The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala (25 page)

“What about the manuscript? Did you get that back?” Of course Mary Stewart asked that question. She knew more than most about stolen manuscripts.

“No. I have no idea where it is. I expected the police to find it and connect it to me, eventually, but I haven't heard from them. It's still out there—it feels like a ticking time bomb set to go off when I least expect it.” Francesca collapsed into the lyre-back chair I had vacated, as if she'd suddenly run out of energy and gumption and hope. Her hat went askew, the poppies now bobbing to brow level, like too-long bangs.

“Did you tell the police all this?” Kerry asked. She had closed the door and stood blocking it, and I wondered if that was on purpose, to make it harder for Francesca to make a run for it.

Francesca gave her a withering look from behind the poppies. “Or course not. I knew how it'd look.” With a sudden angry motion, she yanked the poppies off the hat and crushed them in her fist.

“You must have told someone,” Allyson Aldringham said in a soft voice.

“The only person I told was . . . Cosmo.” Francesca's voice was little more than a whisper. “I thought he needed to know because of the movie. I couldn't let him get blindsided if Van Allen carried through on his threats and went to a reporter with the manuscript and my father's story.”

Something about her delivery felt rehearsed, and as I scanned her face, I became convinced that she had suspected Cosmo Zeller all along, but had kept quiet in order to protect her secret. Now that her secret was out, there was no need for her to keep mum about Cosmo. The longer I stared at her, the more I wondered if she hadn't orchestrated the whole thing. She knew Cosmo was in desperate financial straits and was depending on the success of the movie to set himself up again. He was probably the only person in the world with as much to lose as she did, or more, if Van Allen talked to the media. Despite her squat figure and middle-aged face, I began to see her as a modern-day Rebecca, manipulating Cosmo into killing Trent Van Allen the way Rebecca manipulated Max de Winter into killing her.

I shook my head to clear it of such fancies. Wasn't it more likely that Francesca and Cosmo planned the murder together and that he carried it out? Maud would like that: a conspiracy.

Kerry, ever the practical one, asked, “Where is Cosmo?”

Everyone looked around, as if surprised to realize Cosmo wasn't part of the group listening to Francesca's revelations. She spoke up. “He left for the airport half an hour ago, headed back to L.A.”

“Denver International?” Kerry asked.

Francesca shook her head. “No, someplace local. He had a pilot lined up to fly him to DIA in one of those little prop jobs. He offered me a lift, but I don't get into any plane smaller than my car.” She shuddered.

“He's got to be leaving from that airstrip out by Brummel's farm. We can still stop him,” Kerry said, throwing open the door. Sunlight and chilly air flooded in.

“I'm in,” said Lucas Stewart, bounding down the stairs, his face alight at the prospect of action.

As if the gates had been opened for the Pamplona running of the bulls, everyone on the landing thundered down the stairs and swept me along with them as they poured through the door. I was trying to call Hart, but I kept getting bumped and fumbling the phone. Without any discussion, the group converged on my van as the only vehicle in sight large enough to hold all of us. I flipped the keys to Kerry. “You drive. I've got to tell Hart.”

She caught the keys and climbed into the driver's seat. I got in on the passenger side, while everyone else piled into the back, seating themselves on the floor.
Constance grumbled at the rustic nature of the transportation, but when Merle suggested she stay, she said, “Don't be a fool,” and lowered herself to the floor with as much dignity as possible. The van lurched as Kerry tried to go from zero to sixty in less than the van's usual minute and a half.

“Sorry,” she said to the passengers as they straightened themselves, grumbling.

As Kerry flipped an illegal U-turn and drove toward Heaven's airstrip, I finally got through to Hart. When I gave him a succinct recap of Francesca's story, he said, “Damn. A tractor-trailer overturned on Paradise Boulevard and both the on-duty patrol officers are coping with that. We're all on the other side of the semi crash—it's got the road blocked. It's going to take me too long to get to the airfield going on the back roads.”

I gave him directions for getting to the airstrip a slightly faster way—not for nothing had I lived my whole life in this town.

“Do not confront Zeller,” he said. “If what you suspect is true, we'll work up some evidence and have him picked up in L.A.”

I hung up and relayed Hart's message.

