in full control of myself. I didn't know if the man was friend or foe, but I suspected foe.

I kept searching for the flashlight, my arms making wide arcs across the floor. It couldn't have gone too far. It was reassuring knowing that he probably couldn't see me in the darkness, either. Probably.

He said, "I could probably shoot you and get away with it."

Chills danced up my neck, and I shivered.

Foe. Definitely foe. Glad I figured that out, the amazing detective that I was proving to be.

"But it might be bad for business," he said lightly.

John Demming. I recognized the playfulness in his voice. It was the flirty voice I remembered, not the tense, strained, angered voice he used a few moments ago.

He probably could, which scared the bejeebers out of me.

He kept on talking as if he had nothing better to do. I kept searching for my damn flashlight.

"I wondered why my brand-new secretary called and quit right after you left today."

Ack! He knew it was me. Well, not technically. He didn't know my name, only my face, which was equally horrible if one thought about it. I tried not to. I tried to focus on a way of getting out of this mess.

"So I have a son, eh? I've always wanted a son."

Creeping a little to the left, I continued my search.

"And you know, I might have left my wife for someone as beautiful as you . . . if I had a wife."

Definitely insane.

"The fact is I wanted to ask you out this afternoon. And

here I was, thinking I'd never see you again because you neglected to leave me your number or your name." He
tsked
. It sounded menacing in the darkness.

"But, alas, the fates were smiling on me. I happened to look out my window to see a woman creeping into one of my houses. And lo and behold, it's you."

His window? What was he talking about?

"I bet you didn't figure into your plans that I live across the street."

Uh, no. Never came up.

"And since you snuck in here, not knowing my house was the one
across
the street, that leaves me with only one question: What are you doing here?"

I inched a little bit more to the left. Where, oh where, was that flashlight? It struck me as odd that he didn't have one of his own. Did he think he knew his house designs well enough to not need one? Was he like a cat and could see in the dark? Lord, I prayed not.

"Don't make me ask again."

I took exception to his tone. He didn't have to get snippy.

Taking a quick shallow breath, I said, "N
o hablo Inglés
."

He laughed. It grated on my nerves. I heard him take a step. Closer? Back? Was he leaving? Dare I hope?

"Good try, Nina."

I nearly choked. Besides the discovery that he stood about two feet directly in front of me, he knew my name. How?

Ohmygod!

Good try, Nina. Y
es, he had said it. I wasn't imagining things, was I?
How
did he know my name? I wanted to ask him, but I didn't dare give away my location. Not when he was threatening to shoot me.

"So you want to know about the Sandowskis, hmm? You think something's going on over there?"

Hell, yes. How would he know I was helping the Sandowskis if he wasn't involved in terrorizing them? Why else would he be threatening to shoot me? Why not just call the police when he saw me sneak in here?

Did he really have a gun? Would he actually shoot someone he deemed beautiful? Could he see me?

Since these weren't exactly questions I wanted answers to, I tried to scoot ever so quietly away. I put my hand down to brace my weight and it landed on the flashlight. I almost let out a cry of relief.

"I'm getting a little peeved."

Peeved. What a shame. I felt for him.

Visualizing his form and his stance, and taking stock of the direction of his voice, I made a mental image of him.

"I'm going to count to three, then I start shooting and ask the questions later."

"One."

Ohmygod, ohmygod. Was he bluffing? Did he really have a gun?

"Two."

I heard a soft metallic click. A safety on a gun?

"Thr—"

I flipped on my flashlight and aimed it in the direction of his face. He squinted at the sudden brightness. A gun was in his left hand, his finger on the trigger.

I kicked. A sweep, really, of my foot. I put as much weight as I could behind the motion, hitting my target in his knee. He pitched forward, cursing. I scrambled to my feet. I made it to the stairs without using the flashlight, but I didn't risk going down without it.

Suddenly, I heard a pop, and ducked automatically. I didn't know if the bullet came close to me or not, and I didn't want to know. All I wanted to do was to get the hell out of there.

With one hand I pressed the rat poison box to my breasts and used the other for balance as I slid down the steps on my butt. I ignored the pain. My adrenaline was in full gear.

I heard footsteps above. Demming fired his gun again. I rolled to the side, not knowing if I was rolling in or out of the path of the bullet. It was pure instinct.

"Dammit. Stay where you are!"

Oh yeah, I've always wanted to be used as target practice.

The front door was to my left. Outside, there was a bobcat parked on the lot next door. The streetlights gave a clear view of everything. Which meant that if I made it to the door, Demming would be able to sight me easily.

Creeping to my right, I ducked under the steps as he came down the stairs. The corner of the rat poison box jabbed me on my breast. I shifted the box and used my foot to search for something to throw. I found a chunk of wood and tossed it near the front door. Demming pivoted and fired.

Would the gunshots rouse the neighbors? Even if they didn't, Demming would call the police. He knew me, my name, my face. He'd have no trouble picking me out of a lineup, I was sure. How was I going to explain this to Kevin, my family? As soon as Demming turned left after coming off the stairs, I sprinted right and hurled myself out the back window.

Two more gunshots followed. I prayed that his bad aim was a permanent flaw.

I ran, never looking back, to my car parked on Millson. At least I had the foresight not to have parked it anywhere in the subdivision. I wished I'd had the foresight, though, to have worn gloves when I went into that house. My prints were everywhere.

