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Authors: Vannetta Chapman

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BOOK: Falling to Pieces
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The new editor, Mr. MacCallister, looked at Caldwell. She put one hand on the phone. The younger Stakehorn glared at them both.

“This isn’t over,” he vowed. “I’ll be back, and I will get my father’s things. All of his things.”

Brushing past Callie, he stormed out into the street.

McCallister shrugged in a what-can-you-do kind of way and walked toward the two women. “Would you like me to call the police, Mr. McCallister?”

“That won’t be necessary. Stakehorn’s just blowing off steam, and who can blame him.” The editor was speaking to Caldwell, but his eyes were on Callie.

She stepped forward and stuck out her hand. “Mr. McCallister, the new editor I assume?”

“You assume correctly. And you are?” McCallister reached out and shook hands, his hazel eyes twinkling as he smiled down at her.

“This here is Miss Harper,” Mrs. Caldwell cut in, “and I already told her we’re closed.” Caldwell pulled her bag out of the bottom drawer and slammed it shut.

“No need to hurry the lady out. It’s not as if we have a line at the door.”

“Suit yourself, but the last editor she spoke with ended up dead.” Caldwell strode out of the office, never bothering to look back.

“She one of your biggest fans?” McCallister asked.

“Let’s hope not. If she is, I better stop my city council bid right now.”

“You’re running for city council?” McCallister leaned back against the receptionist’s desk, crossing his long legs at the ankles and studying her.

“No. Not at all. I tend to become sarcastic when I’m in awkward situations.”

“This situation is awkward?” McCallister leaned forward, looked right down the empty hall, then left out the front windows on to the deserted street, and finally pointed to his chest. “Surely you don’t mean because of me?”

“You didn’t see the neckless man storm out of your office and threaten you?”

“Oh, him. Well, I tend to cut a guy some slack when he hasn’t seen his dad in ten years and then learns he died on the night shift.”

“So you’re not buying the murdered angle?”

McCallister pushed up his wire glasses. “Who did you say you were?”

“Callie Harper, owner of Daisy’s Quilt Shop.”

“Right, and you were first on the scene when old man Stakehorn croaked.”

“Please, couldn’t you use a more—” Callie waved with her hands, then turned to study a plastic tree in the corner that didn’t have a speck of dust on it. How often did Caldwell dust the plants? Who bothered to dust plastic plants?

“A more what? Politically correct term?”

“Yes. Maybe.” Callie crossed her arms and turned to stare at McCallister. She usually made first impressions rather quickly, but she didn’t know what to think of him. He seemed confident, but also a bit out of place here.

She could certainly relate to that feeling.

“Mr. McCallister—”

“Trent.” Now she had no doubt his eyes were laughing at her.

“Fine, Trent. The reason I came by today was because I wanted to warn you.”

“Warn me?”

“Yes.”

“About what? Small towns? Tough receptionists? Angry sons?”

“None of those things.” Callie stepped closer, knew how the next words would sound, but forced herself to say them anyway. “I wanted to warn you that whoever killed Stakehorn might be after you next.”

Chapter 22

T
RENT MOVED OVER
to the two chairs that made up the waiting area and sprawled in one. “I thought I’d had the oddest first day of a news editor’s career. Then you stepped through my door and confirmed it.”

“This isn’t a laughing matter.” Callie moved to the chair beside him and perched on the edge of it. “Do you think I would have bothered coming by here if I were joking?”

“Oh, I believe you’re serious.” Trent removed his glasses and began rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Someone killed Stakehorn here in this office.”

“You’re telling me nothing new. His death is why I was assigned to this town.”

“Officer Black thinks it was poison, but I’m not so sure …”

Trent had been staring at the floor, but now he peered up between the locks of hair that had fallen forward, gave her a serious once-over—which she noticed lingered a bit long on certain portions of her anatomy—and finally let his gaze meet hers. “Go on.”

“It’s a hunch. I’ll admit that, but things aren’t adding up like they should.”

“And how does this spell danger for me?”

“I’m not sure.”

Trent looked exasperated. He stood up. “Look, lady, I appreciate your concern, but I have a paper to put together, and I’m already behind schedule. Not to mention I have one of the oldest presses in the state which is determined not to cooperate with me.”

