CHAPTER NINE

We’d been on the road five minutes, heading for Rueland, when we were pulled over.

I watched out my side mirror as a uniform hoisted himself from his car, slid on his peaked cap, and adjusted his gun belt like it was a Miss America ribbon. Drat. Officer Martoli, one of Rueland’s famous wiseass cops.

I reached into the backseat for my own cap that I keep for bad hair days—ha—and plunked it on my head, hoping he wouldn’t recognize me.

Martoli hauled out a notebook, strode toward my Bug, and rapped on the window.

I lowered the window, raising my voice. “Yes, officer?”

“You realize your passenger isn’t wearing a seatbelt?”

I glanced at Tantig. “Uh, yeah. Sorry.” After I’d had a mishap with the car a few months ago, the seatbelt warning worked when it felt like it. One thing that never quite got fixed.

“It’s against the—” He stopped short, bent to look at me under my cap, and slapped his notebook on his hand. “Well, if it isn’t Valentine Beaumont. Hairstylist extraordinaire. Stabs criminals with scissors and pointy combs.”

I huffed. “I’ve never stabbed a criminal with scissors.” No need to admit the pointy comb.

He controlled himself from snorting out loud. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the Wee Irish Dude, breaking open kegs?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t play coy. The whole precinct knows you found that ex-con this morning curled up dead in a beer barrel. Probably be on the six o’clock news.”

If I had a dollar for every wisecrack about my involvement in homicides, I’d have enough cash to buy a hundred beer barrels, gold-plated and draped in diamonds. “If you hurry home, maybe you’ll get there in time to watch it.” Sarcasm at its finest.

He chuckled good-naturedly. “You’re one humdinger of a comedian. Always quick with a joke.”

“Yes, that’s me. Miss Funny Pants. If that’s all, officer, I should be going.”

“Actually, it’s not.” His face softened into something I’d never witnessed on hard-boiled Martoli before. “You watch yourself, hear? That nutjob you helped put away is on the loose. I don’t want to hear he’s harmed you.”

I looked over his shoulder, wondering where the real Officer Martoli had gone. I got choked up from his words, and before I could say thank you, he bent and peeked at Tantig. “Lady, more people die in car accidents because they don’t buckle up.”

Tantig didn’t turn to look, but I did catch her eyes roll upward. “Who-hk cares?”

Martoli narrowed his gaze. “What did she say?”

“Uh, she doesn’t speak English. Sorry. I’ll take care that she buckles up.”

“Make sure you do.” He yanked up his gun belt and gave a crooked grin. “Seatbelts are for your own safety, lady,” he warned Tantig, giving it one last shot.

Tantig pursed her lips. “I’ll give you a Tic Tac if you stop talking about seatbelts.”

Tic Tacs solved everything as far as Tantig was concerned.

Martoli gave his head a shake like, what was the use? I just wanted to get the hell out of there before he alerted Romero that he’d stopped me. No sense getting Romero worked up even more by the fact that Max wasn’t with me.

“And you…” He straightened. “Keep those combs in your bag…and stay safe.”

I gave him a nod and rolled up the window. Cops. Who could figure them out?

I ripped off my cap, ogled my hair in the mirror, and decided it looked better now that it had been flattened. I flung the cap in the backseat and drove away, reflecting anxiously on what Martoli had said about Ziggy. True, he was a nutjob. That much was undeniable. But that’s not why I was uneasy.

I was uneasy because even cops like Martoli, who normally rolled their eyes at me when they saw me, were worried about my welfare. What did that say? I was doing my utmost to find Ziggy, but if he was too clever for even the cops to catch, we were in trouble. I peered over both shoulders, my nose giving an impulsive twitch. He could be planning one of his clever stunts this very minute.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. The bigger problem was that not only did Ziggy know where I was, but I didn’t have a clue where to find him. He could be living under a rock in the woods or staying with friends…if anyone was dumb enough to protect him. He could even be shacked up with a lover, if he had one. Where did I begin to look?

I thought about this some more. Maybe I didn’t have to look. Sooner or later, he’d get closer again. He’d left the second creepy message at the salon just a few hours ago. That was two in one day. And he’d only escaped twenty-four hours ago, maybe less. If nothing else, Ziggy was determined. But he’d slip up. Wasn’t that what Romero had said? If he didn’t know, then who did?

I was brought back to the present when Tantig tugged the sleeve of my leather jacket. “You’re going to drive right past Kuruc’s.” Her tone was bland, her demeanor calm. Nothing ruffled Tantig.