“He'll hire a lawyer and never set foot back in Colorado,” Merle predicted.

“Maybe we can find some way to delay him without confronting him,” I suggested lamely, torn between wanting to make sure Cosmo Zeller didn't get away and not wanting to piss off Hart.

Someone in the back snorted. I suspected Lucas.

Kerry, gripping the steering wheel tightly at the ten and two positions, trod on the accelerator as she turned onto the two-lane road leading to Brummel's farm, site of the grass airstrip that Heaven's handful of private pilots used. Bare-limbed trees flashed past the windows, and I held my breath as Kerry pulled out to overtake an RV lumbering along in front of us. She zipped in front of it mere seconds before we would have smashed into the pickup in the oncoming lane. He went past us with a long blast of his horn, echoed by a toot from the RV's driver.

We flew down the road for another two miles, before I spied the opening to the airstrip. Kerry barely feathered the brakes as she made the left turn, rocking all of us against the van's side. For a breathless moment, I thought the van was going to tip, but it stabilized and we sped down the gravel road toward the hangar that housed four or five private planes. Two planes were tied down outside the hangar and someone was clambering over the wing of the blue-and-silver plane closest to us. Gravel pinged loudly against the van's underside. Black-and-white cows grazed in the field, unfazed by our passing. The airstrip, parallel to the narrow lane, was too small for an air traffic controller, and the pilots that flew out of there coordinated with one another via radio. An orange wind sock fluffed and sagged, fluffed and sagged in the fitful wind. With no side windows in the back of the van, several of the passengers were hanging over the front seat, eager to be the first to spot Cosmo Zeller.

“Do you see—?” Mary Stewart started.

She was close enough that I felt her moist breath on my ear. Ick. I inched to my right.

“There!” Constance's arm came down practically on Kerry's shoulder as she pointed a bony finger toward the small plane bumping its way to the end of the taxiway. It was red and white, with a propeller on the nose, and looked like it would hold four people. As we watched, it executed a turn and lined up for takeoff.

“He's going to get away,” Allyson said.

“Not if I can help it.” Kerry leaned over the steering wheel, her mouth set in a determined line and her jaw jutting forward aggressively. “Here goes nothing.”

She swung the steering wheel to the left so we bounced off the lane and into the pasture, headed straight for the airstrip. A phlegmatic cow lifted its head briefly to watch the van pass, and then lowered it again to keep eating.

“Ow!” someone yelped as we jounced over the rough ground.

The small plane began to move, gathering speed as it trundled down the runway. The van nose-dived into a shallow ditch and I pitched toward the dash. The seat belt bit into my shoulder. Grabbing the dash with both hands, I managed to keep from breaking my nose. “Kerry—!”

“Sorry,” Kerry muttered. The van surmounted the small rise and we were at the edge of the runway. The plane was speeding toward us.

It was close enough that I saw the pilot's eyes widen
as Kerry stomped on the accelerator and the van—my poor van—surged onto the runway.

“Hold on,” Lucas shouted.

“We're going to die!” Allyson said, sounding more excited than depressed.

For a moment it seemed like she was right and I squeezed my eyes shut tight as we crossed the plane's path. They flew open a moment later; I couldn't stand not seeing what was going on. The pilot must have stomped on his brakes and wrenched his steering wheel, or yoke, or whatever pilots call their steering gadget, because the plane slewed around until it was sideways toward us, its wheels leaving ruts in the runway. I glimpsed Cosmo Zeller's terrified face as the plane slid off the side of the runway and came to a stop not far from a trio of cows, who scattered only after the plane had stopped moving.

“Everyone okay?” Kerry asked in a breathless voice. She released the steering wheel, and held up her hands, her fingers still crooked as if curved around the wheel. She straightened them slowly.

A siren sounded in the distance, getting louder. I craned my head to see out the side window and spotted Hart's Chevy Tahoe racing toward us, lights strobing. A patrol car followed more sedately. Thank goodness. I slumped against my seat, letting out a long whoosh of air.

“There,” Kerry said triumphantly as Hart skidded to a stop beside the stalled plane and jumped out of the SUV. “No confrontation. Happy?”

