7 Dolled Up for Murder by Jane K. Cleland

Author:Jane K. Cleland [Cleland, Jane K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9781250001849
Publisher: MacMillan
Published: 2012-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The ransom instruction seemed so improbable, I reread it twice to be certain I had it right.

PUT DOLLS IN TRUNK. DRIVE TO THE ROUND THE CLOCK DINER. SIT AT THE COUNTER AND ORDER SOMETHING. WAIT FOR A MESSAGE. GO NOW.

The Round the Clock Diner was about as unlikely a choice as I could imagine. It was open twenty-four hours a day and busy all the time.

“Okay, then,” I said. I swung my tote bag over my shoulder and flew down the stairs to call Ellis.

“I’m to go to the Round the Clock Diner. Now. With the dolls in the trunk.”

“Good. Turn left out of your lot and head to I-95. Don’t worry about the reporters. Don’t worry about anything. Dawn will be at the diner before you. Act like you don’t know her. There’ll be other officers around, too. If you happen to recognize anyone, don’t show it.”

“Got it. I’m on my way.”

“Don’t drive too fast. Stay calm.”

Now that the exchange was under way, I felt utterly composed. I was ready. I’m good under pressure, always have been. It’s in the swirling uncertainty before a crisis and the chaotic period afterward, when I second-guess myself, that I fall apart. During the crisis itself, I’m fine. Serenity infused my veins like a drug, slowing my racing pulse and sharpening my wits. I call the phenomenon crisis-calm.

I picked up the bin and placed it in my trunk, setting the night alarm as I left. Two minutes after Ellis and I hung up, I drove out of my lot. The rain had slowed to nothing, but the air was thick with mist. It felt colder, too. It had hovered around seventy-five all day, a veritable heat wave for May, but now it felt closer to the low sixties. It wouldn’t be fully dark for another half hour, but it might as well have been. The cloud cover was thick, hiding the last glimmers of twilight. A column of reporters fell into place behind me. I noted that Wes wasn’t there. Bertie was first in line.

Around the second curve, I hit the brakes. A roadblock loomed in front me. A mobile digital sign sat on the shoulder, its message flashing in red: SOBRIETY CHECKPOINT. PLEASE DRIVE SAFELY. Four spotlights, two on each side of the road, their lights aimed to the sky, illuminated the road. A single orange cone sat on the white dividing line about twenty feet from the barricade. Two uniformed police officers, one male, one female, stood at the barricade, waiting.

I rolled to a stop and lowered my window.

“How you doing, ma’am?” the male officer asked.

He was about fifty and overweight. His badge read PORTSMOUTH POLICE DEPARTMENT. His name was Officer M. Toomey. A glint of silver caught my eye, and I looked to the right. His partner had moved to the passenger side of my car, standing next to the rear door, and I’d seen a reflection from her belt buckle.

“Fine, thanks,” I said.

“Please turn off your engine and step out of the car.

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