Dixie Diva Blues (22 page)

“No,” I said. “But it’s a pipe of some kind.”

“For heaven’s sake, don’t pull any wires! I’ve seen enough TV shows to know not to do that.”

I nodded. After a pause to calm myself, I gingerly turned my arm so that my wrist eased out of the narrow opening. I was free! I peered into the drawer again.

“Is it ticking?” Bitty asked, and since she sounded a lot farther away, I turned to look at her. She stood just inside the sliding overhead door, about eight feet from me.

“Not that I can hear. You can come back now, Captain Courageous. I don’t think it’s a bomb.”

Standing still, she said, “How can you be sure?”

“Because if I’m not mistaken, saxophones are rarely made into bombs. Not that I’d swear to it, of course. People do strange things these days.”

“Saxophones? There are saxophones in there?”

“Saxophone, as in the singular, not the plural. I’m pretty sure that’s what it is.”

“Well, we need to keep looking, then. I doubt Larry Whittier hid a saxophone in here.”

“He might have. Rob mentioned he liked to play the blues every now and then, remember?”

“No. I don’t remember anything like that. I think you’re just making it up.”

“Why would I do that? Oh wait . . . I think I got the drawer unstuck.”

Now Bitty edged forward, and when I slid the drawer completely open she was right behind me. “Oh, you’re right. It’s a saxophone. Is there anything else in there?”

“Like a piano? No.”

“Funny. Well, there’s bound to be something in here that Larry wanted to get so much he’d risk arrest and running into the guy who killed him.”

Some kind of book lay on the bottom of the drawer, and once I got the sax out, I pulled it out, too. It was a musical notebook. Sheets of music tailored for the sax player, apparently. I flipped through it, but other than a missing page or two, it held nothing of interest. A small box of extra reeds was the only thing left in the drawer.

“Anything?” Bitty asked, and I shook my head.

“No treasure map, no clues that I can find. It does have a page or two missing as far as I can tell, but I suppose that’s not important. Most musicians have their favorites they take with them everywhere.”

“So, why would Larry Whittier’s saxophone be locked up in here? It’s not even his storage unit.”

I looked at Bitty. “That’s an excellent question. Why, indeed?”

“Do you think this is why he was trying to break in? Not to get incriminating stuff against anyone, but to get his saxophone back?”

I opened my mouth to reply, but was drowned out by a grating metallic screech. All I saw before the overhead door came crashing down was a pair of female legs in knee socks. Schoolgirl knee socks.

What the heck…?

CHAPTER 11

“What do you think is going to happen next, Trinket?”

Irritated, since she’d already asked me that question at least a half dozen times in as many seconds, I said, “Dorothy and Toto are going to land in a hot air balloon and take us off to Kansas. How do I know what’s going to happen next, for heaven’s sake?”

“Well you don’t have to be so mean about it.”

“I know. Maybe I’m just grumpy because I told you this was a stupid idea.”

“Good lord. Did I hold it over your head when that guy broke into the shack and you ruined my favorite pair of bedroom slippers?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

Silence fell. The dim overhead light bulb threw distorted shadows on the concrete. It had gotten hot and stuffy inside the box. We had already tried opening the door, but of course, it didn’t budge. I wasn’t surprised. Disappointed, yes, but not surprised. Now we sat on the hard floor and stared at it. Maybe telekinesis would work.

“Didn’t that girl look too young to be a criminal?” Bitty asked after a few minutes went by. “She looked like she should be in junior high. I guess they start young these days.”

For some reason, Bitty’s words made me think about the dead man whose storage unit we were now trapped inside. There was something about Lee Hazen I should be able to recall; I knew it but my brain wouldn’t cooperate with my efforts to remember. All I knew was that in all the horror afterward, I had missed something important. Something I should have told the police.

“Say that again,” I instructed Bitty, and she drew back to look at me strangely.

“Say what?”

“What you said just a minute ago.”

“That the girl was too young-looking to be a criminal? Well, she is, and—”

I shook my head. “No, before that. You said something that I connected with Lee Hazen, but I can’t pinpoint what.”

“I didn’t say anything about him. All I said was that
I
didn’t hold it over
your
head when that guy broke into the shack and my bedroom slippers got ruined. Really, they were my favorite pair, Trinket.”

“That’s it!”

“That’s what? I hate it when you start talking in circles and act like I’m supposed to know what you mean. Why can’t you—”

I grabbed her arm and shook it. “Lee Hazen. When I found him he had a pink feather caught in the laces of his boots. I didn’t think of it again until just now.”

“So what does that mean, except that he—oh yeah! I see! He must have been the guy who broke in on us! Oh, Trinket, that explains everything!”

I looked at her. “It does?”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No. It only explains that now we know who our intruder was. It still doesn’t tell us why he broke in on us, or why he killed Larry, if he did.”

“Or why he rented this storage unit that doesn’t have anything in it but a ratty old saxophone and some sheet music. He could have kept that in his closet instead of renting this shabby place. It’s not like it’s worth anything. Is it?”

“Not that I can tell. I’m not an expert on musical instruments, but it does look just like any other saxophone. Except that the reed is missing.”

“So why do you think that she-devil locked us in here?”

I knew who she meant, of course. The only reasons I could think of for the girl to have locked us into this unit were not pleasant ones.

“Do you think she’s a criminal, too?” Bitty asked when I didn’t answer, and I gave a shrug.

“I don’t know, honey. It’s possible.”

Anything was possible. Unpleasant scenarios had been flitting through my mind ever since that girl had locked us in here. It would have helped if I had my purse with me, since my new cell phone lay snuggled inside, but Bitty had made me leave it at her house.