I swerved into the half-empty parking lot, found a spot, and helped Tantig out of the car. I flipped up her collar from the cool breeze and hurried her into the store. I shuddered at being out of the cold, then grabbed a cart, and trailed behind Tantig while she hobbled along.

Smells from every country rolled into one delicious aroma that had me salivating as I walked the aisles. As usual, Sam Kuruc, the owner and a jovial guy, had out plenty of samples for people to try. German salami. Italian biscotti. Greek olives. A veritable buffet at any time of day.

Tantig walked on autopilot straight to the grape leaves section, not turning her head once to taste-test anything. Me, I nibbled along the way, convincing myself that food in my stomach would help alleviate my troubles.

I also did the odd over-the-shoulder check and scrutinized the few shoppers who passed by. Men. Women. Kids. I even looked twice at the life-size cardboard cutout of that chef from “Hell’s Kitchen.”

We were in a fairly empty public place. A deli, for Pete’s sake. No one was going to make a move here. I was so confident of this, I even stopped in the juice section to sample a pomegranate punch. Yum.

I threw the paper cup in the garbage, not only keeping my guard up where Stoaks was concerned, but also keeping my eyes peeled for Sam’s mother, Hajna the Hungarian witch. I didn’t know which would be worse: coming face to face with a convicted murderer or running across the fierce little woman in black with gnarly fingers and buggy eyes.

I tamped down the anxiety at meeting up with either, then accidentally bumped the cart into Tantig while she picked a jar of grape leaves off a shelf. I said I was sorry and backed up a hair, thinking it was my lucky day that Hajna wasn’t around.

Tantig put the jar in the cart and pulled a list out of her purse. She mumbled to herself as she perused the list, then poked in her purse again and produced a pen.

All too familiar with Tantig’s shopping habits, I opened my bag and scouted around for my tube of gingerbread-scented hand cream. Waiting for her could take time, and my hands needed moisturizing from the raw weather.

I slung my bag back over my shoulder, squirted a dab of cream on my palm, and worked it in, inhaling the rich aroma while putting off notions of soon donning winter gloves. Giving the back of my hand another dose, I turned to the shelves next to me and surveyed the different kinds of olive oils. Virgin. Refined. Tuscan Herb. Garlic. Beside the olive oils were cans of crushed tomatoes, tomato paste, and pasta sauce.

I was studying the various tomato pastes when suddenly, from the other side of the shelves, I heard ping, ping, ping. One by one, cans to my right exploded, broken items sailed past my shoulder, and red sauce, oil, and glass flew everywhere.

Before I could grasp what was happening, a gloved hand reached through the shelf and swiped away more goods. A gun was attached to the hand, the tip of a silencer pointed right at me. I stared from the gun up to a Kuruc’s brown paper bag covering the thug’s head. The bag had two eyeholes and a hole cut for the mouth.

My first thought was that this was a stickup, or worse, a mass shooting. But logic told me a robbery would most likely occur at the checkout where there were cash registers and people paying. Not in the canned goods section. And the silencer on the gun pointed at me assured me this was between the shooter and me. More specifically, Ziggy and me.

It’d been years since I’d seen Ziggy, and I had no idea what he looked like these days. Was he fat? Thin? Stooped over? Muscly from pumping iron? I couldn’t tell much from this angle or from the paper bag the gunman was masquerading in. And what if I was wrong? What if this was connected to the case, but it wasn’t Ziggy under that brown bag?

My entire body was shaking, and my heart was pounding so fast I was sure I was going to faint. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was conscious of the continuous hum in the store. The silent shots must not have alerted anyone, and with a store this big, and only Tantig and me in our aisle, it seemed no one else had witnessed the incident. All the better. If the gunman was focused on me, nobody else would get hurt.

The crook’s mouth was wide open, and a sneeze came out at me from under the bag, followed by a high, squeaky laugh. “You’re going to die.”

In a flash, my whole life passed by me. Tears sprang to my eyes and sweat drenched me.

Panicking, I looked from my assailant to Tantig—who was still checking her list—to my trembling hands, back to my assailant. Instinctively, I reached through the shelf, knocked the gun aside, and shot a dose of hand cream into the laughing mouth inside the paper bag.

“Gaaag!” The maniac backed away, sputtering and choking on the cream, unable to catch a breath.

I yanked my bag off my shoulder and used it to sweep the rest of the items off the shelf. I needed to get a better look at the shooter. If it was Ziggy, he was dressed in a trench coat, bending up and down, coughing and gagging, the cream doing a good job with clogging his airways. He held onto his paper-bagged head with one hand, gun in the other, then keeled forward and barfed on the floor.

