Biting Oz: Biting Love, Book 5 (13 page)

Another bellow sounded. Closer. Glynn, athletic tracker Glynn, was gaining. The stalker’s breath rasped loud in my ears. Tired gasps, and no wonder. Not only was he/she/it lugging a hundred-some pounds of me, but my sax, tethered to my neck, was a-flopping against its back, whacking with loud, bony thuds. Never was I so glad for weighty and awkward.

Glynn roared again, much nearer and supremely pissed. The trench coat under me squealed—and tossed me to the ground.

Silly me, my only thought was
my sax.
I flipped midair and landed flat on my back.

I hit the concrete so hard my diaphragm froze.

“Getting the wind knocked out of you” sounds like simple inconvenience. But it’s a horror of
can’t breathe
. You suck air but nothing happens.
Nothing
. You think you may never breathe again. It’s all over but for the
My Life
video replay, hopefully with RiffTrax.

I tried to inhale, really I did, but all I got was
gak-gak-gak.
I clawed hood. The sax weighted my ribs like a sandbag. I honestly thought I was dead. End of Junior, small fish in a small pond, never to grow to her full potential. Maybe a comedy instead of a tragedy, but now we’d never know.

Big hands righted me. Warm, ripply muscles pressed to my spine. An intense male heat permeated my chest cavity, eased the straitjacket on my lungs. I sucked in air. Shuddered. Breathed again. Oxygen never felt so good.

“
Babi.
” Glynn’s voice was threaded with worry. I felt a plucking at my neck. “Are you all right?”

Not really, but I was better so I just nodded. He shifted me to get to the tie from the front. I cradled the sax in one arm and lifted my chin to give him better access. The tie came loose, his fingers a lot more nimble under stress than mine. When the hood came off, the first thing I saw was his face, gorgeous blue eyes tight with concern for me.

Second was the yellow glow of a street lamp. We were outside.

“Mishela,” I croaked.

“Bloody hell.” He scooped me up and whizzed back inside, whipping so fast it blurred the walls like hitting light speed. I hugged my tenor like a teddy bear.

In the women’s dressing room, Mishela, dressed in a robe, was calmly removing her makeup. Her costume was draped over a nearby chair.

“I can take care of myself, Glynn.” She smeared cream on her cheeks. “I keep telling you and Mr. Elias that, but you never listen.”

Glynn set me down. I unhooked my sax and cleared off a section of the makeup counter to put it on. Not best practice but I was trembling from adrenaline and not up to carrying its weight.
 

Around us, trees and Emerald Cityites and other adult females stopped what they were doing to stare at this powerful invading male.

Glinda started doing a little striptease.

To his credit, Glynn ignored them all, even Little Miss Part-time Hooker. “Is anyone missing?”

Mishela stopped smearing, showing she wasn’t as unconcerned as she wanted to seem. “I’m sorry?”

“Anyone from the cast or crew not here? Slim build, a bit taller than you, missing right after the bows?”

She paled as the implications struck. “No. But things were pretty chaotic as the curtain closed. Jazzed.”

“Who did you see for certain? Lion’s too hefty, but what about Tin Man?”

She nodded. “Both were here.”

“The Gatekeeper? Captain of the Winkies?”

“I…I’m not sure.”

He pressed. “Steve? Our friend the
Scarecrow
?”

She went white. “Not Jon. You can’t suspect Jon, Glynn. He’s a Broadway star.”

“Everyone is a suspect. And Jon hasn’t had a hit in years.”

She flinched.

Glynn was scaring her, for no other reason than he was angry. With himself probably, but Mishela looked young and frightened, and I felt for her. Spine snapping straight, I stepped between them. “Oh for heaven’s sake. Why stop at actors? Half the pit is the right size and build. Why pick on insiders when it’s most likely a stranger? This is just scaring Mishela—who is fine.”

He whirled on me. “But
you
weren’t. You were in the clutches of that maniac, and I had no idea what he wanted with you or if I would get to you in time!”

I gaped at him. “We barely know each other. Why should you care?”

His eyes widened, then narrowed. “Why indeed?” He shoved out of the dressing room and disappeared.

