Sesame Swallow | The Christmas Caper (Pt 3 of 6)

A Holiday Mini-Mystery: Usual Suspects

Armand stopped the car at 1202 Edgemore Drive, and we stepped out onto a snowy sidewalk while he leaned back in his seat with the heater on. I looked back at my warm seat longingly before I closed the door. It was definitely getting colder, and the sun was going down. Weird thing about winter in Baltimore — it was the only time of the year you could count on a cool breeze. Exactly when you didn’t want one. Summer? Nope. Just insufferable, hair-ruining humidity. Winter? Yeah, here’s Mr. Wind right up your skirt. Fucker. I zipped up my jacket and tried to bury myself inside it like a bitter, cold turtle, knowing that wouldn’t really help. Warmer than Upstate New York in December though, but not as pretty.

The place we wanted was across the street. Heath’s Woodworking. Seemed legit, along with the big sliding barn door that marked the entrance. We skidded across the street, careful to pick our steps and avoid the few cars that came by. It wasn’t my day to go down on the ice and get run over. My calendar said so.

Regan stopped me before I gave the door a yank.

“Door’s closed. Do we think he’s in there?”

“Let’s find out.” The clock was ticking, and I didn’t need to look at my watch again to know we had about an hour to get the bauble back to the mayor. I reached for the door handle again, but Regan grabbed my wrist.

“Wait, Ses. The guy is a woodworking specialist and an ice sculptor. That means lots of tools, dangerous tools. I mean weapons. Hammers, machetes, knives, probably a chain saw — some people like to use some big tools to do their work. If this guy has a problem or just doesn’t like us poking around…”

I stared at her, then nodded. It hadn’t occurred to me, but then that’s why having an ex-military weapons specialist on the team made a difference. I wasn’t exactly known for taking my personal safety into account, and Regan had more than once gotten us out of a fix. “So, what do we do? Time is ticking.”

She looked at the door, then up and down the street. “Door is closed, which it shouldn’t be if he’s open. Let’s go ahead and give it a pull. If we get a ‘get lost’ shout or anything like that, I’m gonna stand by and let you work your pretty little lost blonde girl charm while being ready to break his ass in half if he tries anything. Just be cordial.”

“Dumb blonde?” I gave her a look.

She returned with a smirk. “It’s worked before.”

“Remind me to give you the finger later. It’s too cold out here for that now.”

Instead, I poked my tongue out at her and gave the door a yank. It slid to the side without so much as a squeak, revealing a glass door with the business name again, and something much worse. “Fuck.”

I pushed on the glass, and it opened right up, too, leaving us standing in the middle of a big workshop, all sorts of woodworking projects lining the walls on either side of the big open work space in the middle. A second ice angel, just the one at the party, dominated the space, but all I could see was a chainsaw sitting on the floor in a puddle of blood right next to a dude face down in that puddle. Fuck.

“Call 911,” said Regan, and she pushed past me. I fumbled with my phone, eyes scanning the room, looking for anyone else who might be around. How long had the guy been gone from the party? Seemed like about two hours, according to Teddy. It had taken us maybe fifteen minutes to get here, meaning whoever did this might still…

Before I could finish the thought, Emergency Services answered. It was a woman on the line. “911. What’s your emergency?”

I stepped into the shop a little farther while Regan went to work. I couldn’t take my eyes off the guy now, and I wondered if he was alive. He hadn’t moved or made a sound. “We have a man injured at 1202 Edgemore Drive. It’s Heath’s Woodworking. We stopped in to talk about a project, and we found him on the floor here. There’s blood. He was using a chainsaw to cut an ice sculpture. Send someone quick!”

“I’m dispatching someone now, ma’am. The nearest station is five minutes away. Please stay on the line until they arrive. Is the situation safe? Are you alone? Anything else we need to be aware of?”

“Regan?” She was kneeling over the guy, checking him over, but then she turned and nodded.

“He’s alive, probably just knocked out. He’s lost some blood. Bad crack on the head. How soon?”

“How soon?” I asked and parroted Regan’s info into the phone.

“The streets are icy, so a couple of minutes. Don’t move the body. But can you see if he’s been cut or has a wound from that chainsaw?”

I repeated the question back to Regan, but she shook her head. “Head injury. Looks like a pretty good gash. Maybe he slipped?”

Fuck fuck fuck was all I could hear in my head. Was this Heath? Was this even the guy who we were trying to talk to? Jesus fuck. Did someone try to kill him? This was just supposed to be a silly Christmas ornament thing, not a murder. Hell, I’d honestly thought it might be a prank when Teddy had first called me. He wasn’t known as a joker in class, but he was in a frat, and maybe there was another side to him that I didn’t know about.

Regardless, we had a situation here now. An unconscious potential suspect who I was definitely not getting a confession or much else out of. I watched Regan look over him again and again, like she was trying to figure out what to do to help the poor guy, and right then all I wanted her to do was go through his pockets. Was it Heath? It was “Heath” at the party. Was this him? Where were his friends, the guys who helped with the sculpture? Did he have the bauble? Maybe it was shoved in the flannel jacket he was wearing. My mind started wandering, and the questions just flooded in. Was he alone when he fell? Did someone knock him down or attack him? Why was the barn door closed if the shop was open? How long ago did this happen? We hadn’t heard anything.

