Miz Scarlet and the Bewildered Bridegroom by Sara M. Barton Page A

up?”
    We carefully propped
him up. Bur grimaced as he shifted his body into a seated
position.
    “Ouch!”
    “How’s your head?” the
cop asked, studying my brother’s pupils. I spotted his name tag
just above the breast pocket: Parker. “Do you have any dizziness or
nausea...any double vision?”
    “No. The only real
damage is to my pride and my backside. I landed on my
tailbone.”
    “Let’s get him into the
chair,” I suggested. Parker gently pulled him to his feet and
steadied him. I tucked my arm under Bur’s right elbow and the cop
took the left. Together, we guided him to a chair, as a worried
Lacey joined us.
    “Goodness gracious, is
he okay?” she queried, her concern obvious. “I think he needs
medical attention.”
    “I’m fine,” the injured
man insisted, even as his fingers explored the back of his head for
signs of trauma. “Just give me a minute.”
    Hammerhead, his courage
rising now that there was a heavy police presence in the foyer,
decided he was interested in the black box Dave Wilkie left by the
door.
    “Holy mackerel!” he
uttered in disbelief, moving forward to examine the gizmo. “Is that
what I think it is?”
    “What do you think it
is, kid?” A new arrival in the foyer demanded, peering over the
teen’s shoulder.
    “It looks like some
kind of an incendiary device. See?” Shark Boy leaned over, pointing
to the plain box. “It’s made of balsa wood. That would go up in
flames quickly. See those firecrackers? They’d all probably go off
at the same time. There’s even a wick.”
    “Those aren’t
firecrackers,” said another uniformed officer, examining the
contents of the wooden box more thoroughly. “They’re M-80
quarter-sticks of dynamite, and with that many tied together, more
than capable of blowing right through that front
door.”
    “Whoa!” That got
Michael’s attention. “That can’t be good!”
    “Wilkie wanted to blow
up our front door?” My brother was nearly speechless at the
thought. But now the budding engineer was fascinated by the
prospect.
    “Well, not
necessarily,” Shark Boy replied, considering the possibilities. He
invited us to follow the trail of the wick. Looped around the box
twice, the remainder of the woven cord was tied to the inside knob
of the front door, a long length of cord hanging down. “It sure
would make a huge racket. There’d be lots of damage from the
explosion, which would probably cause a fire.”
    “Dave Wilkie wanted to
start a fire?” I shook my head in dismay. “Why would he want to do
that?”
    “To get rid of the
evidence,” Kenny replied. He pointed to a small bottle now lying on
its side near the wall. “It looks like he brought his own
accelerant. Dave must have planned to place the box of
quarter-sticks on the front porch just before soaking the long end
of the wick in the flammable liquid. He probably planned to leave
the door open a crack, giving himself enough time to hide somewhere
nearby, before the explosion occurred. That way, it would look like
the attack was done by an outsider.”
    “What in heaven’s name
is going on down there?” my mother called out, leaning over the
railing of the upper hallway. Her face contorted in fear when she
saw Bur. “Is my son hurt?”
    “Listen up, people.
Nobody is to touch that thing. I’ve got to call the bomb squad,”
said the cop in the green golf shirt. He was already dialing.
“Yeah, Valboa here. I’ve got an improvised explosive device out on
White Oak Hill.”
    He shooed the group
away from the evidence and stepped out onto the porch to finish his
conversation as my mother and Thaddeus emerged from the small
elevator. She had to maneuver her wheelchair through the expanding
maze of people, her frustration clear. “Excuse me. Excuse me,
please. Excuse me....”
    “Say what?” Bur was
still rubbing the back of his head, wincing. I leaned in and felt a
lump rising on his skull. “Did you say bomb squad?”
    “You should have Dr.
Van Zandt