“I think you hurt his feelings,” Mishela said.

She’d turned back to the mirror, toweling off cream and makeup. Trying to seem unaffected, but her hand trembled.

So I reined back my own feelings and tried to edge things toward normal by being domestic and hanging up Mishela’s costume. “I don’t think it’s possible to hurt him. Not Mr. Big, Grim and Invulnerable.”

“He’s self-contained, not invulnerable.”

“Says you.” As I picked up the Dorothy dress it revealed Mishela’s street clothes, jeans neatly folded beneath her underwear. On top of the pile was a pair of pink panties with a green blob which reminded me of the incident with Steve running across the stage at our first rehearsal. I looked closer. The green was a tentacled monster—with a cute pink hair bow. Under the picture was written “Hello Cthulhu”.
 

Had Steve stolen these the panties? How twee. Mishela’s first fanboy was a weenie of a stalker. No wonder she hadn’t wanted to talk about the incident.

Then a thought struck me. “Damn, my instruments. They fell in the hallway. I’d better go get them before they get tromped into scrap metal.”

My flute and clarinet were propped right outside the door.

Had Glynn found them? Angry as he was, had he really stopped to think about me, take care of my instruments?

Keeper.

No, not thinking about that. I picked up the flute. The G-sharp lever was bent but that was all. I tweeted a few notes, then tried out the clarinet. Everything worked, a huge relief. Hugging instruments, I grabbed a chair, scraped it up next to Mishela, sat and watched her.

Her scrubbing was brisk, expert—not a beauty routine, but as if her face were a palette to be cleaned.

I caught her eye in the mirror. “What I don’t get is, why kidnap you? If they’re trying to disrupt the show, wouldn’t it make more sense just to disable you with an accident or something?”

“You’re assuming they’re after me.” She tossed down the towel, eyes stabbing mine in the mirror. “I’m not convinced. After all, they took Dumas. Now they’ve taken you. If it’s about me, wouldn’t they take
me
?”

“I don’t know. Why’d Glynn suggest Scarecrow? Doesn’t he like him?”

“Glynn thinks Jon has an unnatural interest in me. I keep telling him it’s paternal interest. Or maybe a crush, but it’s entirely innocent. The man’s old enough to be my father.” She looked away. “Mr. Elias says it’s someone connected with the show.”

“Maybe he’s wrong.”

“Mr. Elias? He’s never wrong.” She blew a disgusted breath, turned back to the mirror and finished cleaning in silent concentration. It seemed to calm her.

I wasn’t calm. I’d been abducted. Despite my martial arts training, despite a building full of people, I’d been taken. Who had done that to me? Slim and connected with the show could be any one of several dozen people. Most were from Meiers Corners.

One of
us
.

If only we knew why the person was attacking. Was he/she after a specific person, or just trying to generally disrupt the show?

I was lost in possibilities and about to panic when I realized I had tools to unravel this. I was a businesswoman, used to solving problems from delivery logistics to the intricacies of stacking pounds of misshapen stock.

I could slice through the whole tangle with one sharp Sales Maneuver: “Follow the money”. Long run, who or why didn’t matter. Kidnapping Mishela or Dumas or even me would cripple the production at this late date. “Mishela. Who stands to gain if the show is trashed? I don’t, you don’t. Meiers Corners loses, especially businesses relying on tourists. Who’d gain by disrupting show?”

Tidying her work area, she paused. “A rival show, maybe?”

“Competition. A good, strong motive. Was someone passed over for a starring role? Revenge is also good.”

Her eyes widened. “You don’t suppose this is connected to the fire that destroyed our New York production?”

“Maybe.” Which widened the field of suspects from Meiers Corners to the whole United States. Though I’d asked the right question, it had the wrong answer.

“There are too many suspects,” I said finally.

“You’re giving up?”

“Not in this lifetime. I have a cunning plan. A plan so cunning it has a British Museum wing named after it.”

“Really?”

“No. Look, whoever grabbed Dumas and then me will try again. All we have to do is trap him. Her. It.”