“Are you forgetting about the break-in on Friday?” Callie scooted herself farther back in the chair, as if she could grasp the arm rests and refuse to leave until he heard her out.

“I’m not even sure it was a break-in.”

“What are you talking about?”

Trent pushed his glasses back on and walked over to the front door, turned the sign hanging there to CLOSED. “Look, yeah someone was here Friday night, but there was no sign of forced entry. More than likely, Caldwell forgot to lock up when she left.”

“You think Caldwell forgot something? Are we talking about the same Sergeant Caldwell?”

Smiling, Trent motioned to the front door. “I believe she’s a little upset about her former boss. Did you notice her mismatched shoes? Not exactly the sign of a woman with it all together. Could be she’s a little past the retirement age. Kind of makes you wonder why she was hanging on so long, but it’s not my place to come in and start changing things the first day on the job.”

“You can’t be serious.” Callie jumped up and began pacing the area between them. “Caldwell would have never forgotten to lock the door.”

“Nothing was missing, and no damage was done.”

“But—”

“Look, I’m touched at your concern, especially considering you met me ten minutes ago. Now if you don’t mind, I have a paper to put out before morning.”

“So you’re not going to do anything about it?”

“Anything about what?” Trent opened the door, put a hand on her back, and practically shoved her out onto the walk.

“The danger you’re in.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m well armed with my wit and charm. And while your theories are interesting, they’re not interesting enough for copy.”

Callie turned around to tell him sarcasm wouldn’t save him against a criminal who’d already killed once, but she found herself facing a closed door and beyond that Trent McCallister’s back retreating toward the press room.

She considered knocking on the glass, but suddenly the sky opened up and the rain began to fall in sheets.

Turning, she ran for her car.

As she did, she noticed the windows of the feed store across the street. Direct line of sight to the newspaper. Perfect place to watch, or plan, a murder.

The streets of town had emptied out as the storm moved in. Callie drove slowly back to the shop, playing the conversation with Trent McCallister over in her mind. She had to find a way to convince the man to listen to her. She was so caught up in her imaginary conversation that she nearly missed her own parking lot and had to slam on her brakes.

As the back end of her car hydroplaned slightly, she heard the screech of brakes, glanced up into the rearview mirror, and saw a car practically collide with her bumper.

Who had been following so closely?

Callie couldn’t identify the make or model of the car as it accelerated and sped past her shop, spewing more water and further obscuring her view.

Probably didn’t matter. No doubt the person would stop by tomorrow and chastise her for braking late and nearly causing a collision. Callie parked, searched in the floorboard for an umbrella but found none, so she stepped out into the pouring rain.

He thought about turning around and going back to the quilt shop.

He knew now that the woman lived alone and would be an easy mark. What he didn’t know was if she had the package. He had no real reason to think she would have it, but he was curious to know what she’d been doing back at the newspaper office.

Then there was the police department’s interest in her.

That piece of luck caused him to smile as lightning brightened the evening. Not everything had gone wrong during this operation—almost, but not everything. Having a newcomer in town that would distract the police was the best thing to happen to him in the last month.

Now he just needed to find the package.

For perhaps the first time since she’d come to Shipshewana, Callie was completely relaxed. She was wrapped in a blanket, curled onto the sofa chair, her feet propped up on the ottoman. A warm mug of tea rested on the plate warmer on the table beside her—a marvelous invention she never would have considered purchasing, but one her aunt had obviously enjoyed.

Her attention was completely absorbed in the Agatha Christie book she was reading, and only when Max whined and inched closer in her lap did she raise her eyes to the storm raging outside her window.

“This weather is nothing, boy. You should experience a Houston storm.”

But Max wasn’t impressed. He buried his nose into the tiny crevice between the hand-stitched pillow and her side, as if he could hide from the clap of the thunder or the lightning that pierced the darkness. When his entire body began to tremble, Callie braced the book with her right hand and commenced to rubbing him between the ears with her left.

They both jumped when the police sirens split the night.

Callie tossed back the lap blanket and walked to the front windows. The light from the police cruiser vanished down the far end of Main Street, but she could still make out its peal.