I slid her an “Are you kidding me?” look, but then began to laugh, shakily at first, but with increasing strength. Mary Stewart joined in with a girlish giggle. The whole van was bubbling over with merriment by the time Hart approached us. I opened my door and tumbled out when he was a step away.

His expression was rigid, but it softened a touch when he saw me unharmed. I resisted the urge to throw myself into his arms, knowing he wouldn't like it while he was being official, and simply stood there, beaming at him.

After a moment, his lips quirked up at the corner. He said, “I'm taking Zeller back to the station for questioning. I'll talk to you later, after the pilot's done with you.” He jerked his head toward the pilot, who was striding toward us with a stiff-legged gait, anger vibrating off him. “And I think the farmer who owns this airstrip might have something to say, too.” He nodded in the other direction, where an ATV was eating up the ground as it cut across the pasture in our direction.

Sardonic satisfaction glinted in Hart's eyes, and I knew he had no intention of interceding on our behalf. Fair enough.

“Where's Francesca Bugle?” he asked. “I'll need her statement.”

I turned to watch as the bruised passengers lowered themselves gingerly from the van, Constance sighing as her foot hit terra firma. Merle seemed to be the last one out, because he slammed the door closed when he exited. My brow creased. “Where's Francesca?” I called.

Everyone looked at one another and shrugged. Kerry
opened the door and peered inside, as if Francesca might still be in the van. She turned around and shook her head. The truth dawned on us all simultaneously: Francesca hadn't come with us. In the rush to pursue Cosmo, no one had noticed that Francesca had stayed behind. Hart, absorbing this, put on his grim face again.

For no reason, an image of Francesca at the costume party flashed into my mind. “She was wearing gloves,” I said, “at the gala. She wore full Victorian dress, complete with gloves.” That memory made me doubt her accusation of Cosmo. She could have found Lola's lost stake, met Van Allen in Wallace's office . . .

Without commenting, Hart turned away, crossed to his SUV, and used the radio. I imagined he was putting out an APB on Francesca. Cosmo Zeller, gripping a small padded briefcase as if glued to it, glasses askew, Officer Hardaway holding his arm tightly, was yelping about his lawyer and his plans to sue the HPD, the town of Heaven, and possibly the state of Colorado. His beige linen slacks and jacket, and tobacco brown silk T-shirt and matching loafers, looked ludicrously out of place in the middle of a cow pasture. What a muddle!

My gaze fell to his case and I started across the grass toward him, an idea blossoming. The VW keys had had Cosmo's prints on them, but not Francesca's. He'd poked at them when Allyson was returning the things she'd stolen, so that was an innocent explanation for his prints; however . . . what if he was smart enough and quick enough to recognize the danger, and he'd deliberately handled the keys when they'd fallen out of the box? Another memory hit me and I quickened my
pace. The flat tire! Cosmo had actually been on the road leading to the lot where we found Van Allen's car. What if he had been searching for it like we had? I envisioned him taking the VW keys off Van Allen's body, and looking in the Club parking lot for the car they fit. He'd have been frustrated when he didn't find it and couldn't locate the manuscript. He could have done the same thing we did—searched the nearby streets and lots, looked at a map to judge distances.

I stopped in front of him and Officer Hardaway gave me a curious look. “I know a good lawyer,” I told Cosmo.

Hs sucked in two noisy breaths. “Thanks, but I'll be calling my own lawyer. You will not get away with this,” he told Officer Hardaway, who regarded him indifferently. “By the time I'm done with you, the Heaven Police Department won't have enough left to buy a box of donuts.”

“You know, Cosmo,” I said, gaze dropping to the case in his hands, “I figured out where the manuscript was, too. The men's room. You shouldn't have left that piece of duct tape on the lid.” I stopped short of telling him the police had found his fingerprints on it, in case he'd worn gloves and would know I was lying.

A tic jumped at the corner of his eye. “I have no idea what you're talking about,” he said, making an effort to keep his voice level. His knuckles whitened on the briefcase handle.

“Really?” I said pleasantly. “What's in your briefcase? I'm betting the manuscript is in there. It would
have been smarter to burn it or shred it, but I think you hung on to it, planning to use it as leverage against Francesca, maybe to get her to give up some of her rights related to the movie. You must truly be desperate for money.”