stay away: Bunny killed Smithy’s marriage and it could be that Smithy wanted to return the favor. Maybe he wouldn’t like that I’m trying to get Rudy off because the guilty path might lead right to him.”
Irish Donna stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, a crowd of fudgies nearly tripping over her. Eyes narrowing, she yanked me to the side. “What are ye thinking? Smithy’s a dear boy, he is, not a mean bone in his body, everybody knows that. I cannot believe you’re thinking he’s the one who did the pushing. There are lots of others out there having it in for Bunny and not wanting to get found out.”
Okay, this was going to be a real problem. Friends. Everybody around here knew everybody and couldn’t believe the boy or girl next door was a killer.
“And why would Smithy be framing Rudy of all people? Tell me that, would you?” Donna added. “There not be a cross word between the two of them as far as I can tell. Ye gone daft in the head, girl, and I’ll be no part of pinning a murder on a perfectly innocent boy like Smithy.”
“I’m not pinning, but you have to admit that Smithy didn’t like Bunny, and maybe he’d had enough of not seeing his daughter and blamed Bunny for the whole situation.”
Donna snorted, wrinkled her nose and stormed off.
Being a nosy outsider would never compete with being a longtime friend, and I respected that, but Smithy was way up there on my
who knocked off Bunny
list. I strolled past the barn, the steady clang of hammer hitting metal vibrating into the fillings of my teeth. How did he stand the racket? Small wonder why he raised nice, quiet plants.
I turned for the side entrance I had gone in before and stopped at the screen door. Now I needed a distraction to get inside and up the steps to the loft without Smithy seeing me. Maybe I’d find a footprint or a gum wrapper or whatever up there to lead me to whoever wanted me out of the way. Heck, they found clues like that all the time on TV, right?
Red-faced, with sweat clinging to his forehead, Smithy swung the mallet, all his attention focused on the red-hot iron and the giant tongs holding it. Where I came from, we used tongs to snag the last olives out of the jar. I slipped off my shoes, waited for the hammer to hit the metal again then opened the door. The wood floor felt cool and smooth against my bare feet as I tiptoed up the well-worn steps as Smithy gave the iron rod another whack.
When I got to the top, the loft doors were still wide open, with the warm breeze drifting through them. The drying herbs and berries sat to one side, and I crept across the heavy floorboards to where I’d been pushed. The racket below suddenly stopped. I froze and waited a beat for the pounding to start up again, but instead felt someone come up behind me. Every hair on my body stood straight on end as I felt a hot breath against my neck.
S mithy was strong with a big hot forge to cook me to ashes; least I wouldn’t itch anymore. I spun around, throwing my hands in the air with
Don’t kill me; I have a cat to support
on the tip of my tongue, and Irish Donna slapped her hand over my mouth to squelch my scream.
I took a step back and gave her the
what the heck are you doing here
hands-up gesture. Donna pointed below to where Smithy was, did a swirly finger by the side of her head indicating Smithy was crazy. I didn’t think Smithy was actually nuts, but something was clearly up with him.
She pointed to me, then to the loft door. She pointed to herself and the drying herbs and berries. From years of charades at Camp Wichicaca, I figured that meant I should look one place for clues and Donna would look in the other for some idea of who sent me airborne. I studied the floor by the open door for footprints other than mine as a woman’s voice drifted up from below.
“These are my friends from Chicago,” the woman said. “And we’d like a private tour of your blacksmith shop. We’d like to avoid the crowds.”
“Tour’s
Irish Donna stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, a crowd of fudgies nearly tripping over her. Eyes narrowing, she yanked me to the side. “What are ye thinking? Smithy’s a dear boy, he is, not a mean bone in his body, everybody knows that. I cannot believe you’re thinking he’s the one who did the pushing. There are lots of others out there having it in for Bunny and not wanting to get found out.”
Okay, this was going to be a real problem. Friends. Everybody around here knew everybody and couldn’t believe the boy or girl next door was a killer.
“And why would Smithy be framing Rudy of all people? Tell me that, would you?” Donna added. “There not be a cross word between the two of them as far as I can tell. Ye gone daft in the head, girl, and I’ll be no part of pinning a murder on a perfectly innocent boy like Smithy.”
“I’m not pinning, but you have to admit that Smithy didn’t like Bunny, and maybe he’d had enough of not seeing his daughter and blamed Bunny for the whole situation.”
Donna snorted, wrinkled her nose and stormed off.
Being a nosy outsider would never compete with being a longtime friend, and I respected that, but Smithy was way up there on my
who knocked off Bunny
list. I strolled past the barn, the steady clang of hammer hitting metal vibrating into the fillings of my teeth. How did he stand the racket? Small wonder why he raised nice, quiet plants.
I turned for the side entrance I had gone in before and stopped at the screen door. Now I needed a distraction to get inside and up the steps to the loft without Smithy seeing me. Maybe I’d find a footprint or a gum wrapper or whatever up there to lead me to whoever wanted me out of the way. Heck, they found clues like that all the time on TV, right?
Red-faced, with sweat clinging to his forehead, Smithy swung the mallet, all his attention focused on the red-hot iron and the giant tongs holding it. Where I came from, we used tongs to snag the last olives out of the jar. I slipped off my shoes, waited for the hammer to hit the metal again then opened the door. The wood floor felt cool and smooth against my bare feet as I tiptoed up the well-worn steps as Smithy gave the iron rod another whack.
When I got to the top, the loft doors were still wide open, with the warm breeze drifting through them. The drying herbs and berries sat to one side, and I crept across the heavy floorboards to where I’d been pushed. The racket below suddenly stopped. I froze and waited a beat for the pounding to start up again, but instead felt someone come up behind me. Every hair on my body stood straight on end as I felt a hot breath against my neck.
S mithy was strong with a big hot forge to cook me to ashes; least I wouldn’t itch anymore. I spun around, throwing my hands in the air with
Don’t kill me; I have a cat to support
on the tip of my tongue, and Irish Donna slapped her hand over my mouth to squelch my scream.
I took a step back and gave her the
what the heck are you doing here
hands-up gesture. Donna pointed below to where Smithy was, did a swirly finger by the side of her head indicating Smithy was crazy. I didn’t think Smithy was actually nuts, but something was clearly up with him.
She pointed to me, then to the loft door. She pointed to herself and the drying herbs and berries. From years of charades at Camp Wichicaca, I figured that meant I should look one place for clues and Donna would look in the other for some idea of who sent me airborne. I studied the floor by the open door for footprints other than mine as a woman’s voice drifted up from below.
“These are my friends from Chicago,” the woman said. “And we’d like a private tour of your blacksmith shop. We’d like to avoid the crowds.”
“Tour’s
Similar Books
