Death Waxed Over - Tim Myers [8]
At first I thought she’d had a heart attack, but as I raced closer, I saw a blood stain blossom on the back of her dress.
During one of the constant fireworks bursts, someone had taken the opportunity to kill my chief competition.
Before I could take it all in, a woman in her mid-forties pointed right at me and screamed, “He shot her. That’s the man who shot her.”
Chapter 3
“I didn’t shoot her,” I protested, feeling my legs weaken with the accusation.
The woman was not to be deterred, though. She screamed hysterically, “He threw the gun into that trash can! I saw him do it!”
Sheriff Morton, the law enforcement chief for the entire county, was beside me in a heartbeat. His ruddy complexion and brown hair were in sharp contrast to his predecessor’s washed-out appearance, but I couldn’t count either of the men as friends. “Harrison, what’s she talking about?”
“She’s nuts, Sheriff, I didn’t do it.”
He looked toward Gretel’s motionless form and commanded, “Wait right here. I’ll straighten this out.” While Morton went to check on Gretel, my accuser stood there just staring at me, a few steps in front of the other onlookers.
I started toward the sheriff to see if there was anything I could do to help when the woman yelled, “He’s trying to get away. Somebody stop him!”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said heatedly. “I’m just going to check on Gretel.”
Morton growled over his shoulder at me, “Get back where you were. Now.”
I retreated back to my spot, feeling a hundred pairs of eyes focused on me. The crowd had already marked me as the shooter based on one nearsighted woman’s accusation.
Heather hurried up beside me. “Harrison, what happened? Did you see it?”
“I was just coming back when she fell over. I thought she was having a heart attack at first. Then I saw the blood. This lunatic,” I paused, pointing at my accuser, “thinks I shot her.”
“Nonsense. Surely the sheriff will see that.” I looked at Gretel just as the EMS crew was loading her into the back of an ambulance. There was an oxygen mask over her face, and they were moving with extreme urgency. At least she was still alive; that was something.
Morton rejoined me, and Heather took a step back. Evidently not far enough, though.
The sheriff said, “Hadn’t you better get back to your table?”
“I think I’m needed here,” Heather said stubbornly.
“Don’t worry. If we need you, we’ll let you know,” Morton said.
After Heather reluctantly left, Morton asked, “Now what’s this nonsense about you shooting Gretel Barnett?”
“I don’t have a clue. That woman over there is either blind or she’s insane, if you ask me.”
Morton shook his head. “Stay. I’ll be right back.”
He had a whispered conversation with my accuser, and I saw her pointing at me again and again. Finally Morton started back in my direction. He brushed past me though and upended the trash can behind where I stood.
“What are you looking for?” I asked him.
“She claims she saw you shoot the victim, then throw the gun in here.” As he rooted through the trash with a gloved hand, I said, “I threw away my orange juice container, not a gun. She’s delusional.”
Morton, in a softer voice, said, “Well, she also happens to be Wanda Klein. She’s married to Hank Klein.”
“The newspaper editor?” I asked.
“He’s more than that; he’s the publisher and owner of The Gunpowder Gazette, Harrison.”
“Let me guess. You’re taking her word over mine,” I said.
“I have to investigate any lead I get. It’s my job.”
He stood, then said in a loud voice, “There’s nothing’s here.”
“I saw what I saw,” the woman said loudly. “He shot that poor woman in the back.”
“For the last time, I didn’t do a thing to her,” I snapped.
One of the vendors who’d gathered in the crowd said, “You argued with her not an hour ago. There’s no use denying it, a lot of us heard you.”
This was getting out of hand. I said, “We had a disagreement, that’s all. I didn’t shoot her.”
There were more murmurs from the crowd, then Morton said, “Folks, let’s break this up. If you’ve got anything