Chapter Thirty

Sunday Morning

Liz Ann adjusted Vicky’s blanket and handed her a mug. “You look like you need some nice hot tea, darlin’.”

“You’re so sweet, thank you.” Vicky was comfortably ensconced in a cushioned chair outside the library, sheltered in a cozy alcove with brick walls behind and beside her. A third half-wall allowed a good view of the stage and the cinnamon roll booth. Sheriff Linden had picked the spot, saying Deputy Merrill would be nearby at all times. Vicky mentally dubbed Merrill her Designated Deputy.

Her injured leg rested on one of the library benches. She wore a pair of Liz Ann’s yoga pants, sweater, and shoes, all of which were slightly too small. Liz Ann had even given her a lipstick. Vicky always felt better with a dash of color on her face. Liz Ann provided pillows and a nice warm blanket and insisted Vicky just rest.

In her weakened, slightly dazed and giddy state, Vicky really didn’t mind doing just that. Sheriff Linden stood near the street barrier next to his patrol SUV. The sun had chased away the fog as the band tested their instruments and sound equipment and volunteers bustled in all directions to complete their assigned duties. The Baking Brigade, organized by shift and currently led by Rita, was geared up to bake, transport, and sell hundreds of rolls. The aroma of freshly baked, buttery, sweet cinnamon spirals was occasionally interrupted by whiffs of harsh fumes from the RV explosion, but the light breeze was in their favor.

Sam walked toward Vicky, passing out bite-size samples of the cinnamon rolls they would soon be selling. For donations. “Hey, Vick, Are you okay? You sure look better than last time I saw you. Mind if I sit? I need a break.”

Vicky shifted her leg to make room on the bench. “Great, yes.”

Holding her tray aloft and moving like an exhausted dancer, Sam lifted a folding chair, placed it next to Vicky, and sank into it. “This is so crazy. I can’t believe someone blew up your RV. And in my parking lot!” She twisted to place her tray securely on the bench.

“Yeah, same here. Let’s have the rest of that roll.” Vicky took a sliver. “What do you put in these things? They are so good. Is that ginger, maybe?”

Sam gave her Mona Lisa Baker look.

“Come on, Sam! I trusted you with the story of my life. You can trust me with your secret ingredient.”

“No. Last and final answer. This way, whenever you think of me, you’ll wonder about my cinnamon rolls. And vice versa.”

“That’s a nice thought.”

Sam inched her chair closer. “What happened to you is really upsetting. Really scary.” Newly etched lines creased her young face. Her clear pale skin was smudged. Her eyes drooped, weighed down by the heavy bags below. Her normally stand-up hair was flat and a bit dirty. She was a strong, beautiful mess.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Vick. I’m unbelievably angry. Things were so hard already with Rose missing, and now this. Do you think the same person did it?”

“Possibly. But I don’t know for sure. Maybe I’m closer to something than I realized. Anyway, Pete said you were in the kitchen when it happened?”

They talked for a few minutes about the blast from Sam’s point of view, which was the same as Pete had described. The explosion was running through Vicky’s head nonstop, but in the background now because so much else was happening.

Sam leaned in, talking quickly and urgently. “I don’t know if this has anything to do with what happened to you, but I want to tell you something, in case it fits in with something else, like you said last night. It might be connected.”

The women were only inches apart. Vicky wasn’t sure who reached out first to clutch the other’s hand.

Sara approached, followed by two teenaged girls. “Sam, what can we do to help?”

Sam removed her hand from Vicky’s to point. “Can you check with Rita? She’s behind those baking rack towers.”

Somebody must have contributed those cabinets. Good idea. Now Vicky wanted everyone to get the hell away so she and Sam could talk. Sara walked the volunteers halfway to the racks, pointed, then returned to linger nearby with a phone to her ear.

Sam said, “Ah, this isn’t a good time.”

Damn. Damn. “Oh, it’s still early. What do you want to tell me? I’m listening.”

“We should talk somewhere else. Are you up to going back to the diner?”

“Mm, I’d rather stay here. We start in a couple of hours. Let’s go inside. Liz Ann said I could use her office. I’ll just save these seats.”

Sam helped Vicky to her feet and placed her coat across the chairs. Sara pocketed her phone and joined them.

Sam said, “Sara, if anyone needs me, we’ll be in Liz Ann’s office.”

On the way, Sam and Vicky were waylaid by people with greetings, questions, and updates. A couple asked about the RV explosion. Sam and Vicky both downplayed the incident. No need to get people upset.

Vicky’s news director friend Kerry had promised to find someone to emcee the fundraiser. That someone had turned out to be Weekend Anchor Rick. Having him emcee guaranteed TV coverage but put Vicky even more on edge. He stood on stage, an anchorman in his element, wearing boots, jeans, and sports coat, about to host a live, mostly-adlib broadcast, away from the studio, out in the field with a friendly audience. A couple of fans approached him as he looked up and half-waved to her.

Kerry hugged Vicky. “So glad to see you’re up and okay.” She gestured at Vicky’s injured leg. “I heard it was a pipe bomb. Any word on who did it?”

“Not yet. Is the show good to go?”

“Yes. I made a few changes.”

Kerry James had volunteered to manage the whole program. She didn’t get many chances to produce anymore and was clearly having fun. Her station was going to broadcast the entire event, so she was invested in making it succeed. She held a clipboard with a copy of the rundown Vicky had put together, what was it, thirty-two hours ago? No doubt just to humor her. Kerry loved unscripted live events. She often said rundowns were for wimps.

Vicky chuckled. “You’re in charge, which means it will be fantastic.” It was amazing how much bigger the event became overnight. Exploded, even. Good thing she knew when to let others take over. When to let go. Ha.

When Sam and Vicky arrived at the library entrance, Designated Deputy Merrill trailing behind them, Sara rushed out. She held the door open for them. “Oh, hi. I was just using the restroom. I hate traveling shithouses.”

“Oh God, me too.” Odd that Sara had to explain.

Sam and Vicky soon settled in the head librarian’s office, next to the window overlooking the garden, Vicky’s foot up on a chair. “Isn’t this a pretty view?”

Sam mumbled something about gardening, then fell silent.

Vicky waited an interminably long time. “You said you wanted to tell me something?”