Swiping away my tears, I gave myself a reassuring pep talk that I could catch this lunatic. I told Tantig I’d be right back, then I sucked in deeply for courage, clamped my bag to my side, and hurriedly slid down the row.

By now, employees and shoppers had figured out what was happening, and there was disorder everywhere. Women were screaming. Kids ran amok. Olive and salami trays flew in the air, and people were slipping and falling on top of each other. I couldn’t excuse myself past everyone fast enough, and by the time I got to the next aisle, the shooter had fled.

I looked at the puddle of vomit he’d left, then peered to the end of the aisle. Holding back a gag, I asked if anyone had seen where he went. There was so much confusion, everyone pointed in a different direction.

I backed away, stifling nausea, and rushed through the deli. I searched under display tables and over shelves. I bustled into the kitchen, apologized to the staff for my intrusion, and asked if they’d seen the bagged bandit. One employee said someone wearing a brown paper bag and a trench coat had rushed out the front door a minute ago.

I said thanks, turned, and tripped on my heels, hands to the ground. Fine job, Valentine. How did you expect to catch a crook in four-inch heels?

Without belaboring the point, I picked myself up, kicked off my shoes, and rammed them in my bag. Then I sped to the front entrance and stumbled past people outside, crashing into a woman who looked vaguely familiar. She apologized and moved aside for me. I didn’t stop to ask questions. I was consumed with finding my assaulter. I gave her a brief nod and staggered to the parking lot.

Hopping from foot to foot, the asphalt cold under my feet, I peeked in cars, making sure my attacker wasn’t hiding in a vehicle. Nothing looked out of place. Folks were either coming or going, and traffic was moving steadily along the tree-lined street. Nobody was burning rubber, escaping the scene.

I jogged to the back of the building, not thinking I’d find anything there. Except for Kuruc’s Dumpster and a few empty cars likely belonging to employees, the area was clean.

I bent at the waist and heaved in air, suddenly feeling lightheaded. I slouched for a couple of seconds, letting the nausea and panic pass. Once I was sure I wasn’t going to upchuck or black out, I straightened and took a last glance around. My gaze finally rested on the fully packed Dumpster.

So? It was a garbage bin…where people threw garbage. What did I expect to find? A Versace purse?

Discouraged that I’d let my best chance of finding Ziggy slip through my fingers, I turned to walk away when something caught my eye. It was nothing really. A brown crumpled-up piece of trash stuffed between two black plastic garbage bags. I took another step toward Kuruc’s front entrance, but a nagging feeling hauled me back.

Giving in to curiosity, I hiked over to the Dumpster and stared up at the crumpled item. Right. Not exactly in reaching distance, especially in bare feet. I lugged out my heels, slipped on the left shoe, and balanced myself, straightening, four inches taller. Like an acrobat, I reached up with the spike of my right heel and babied the crumpled item toward me.

After it tumbled to the ground, I slid my right shoe on and gently unfolded it with the bottom of my heels. I probably looked like a clumsy hip-hopper, but I wasn’t keen on touching the trash with my fingers. And at the moment, I wasn’t concerned about appearances.

Once I had it spread out, I knelt and ogled the cutout eyes and mouth, disregarding the fact that I’d retrieved it from a bin that could hold any number of diseases. Bending closer, I smelled remnants of my hand cream mixed with the smell of vomit surrounding the damp area around the mouth.

I leaped to my feet like the item was on fire and did a full body shiver. No doubt this was the bag my assailant had worn on his head. I stared down at it, prickles of dread traveling the length of my arms. What was I to do with this? The police would want to see it, and I had a duty to provide proof that there was a disguised goon trying to kill me.

I wiped my nose with the back of my hand and looked around for something to pick up the soggy bag with. Two things were certain. I wasn’t touching it or climbing into the Dumpster in hopes of finding anything useful.

Not coming across anything that would help, I combed through my bag. I had to have something to pluck this garbage off the ground. Pluck? Of course! I could pluck it with my tweezers.

I yanked out my stainless steel, pink-and-orange polka-dot-handled tweezers, nipped the bag off the pavement, and sprinted back into Kuruc’s. I needed to make sure Tantig was all right.

I rushed to the section where I’d left her, turned a corner, and came face to face with Hajna.

“You!” She poked her gnarly fingers up into my face. “You make this mess in my store.”

“No.” I jumped back. “There was a madman shooting at me. He made this mess.” As proof, I held up the bag dangling from my tweezers.

She gawked up at me, unconvinced.

I didn’t care what she believed. I knew a madman was responsible for this, and I’d bet anything his name was Ziggy Stoaks. He’d been sending me messages all day. If it wasn’t Ziggy, who else could it have been?