Then, in the distance, I heard a sound — a siren. And right at the same time, another sound — something shifting. A box? Someone in the back? There was an open door on the left leading to somewhere. Did they hear the siren, too?

Before I could even come up with an answer, there was a crash in the back, a cry, and footsteps. I bolted for the open door, yelling into the phone that I had to go and then to Regan that I had to see who it was. I saw that “don’t you fucking dare” look in her eyes before I burst through the gray door and into a storeroom, the whole place lined with shelves and supplies and workbenches and tables brimming with raw pieces of wood and tools and whatever the hell woodworkers collected in back rooms. But what caught my attention was another gray door swinging open and the stiff winter breeze blowing in.

“Out the back,” I screamed, not sure if Regan could hear me. I hooked a hard right and flew into the alley. More like I slid into the alley since it was packed with ice, and there was no way for me to stop until I’d slammed full force into the wall in front of me. I caught the bricks with my shoulder, head turning, following the sounds of crunching snow and ice, and saw a figure duck out onto the street.

“Stop!” I screamed and started hobbling down the icy alleyway.

The wind hit me in the face when I half-ran/half-slid to the sidewalk on Edgemore. Blue and red lights flickered in the dark, reflecting off the lingering snow, the ice, the windows from the building across the street. And right at the corner, heading back to the front of the building, I saw him. Or her. Or whoever it was in a big black coat and hat again sliding to a stop, this time next to a blue sedan, a car I’d barely noticed when we crossed the street.

“Wait!” I cried and took off running. At least I’d worn good boots, and the sidewalk was mostly clear, but no amount of yelling and running was gonna stop this person from getting into their car. It roared to life and slowly pulled away.

I hit the corner just as the car got around the ambulance already parked in front of the studio and didn’t stop until I slid up against Lindsay’s black Tahoe XL. I threw open the passenger’s door, jumped in, and yelled the dumbest, coolest thing I think I’d ever yelled at someone: “Follow that car!” Armand, who would have jumped out of his skin if he hadn’t been paid to be the best, most attentive driver anyone had ever seen, slammed the truck into gear, and we were off.

I dialed Regan the moment I had my seatbelt on and let it ring a few times, then shrugged and grabbed the oh-shit handle, first-hand witnessing the slowest car chase in the history of the world. We passed an old woman standing on the sidewalk and wondered if It was like watching a pair of sloths run the hundred-yard dash, as if time itself had decided to take the scenic route, leaving her to witness a slow-motion waltz of wheels and asphalt.

It didn’t last long, and if we didn’t set a Guinness record for the slowest car chase ever recorded, we might have set one for the shortest. We weren’t a block down the street before the Camry we were chasing attempted a left turn, discovered a patch of ice and took on a parked Explorer sideways. I felt the automatic cringe reflex, like watching people fall on Chive TV, and felt the SUV slow carefully to a stop in the intersection, where I was out of the truck before I even realized what I was doing. I waved off Armand, and shuffled over to the driver’s side door, then yanked it open to find a frazzled-looking brunette face-planted in an airbag.

“Are you okay?” I said as she scrambled after the seat belt release. Little cries, muffled by the airbag, filled the air, and I found myself leaning in, trying to peel back the white cloth of the airbag and pull her out of the car.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. No, please.” Her voice was more like a shriek, a crying, pleading warble punctuated by loud sobs. When the seat belt released, and I’d pulled her out of the car, I found myself face-to-face with a young woman around my age, her brunette hair back in a ponytail, revealing a ruddy face and tears streaking down her cheeks.

“Are you okay?” She was visibly shaking, and I only wanted to hug her right then.

“Please. My car. Look at my car.”

“You’re okay?” I cooed, reaching out and grabbing her shoulders. She was wrapped in a massive black parka, fur like a halo around her head, but I could still feel her shaking, and I pulled her in. Fuck it. All I saw was a scared woman, not a dangerous one. She melted into me, her arms dangling at her sides, until I stepped back. “Come on, let’s get you in the truck here, where it’s warm and we can talk. Armand will call 911.”

I took her hand, but she froze there next to her car. “Not the cops. Please.”

“Come on inside. It’s cold, and it’s not safe to stay out here in the street. Let’s get you in here where it’s warm, and we’ll call a tow, okay? We’ll get your car taken care of. Come on. We have heated seats.” I was gonna throw whatever I could at her. I just needed her to calm her down, and I wasn’t kidding about how cold it was. Plus, her car was trashed; there was no reason to sit there in that heap. AAA would handle it. Besides, I needed to know who this was, what she knew, and if she had the bauble somewhere in those layers. Better to do that in a controlled situation.

When we’d sat down, heat on blast, Armand moving us along, I handed our new friend a bottle of water, and waited for her to take a few sips before I leaned in. “Who are you? Sorry, I’m Sesame. I didn’t catch your name.”

“I’m Gigi. Gigi Blaese.” She threw me a weak smile and took another sip of water. “I’m Shelby Stevens’ assistant.”

“And the bauble?” There was no reason not to go for the throat here. “The Christmas ornament? The Eye of Frederick?”

“Someone took it.”