I sped to the all-night gas station across the street from Sandowski's Farm. I needed to call Bridget and I'd forgotten my cell phone at home.

The pay phone sat directly under a bright streetlight. I

turned my back away from the street and deposited my fifty cents. You had to hate inflation.

No one was home at Bridget's. I called her cell phone but it switched to her voice mail after a single ring. I even tried her office number, but there was no answer there either.

If Bridget could identify the rat poison as being the same kind found near the sheep's drinking trough, we would be one step closer to putting John Demming behind bars. And after the man shot at me, behind bars was exactly where I wanted him.

How had he known my name?

I glanced back and forth down Millson like a fugitive, as if the police were about to descend on me. Which I realized I was, and which they might be.

When I reached the safety of my car I took a deep breath. The box of rat poison was on the seat next to me. I reached over and patted it like I would a small child and started the car.

I'd spent a sleepless night on the couch, gun in hand. Still jittery, I'd dragged Riley to Taken by Surprise with me, and swapped my Corolla for my work truck, an unmarked F-150, before I spent my morning in detention with him.

Demming could have killed me. Poof. Gone. Just like that. It wasn't just fear that had kept me up all night, but my conscience. I knew I needed to report Demming, but there was a side of me—the, uh, felonious side—that didn't want to mention why I was in Demming's house in the first place.

It was completely my word against his about his being the shooter. I could see him now telling a judge that he had the right to protect his property against burglars.

And me? What did I have to say for myself? That a box of rat poison, circumstantial evidence at best, might prove that Demming was a murderer? Not likely to get me out of jail, since it sounded so lame. After all, that poison could have belonged to anyone. Unless Demming's prints were on the box, I couldn't even prove it was his. And even if his prints were on the box, I still had no proof that he'd poisoned the sheep. So basically I had nothing. Nothing at all.

Big help I was turning out to be.

After spending forty-five minutes in detention with Ri

ley, I nosed around the school, looking for Michael Novak, school cop. I wanted some clear answers regarding the Skinz, was determined to get some, and figured Michael was a good place to start. But he wasn't to be found.

Stopping into the office on the way out, I hoped to catch Robert MacKenna in. He was, the secretary said, and she pointed to his office. No escort this time, I noted. Did this mean I was moving up in the world?

"Mrs. Quinn!"

"Nina, please. Please, please."

He smiled. "Have a seat, Nina. How was detention?"

I yawned. "Just as boring as I remembered it."

He leaned forward. "You? In detention? I don't believe it."

"Believe it."

"When? How? Why?"

"Let's just say that my best friend and I came up with a no-fail way of cheating."

"It must have failed or you wouldn't have gotten detention."

I smiled. My cleverness never ceased to humor me. "Well, technically they could never prove we were cheating."

"Ahh, no physical evidence."

I shook my head. "Nope."

"But you were cheating?"

"Of course."

"How?"

I widened my eyes innocently.

"Paper in the shoe?"

"Please."

"Micro words on your fingernails?"

"Do I look like an amateur?"

He bit his lip. "This is going to drive me crazy."

"I think my parents still wonder about it."

"You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"Nope. Listen," I said, trying to ignore the fact that I still

found him attractive. Married men were off-limits. I kept telling myself that he wasn't my type, but my hormones were telling me differently. "Who is it that hires the school resource officer? Is it you?"

Shaking his head, MacKenna stood and poured some coffee into a mug. Gesturing with the coffee pot, he offered me some, but I declined. I hated coffee, except for coffee ice cream. Go figure. "The superintendent hires the school resource officers, though I do have a say in the matter."

"Why Michael Novak?"

"He seemed qualified. He wanted the job. We had a vacancy."

"Did you put an ad in the paper?"

His eyebrows dipped into a V. "Not as I recall. The superintendent brought him in."

"When was this?"

"Beginning of this semester."

Interesting. Very interesting. There was a time frame shaping up in my mind. But what did it mean?

I pulled into Mrs. Smythe-Weston's driveway and cut the engine. People swarmed all over the yard, little worker bees building a hive.

I spotted Kit's bald head through the crowd and followed the shiny beacon to where he was digging a hole for a water feature.

His eyes narrowed on me, and he pulled me aside. "What's going on with you?"

"Nothing I can talk about."

"Why're you packing?"

"Can you tell?" I touched the gun at the small of my back.

"Unless you grew a hump overnight."

"I just need to work. Get my mind off things." I walked back to my truck, put my gun under the seat, making a mental note to lock it back in Kevin's nightstand as soon as possible.

The bricklayers were hard at work laying a new patio and built-in fire pit. Coby was in the bobcat, digging up the old lawn to be replaced with sod, and Jean-Claude was wheeling away the grass clumps in the recovered wheelbarrow. Deanna was staining a pergola, and Marty was painting a mural on the eastern side of a privacy fence.

I walked over to him, eyed his work.

"You like?" he asked.

"Everything you paint is beautiful."

His mocha eyes turned somber. "Nina?"

"Yeah?"

"Would it be possible for me to have the weekend off?"

Damn. I'd been hoping for a tearful confession. "Hot date?"

"What? No."

"I was joking, Marty."

"Oh."

"Something important?"