The deadly threat, delivered with a light touch, registered with finality. Her headache forgotten, she searched the crowd, looking for the Voice of Doom on the other end of the line. No one looked her way. No one held a phone. She spun on her heels and hurried toward Hank, toward help.
“Oh, Sugarplum, where are you going? No one can help you,” the man taunted in his nasal tone. “And stop looking for me. People only see me when it’s too late.”
The phone slipped in her clammy hands, so she tightened her grip. Petrified, she tried to speak but only a choked coughing sound came out.
“Good girl. Now, I want her phone and flash drive. I want them immediately or you’ll pay like she did.”
Her body went numb. The phone fell to the ground and bounced off the asphalt. Claire gaped at it for a moment, her mind blank. Acting on instinct, she swooped up her cell.
Pressing the phone hard to her ear, she feared her shaking hands would drop it again. “Whose phone and flash drive?”
“Why, the dead girl’s, of course, Ms. Klutz. I had hoped they were in her handbag, but I was wrong. I hate being wrong—it always means more work for me.”
Desperate, she wished Hank would look at her. With this psycho’s eyes on her, she couldn’t wave her arms for help. She stared at the back of Hank’s head. Muscles tense, she willed him to turn around. No luck.
“I don’t have them.” A tiny, naive part of her believed her pleading tone would work. He’d rescind his threat and life would go back to normal.
“Too bad. I’d hoped to do this without it having to get all messy—for you, that is.”
His words blasted her fragile hope to pieces. Her only alternative was to get help. Someone else had to notice her distress.
“But you’re lucky. It’s late and I’m tired after, well, you know what I did tonight. Suffice it to say she had a lot more fight in her than expected.” He chuckled.
At her wits end to find another way to gain someone’s attention, she raised her voice. “Who are you? How’d you get my number?”
Engrossed in their jobs, no one glanced up. Defeated and alone in a parking lot filled with law enforcement, Claire sank down to the curb.
“Silly girl, I can read. Your name is on the menu as owner and proprietor. It doesn’t take a genius to find a cellphone number. I love the Internet. Don’t you?” He paused as if expecting her to answer. When she didn’t, he carried on. “But, back to the matter at hand. I’ll give you until noon to find what I want. You’ll be hearing from me. And let’s just keep all of this to ourselves, shall we? I’d hate to have to find a Dumpster big enough for you and your whole family.”
The line went dead.
Chapter Two
Harvest’s early lunch crowd’s muffled chatter filtered up the stairs to Claire’s office on the second floor. The sound barely registered in her worried mind as she paced across the tiny space. Pulse pounding, she chewed on her bottom lip.
Time was running out. Anxiety twisted her gut as she squinted at her laptop’s clock. Her stomach dropped.
Eleven-thirty. Only thirty minutes left until the Voice of Doom’s deadline.
Her purple kitten heels clicked across the hardwood floor, keeping pace with her frantic thoughts. Her nails dug into her palms as she fought against the panic boiling up inside her. The phone and flash drive had to be somewhere in the restaurant. Twenty-eight minutes left until the call. She still had time to find them. What had she missed?
The investigators never found a phone or flash drive in the Dumpster or on the body. She’d gotten that tidbit of information from Hank when she brought him coffee this morning. He’d leveled a strange look at her when she’d asked about it and the truth had almost bubbled out. But a vision of Hank’s lifeless body pushed in with the garbage had stopped her cold. She’d deflected his curiosity by handing him a donut and skedaddled out of his office.
The poor girl had eaten here last night. Harvest was the only logical place the devices could be. She had to find them or the Voice of Doom would hurt her family. He’d already killed one person. Would a few more be all that difficult for him? Judging by the demented conversation they’d had last night, she guessed not.
Sitting down at her desk and letting her head fall to its solid surface, she rolled through the possibilities. She’d checked underneath all of the tables in the downstairs dining room. She’d sliced her hands through the booth seats’ crevices and recovered about four bucks in spare change, a dozen gum wrappers and way too many bits of unidentifiable crumbly stuff. Nothing had lain underneath the upended fake potted plants. She’d looked behind the photos of area farmers that lined the walls. Nada. Her search of the kitchen had left her empty-handed. All she’d discovered after practically dismantling the bar was that she needed to order vodka.
Easing her head up from the desk, she gnawed her raw bottom lip. Her frustration festered as she tried to unwind the mystery. No ideas magically appeared. She couldn’t envision any possible locations she hadn’t already checked twice. Discarding each idea as soon as it occurred, a desperate tension built up with no release in sight. She spun her chair around, faced the window and berated herself for her lack of insight.
Always more comfortable with anger than fear, she focused on that emotion as she sought to answer the riddle.
“Hey there, Munchkin. Mom says hi.”
In a single motion, she jumped up and whipped around. Her brother Chris leaned against the doorframe. The youngest and smallest of her three brothers, Chris stood six feet tall but compensated with a tall, black cowboy hat.
“No, Chris, you didn’t call Mom.” She groaned. “Why do all my brothers hate me?”
The last thing she needed was her mom to descend into this chaos. Glenda Layton would fuss and flutter around, pouring coffee for the deputies while whispering to Claire that none of this would have happened if she were married. Her mother meant well, but her constant harping for her children to get hitched and provide her with grandchildren drove them all nuts. Glenda wouldn’t let a little detail like a murderer on the loose distract her from her life’s mission. Claire was sure of it.