Looking across the road at the streetlight, she noted that the rain had nearly stopped. The thunder and lightning were now following the storm to the south, but the police sirens continued to beckon from down the street.

From near the
Gazette.

Callie snapped a light rain jacket on over her T-shirt and jeans, clipped on Max’s leash, and hurried down the stairs.

She took off at a fast walk down Main. Halfway down it occurred to her it would have been faster to drive. Amazing how used to walking she’d become, something she hadn’t done much of in Houston. When in Rome …

She came to the corner of Main and First and stopped so quickly Max skidded in his tracks.

She’d automatically headed straight, toward the
Gazette,
but the front of the newspaper remained cloaked in darkness—as it always was in the evening.

Plainly she could still hear the sound of the police sirens though. If anything, they blared louder.

Pivoting on her toes, she turned and felt her heart plummet.

The Shipshewana Police squad car was pulled at an awkward angle in front of The
Kaffi
Shop. And next to it, red lights pulsing out an emergency beacon, was an ambulance from The LaGrange County Hospital.

She rushed up to the small knot of people who had formed across the street.

Callie was too short to see over the dozen or so men and women pressed close to the police tape that had been hastily wrapped around a few trees and a street light.

She tried to push forward, but no one parted for her. She was
hemmed in by police cruisers on the left, shop walls on the right, and a crowd of a dozen in front of her.

“Need some help, Harper?”

She turned and bumped into Trent McCallister, wearing jeans, a Harley Davidson T-shirt, and a Nikon camera around his neck.

“Where did all these people come from? I thought Max and I were the only ones in this part of town at night.”

“Max?”

Callie reached down to calm her dog at the same time he pressed his wet nose into Trent’s hand.

“Got it. Well, looks like there’s more people than you or I knew about.” Trent began snapping pictures of the crowd, including one of her and one of Max who happened to still be wearing his blue bandana.

“What were you doing down here this late?”

“Putting out a paper, remember? I started late due to some Paul Revere dame who wouldn’t go away.”

She gave him her best irritated look, but his grin only widened.

“I need to see what’s happening in there.” She stood on her tiptoes, but it didn’t help a bit. The Amish residents wore their black hats and prayer
kapps.
She couldn’t see over them. And the English residents were all taller than she was.

“Want me to put you on my shoulders?” Trent asked, closer this time.

“No, I do not. Can you see anything?”

“Sure, but I don’t know what I’m looking at other than a squad car and an ambulance. Can’t hardly make a story out of that.”

Callie tried hopping, but that didn’t help either.

“Hang on, gorgeous. I think I have a better idea.”

Trent grabbed her hand and began to pull her away from the scene.

“I can’t leave. I know the owner of that shop—Margie. I stop by nearly every day, and she always has a treat for Max. I was there earlier this afternoon.”

He didn’t bother answering her, didn’t even seem to be listening, just kept pulling her back and around the old train station building. When they reached the other side, she understood why.

They had a perfect view of all that was going on.

Callie’s legs suddenly felt like jello. She reached for Max, touched Trent’s hand instead, and dropped straight to the ground.

This couldn’t be happening. Just when she found her balance, it was as if she was dropped into a nightmare. She needed to stand up, barge over there, and demand some answers.

“You all right?”

Callie didn’t answer, couldn’t answer.

Her mind kept jumping between images of Stakehorn at his desk and the ambulance stretcher in front of The
Kaffi
Shop. She had held out hope that perhaps the paramedics were working on someone next door, that maybe there had been a car accident at the corner of the intersection.

“Talk to me, Harper.”

Sweat broke out along her neck and trickled down her back, even as the cool night air caused her to shiver.

Max whined and licked her cheek once.

“You need me to call somebody?” Trent was kneeling in front of her now, his face mere inches from hers.

Callie shook her head, continued to stare at the ground in the darkness.

“Are you going to look at me? You going to tell me what’s going on?”

When she finally did find the courage to look up though, it wasn’t at the new editor; it was at the shattered glass from the front door of The
Kaffi
Shop, littering the sidewalk.

Andrew Gavin was speaking to the ambulance driver, while a paramedic was working on a person lying on the gurney—a woman with bright red hair.

“That’s Margie,” she whispered, and then she felt the night begin to spin.

BOOK: Falling to Pieces
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