“Guys don’t carry purses,” she’d pointed out.

Nor had Bitty brought her purse inside. All I had with me were my car keys in the pants pocket, and they wouldn’t do us much good with the locked car out front and us in here.

After a moment or two, I took out my keys. While my Taurus isn’t equipped with fancy features like a remote ignition and lights, it does have a security alarm. Factory-made, which means that half the time all the doors lock except the driver’s side door, but it’s still useful. If I punch the right key, the horn will start sounding so I can find my car in Walmart’s parking lot, which is always helpful, and it also has the remote trunk latch that opens the trunk without me having to lift it. Also quite handy when loading groceries or cases of wine. Diva Day requires ample libations.

At any rate, I decided to try and make a racket. If criminals were outside plotting to get rid of us once it got dark, making noise might deter them or scare them away. Or at least draw attention from someone curious to find out why a Taurus had suddenly gone berserk at the storage facility.

“Bitty, I have an idea,” I said.

“Is it a good one?”

“I hope so. I’m going to create a diversion so that whoever locked us in here will come and try to either move us or get us to . . . hush.”

Her face paled. I didn’t have to add any details, apparently. Getting us to hush may well involve sharp implements or other forms of nasty violence. We both had enough imagination to get a little queasy at the thought.

“When the overhead door opens, I’m going to be standing right there at the side. I’ll do my best to delay them while you make a run for it, okay?”

“Are you sure?” Bitty paused and took a deep breath. “Since I got us into this, I can be the one to create a diversion while you get out.”

I put my hand over hers. Despite the heat inside the metal box, her hand felt cold.

“No, I’ll do it. I’m taller, and besides—I’m the man, remember?”

We both laughed a little shakily, then Bitty hugged me. “All right,” she said. “I’ll run to that service station in the curve for help once I get free.”

“Good plan. Now, let’s see what might work best.”

We ran through a couple of scenarios, and finally figured out a plan. I had my weapon of choice ready. Now, to implement it. We each went to our respective corners. I took a deep breath, looked over at Bitty, and she bobbed her chin once to signal she was prepared. I pressed the buttons for the car alarm and the trunk latch at the same time.

Even from my place inside the storage unit I could hear the horn blasting. I hit the remote again to make it stop, counted to five, then hit it again. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before we heard noises outside. I looked over at Bitty. Her eyes were wide as blue-and-white salad plates.

We’d been locked inside for almost thirty minutes, and I hoped that in that time our jailor hadn’t been able to call in reinforcements. In one hand I held my keys. In the other I held the saxophone. It was made of tarnished brass and plastic, but was the only thing that could be used as a weapon unless I used an empty cardboard box or a handful of rubber bands.

After several tense moments, a strangely distorted voice shouted that we should put down any weapons and come out with our hands in the air.

“They think we have guns,” Bitty whispered loudly at me, and I nodded.

“Good. Let them keep thinking that.”

“Should we answer?”

“No!”

I didn’t want to risk anything Bitty might say. She has a tendency to make completely inappropriate comments in moments of stress.

The demand that we throw down weapons and back out of the storage unit was repeated a couple times, then the door began to slowly creak upward. I gripped my weapon a little more tightly and took a deep breath. This was it. The moment of reckoning. My hands were shaking and my palms were sweaty, and I held the saxophone up over my right shoulder like a baseball bat. I held it by the neck so that anyone I hit with it would get the full force of the curved portion. It looked heavier, although it lacked blunt force capability. It would just have to do.

The overhead door that had been slowly creaking upward suddenly shot toward the ceiling. I panicked and screamed, and swung the saxophone like I was trying for a home run. It connected full-force with the man entering and knocked him backward. I struck out again, and my weapon was abruptly jerked from my hands.

That was enough for me. I screamed again and took off running. I got several feet before being yanked backward by my—really, it’s Philip’s—coat collar. The guy literally picked me up off the floor so that my feet dangled wildly.

Now, I had often thought that feat impossible. At five-nine, I’m a bit tall for most men to be able to dangle me in the air. Also, the chart in my doctor’s office says that I should be taller for my weight—about six inches. So I’m no light-weight.

Needless to say, my being swept off my feet caught me by surprise. I think I said something like “Eek!” before I was pushed forward with my face smushed up against the storage unit wall and told that I was under arrest.

Arrest? As in, the police kind?

As that information slowly seeped into my terrified brain, I was frisked, my hands were cuffed behind me, and I was finally turned around to face the arresting officer. I did my best to remain calm. While he began to reel off my Miranda rights, the police officer standing next to him looked at me and started laughing.

I did not see a bit of humor in the situation, but kept my poise as he punched his companion and said, “Take a good look, son.”

I thought at first that he recognized me. That did not prove to be the case.

The arresting officer, whom I did not know, squinted at me. Then he grinned. “I guess there’s all kinds out there, huh?”

I wasn’t sure what he meant by “all kinds” and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. By that time my nose had started to really itch. Since I could hardly scratch it with my hands cuffed behind me, I tried to rub my face against my shoulder to stop the itch. It didn’t help. My baseball cap fell off, my hair came down, and my nose still itched.

“Do you understand your rights?” I was asked, and I nodded.

“I want to see my lawyer,” I said quite clearly. “Jackson Lee Brunetti.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll get your chance. Keep your britches up.”

He laughed then, and so did the other cop. I narrowed my eyes. What did they find so funny? Whatever it was, I failed to see the humor in my situation. It was bad enough that I’d let myself be talked into masquerading as a dead man—while wearing another dead man’s clothes—but now I was arrested, too.