“Okay.” Doubt shaded her tone. “How?”

“If the kidnapper holds to form, tomorrow after the show he-she-it will try again.” I smashed the pronouns together, pronouncing it “heesheeit”.

“Bless you.”

“Thanks. You’re probably the target, but just in case, all three of us will head to Nieman’s. You, me and Dumas. We’ll make a big deal of it, make sure everyone knows just the three of us are going.”

“What about Glynn?”

“See, that’s the cunning part. Instead of doing his hulking protector thing, he’ll be shadowing. Hidden enough that it looks like we’re totally alone. When the kidnapper attacks—”

“Glynn nails him. Her. It.” Smiling, Mishela clapped her hands. “I like it. When we get the kidnapper, we sweat him-her-it for answers.”

“
Gesundheit
.”

“Thanks.” Her smile faded. “The hard part will be convincing Glynn to stand back. Especially after what happened tonight.”

She was right. If he’d hovered before, the scare would make him a second skin. Nothing would shake him loose.

Except
maybe
a few well-placed kisses. “Convincing Glynn. Yes.” I took a deep breath. For the show. “Leave that to me.”

While my brain churned on well-placed kisses,
nibbling carved cheeks, defined lips, flat waist, muscular thighs, thick, long…
my pocket started vibrating. I half-stood and pulled out my cell phone, saw the number and swore. But I answered, ever the dutiful daughter. Yay, me. “What’s up, Mom?”

“It’s Papa,” a booming male voice said. “There is work to be done. I need you to forgo partying with your little friends. Sausage doesn’t—”

“—sell itself, I know.” Explaining after-rehearsal burn to Pop was useful only if I had five lungs and an hour. Though it’d make a good wind exercise. “What do you need?”

“Uncle Otto has run out of breakfast sausage. How can he make his famous Southern German
Guten Tag Y’all
sausage gravy if he has no sausage?”

“He needs it tonight?”

“It is almost tomorrow. And Otto’s wife must be frying by five for the smorgasbord to be ready by six.”

Some inns kept business hours, some country hours. My uncle Otto kept military hours. Frying by five meant shower at four which meant up at oh-dark-thirty. “All right, Pop. Be right there.”

I lugged instruments home, wishing for a nice limo ride and a nicer kiss… Instead of after-rehearsal rush, I got presausage letdown.

Got the job, do the job
. Besides, Uncle Otto was one of our best customers. Stiegs never let nepotism get in the way of profit.

At home, I picked up the box my dad had packed for me, mapping a mental route to haul my tired ass to Uncle Otto’s. I’d been the brothers’ courier since the age of six, when I’d been a brat pedaling brats on my little bike. I’d ridden or walked every single combination of those eight blocks over the years, knew every flamingo and garden gnome, every decorative pebble. Not much changed in our small town.

I left by the side door, saw a new Cheese Dudes webcam staring at me. Okay, some things changed, and not always for the better. But I was too tired to give them even a courtesy finger.

I emerged onto Fourth. Across the street, lights glowed inside the bombed shell of Kalten’s skate rink. For the past month, contractor trucks had parked in front, so I knew they were renovating it. I wondered what business was going in, whether it was compatible with sausage. The builders were working awfully late. Maybe they were close to finishing and putting on a push.

I know I should’ve been planning a way to “convince” Glynn to help us trap the kidnapper. But it was late and I was so tired. My brain hopped from idea to idea without any of them sticking, that cross-pollination state between Teflon Zen and a kangaroo on crack.

I headed east. Yellow streetlights and early summer mosquitoes were my only company. Here I was, alone, just me and my basket of sausage goodies. Little Red Riding Junior. And we hadn’t caught Mr./Ms./Meh Wolf-in-Trench-Coat-Clothing.

In fact, it was almost like our trapping scenario, with me as bait instead of Mishela. Oh, and without Glynn to spring the trap.

I picked up my pace.

If only I knew who the attacker was really after. Why grab me? A deterrent to Glynn, maybe, but why would Glynn care? Just because we’d shared a couple kisses, and a little more…okay, a lot more, but Glynn walked away, acted invulnerable—