Reggie grinned.
I rolled my eyes.
“Sammi, you can either be the smashed lamp or-”
“Oh, come on. Let me be the murdered chick. Please!” Sammi scampered over to where I was standing and stood on her tiptoes so she could see over my shoulder and look at the photograph. There’s no way on earth I would have asked her-or anybody else-to make full-body contact with the floor, but hey, Sammi was nothing if not spunky. She was really getting into this crime scene reenactment, and she laid down in the spot where the photo showed Vera’s body.
“You want me to be the murderer?” Absalom asked.
“I dunno.” I looked at it all and at the way my teammates looked to me for answers-except for Sammi, who was staring up at the ceiling just the way Vera was in the photo-and my shoulders slumped. “I’m not sure this is getting us anywhere.”
“Sure it is. It must be.” Absalom stripped the photo out of my hands. “It gives us a better idea of where things were, how the room was set up.”
“But not who killed Vera.” I shook my head in an effort to clear it. It didn’t work. I was still as baffled as ever. “She was here to meet somebody,” I told them all because, of course, they didn’t know that I had figured out this part of the story. “She arrived wearing her office clothes, but she brought a trampy sort of outfit with her, and-”
“Oh, was it really cool?” Sammi shot up. “Are there pictures? I’ll make a copy of it. Then we can come back and I can dress just like her, and-”
“It’s not going to make a difference what you wear,” I pointed out. “These pictures don’t really matter. None of them. All that matters is what happened before the pictures were taken. And we can’t know that.”
“Hey, maybe we need to get a psychic in here.” The idea came from Reggie, who was pretty proud of himself for thinking of it. “You know, like those ones on TV. We could communicate with the dead girl. She’d tell us what happened.”
I was in no mood to point out that I’d already tried this. And that it hadn’t worked.
Frustrated by the whole experience and wondering what I thought I’d accomplish by coming to the Lake View in the first place, I paced the room, from the window to the door and back again. In the great scheme of things, I guess that was my big mistake.
It meant I was standing right in front of the window when the first shots were fired.
17
Remember what I said about the disgusting floor? Right about then, I didn’t care.
I hit the cement face-first, and though I screamed to my teammates to do the same, I really didn’t have to. When I got up the nerve to lift my head just long enough to glance around, I saw that they were all on the floor, too.
We stayed that way for I don’t know how long, waiting for another volley of shots that didn’t come. The only sound in the room was our rough breathing. That, and the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears.
I swallowed hard. “Everybody OK?”
Fortunately, everybody was.
Still on his stomach, Absalom shimmied over. “You never said nothin’ about people tryin’ to kill you.”
“Like I knew somebody was going to start taking pot-shots at me?” I half-crawled, half-rolled in the other direction, and when I was out of range of the window, I sat up and dug around in my purse for my cell phone so I could call the cops. “It’s not like it happens every day,” I said, even though it does happen more often than I like. “I told you I didn’t want to involve any of you. I told you it might be dangerous. I’m sorry.”
“Not lookin’ for a freakin’ apology.” Absalom sat up, too. “Lookin’ to know what you got yourself into.”
I didn’t have the answer, but as it turns out, it didn’t matter. Another round of gunfire erupted, and before I had a chance to dial 911, I fell flat again. My phone slipped out of my hand and skittered across the floor.
A bullet slammed into the cement not ten inches from it, and a spray of tiny cement pieces spewed into the air. Another bullet whizzed past my ear. I knew it wouldn’t do any good, but hey, self-preservation instincts aren’t always logical; I rolled into a ball and covered my head.
And that’s how we all waited. One minute. Two. Three. With each second that passed, I was convinced the shooter was going to spring through the window and finish us off. When nobody did, I took the chance of unfurling and taking a careful look around. “Maybe he’s gone,” I whispered.
“Maybe.” Absalom rocked to his knees and crawled to the window. He was a big target and he knew it, so he stayed close to the floor and peeked around the side of all that was left of the board that used to cover the opening. “I don’t see anybody.”
“Me, either.” Reggie crawled up beside him. He had one of the sticks from the fire, and he tossed it out the window. It clattered to the ground.
There was no response, no gunfire. In fact, it was dead quiet for another whole minute. Then we heard a car door slam.
“Son of a-” It was gloomier than when I arrived at the Lake View, and I could just barely make out Sammi when she sprang to her feet. “That jerk ruined my shirt.” Her top lip curled, she brushed a hand over her T-shirt and stomped one foot.
“It’s just a shirt, Sammi. Chill.” Delmar made sure he kept his distance when he delivered his advice. “Better your shirt gets wasted than Pepper.”
Sammi being Sammi… well, she was well beyond being soothed. I’d like to think it was me being the shooter’s intended target that sent her over the edge, but it just as easily could have been the damage to her shirt. Before any of us could even think to stop her, she raced to the window, hopped over the sill, and barreled into the parking lot, swearing a blue streak at the top of her lungs.
“No!” I scrambled to my feet just as the car outside revved its engine and squealed its tires. Absalom and I made it to the window at the same time, and it might have been a toss-up as to who was going to push who out of the way and get outside first.
Except that the next sound we heard froze us both in our tracks.
The crack of a single gunshot.
By the time we jockeyed for position to get out of the window and raced to Sammi’s side, she was already dead.
“You look like you could use a cup of coffee.”
As if by magic, right after I heard these words, a disposable cup appeared under my nose. The coffee in it was hot and steamy, and it smelled like heaven.
Just thinking about drinking it made me feel like I was going to throw up.
I looked up from the coffee cup, and maybe I should have been, but I wasn’t surprised to find Quinn was on the other end of it. He slid into the backseat of the police car to sit next to me. “You all right?” he asked.
I’d like to say I sniffed, but the noise I made was way less polite than that. I swigged, and when he handed me a handkerchief, I grabbed it gratefully and wiped my nose and eyes.
“We were just doing research,” I said, telling Quinn the same story I’d told the patrol cops when they arrived in answer to my frenzied 911 call. It was, after all, technically the truth. “We were looking over the scene and talking about the crime, and-” I hiccupped. “That’s when the shooting started.”
“And this Sammi Santiago…” He consulted a small, leather-bound notebook. “She ran out of the room?”
“You know Sammi!” I felt I could get away with this explanation because Quinn was a Cemetery Survivor fan, and as every fan knew, Sammi has-er, had-a temper. He’d seen her in action. “She was so mad about the shooting and about her shirt getting dirty…” I remembered how back in the room, she thought her T-shirt was ruined, and how out in the parking lot when I finally dropped to my knees at her side, I saw that St. James’s face was obliterated by the dark red blood that oozed from the wound in Sammi’s chest. When I tried to draw in a breath to steady myself, it wobbled on the sob stuck in my throat. “Sammi just took off. And that’s when…” I swallowed hard. It hurt. “That’s when we heard the shot.”