Broom and Gloom: Squeaky Clean Mysteries, Book 9 Read online

  “I’m going to go secure the gates,” Trace told me. “Stay with the horses, okay?”

  I nodded and crossed my arms as I wondered what to do with myself. Certainly there were other things that needed to be done, but I didn’t know what. I only prayed that the weather didn’t get any more serious than a rain shower.

  As I paced the dusty ground, something buzzed in the distance.

  I pivoted, trying to find the source, and spotted Trace’s cell phone. He must have taken it out of his pocket when he’d been trying to wrangle the horses.

  Out of curiosity, I glanced at the phone. Jono’s name was on the screen. I’d been wanting to talk to him again.

  I second-guessed myself for a split second before grabbing the phone and answering.

  “Gabby?” Jono asked.

  “It’s me. Trace is a little busy, so I’m taking his messages.”

  “I guess you’re out at Wentworth’s ranch. How cozy.”

  I ignored whatever he was trying to get at. “I have a question for you, Jono. Where were you yesterday when you were supposed to be in Oklahoma City? How’d you get to the mountains so fast when I was stranded?”

  “What? You think I’m behind some of these things that happened around here?” When I didn’t say anything, he gasped. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  “I’m not kidding. Where were you?”

  “I was looking for a new guitar for Trace, if you must know. He was so upset about his. I knew I had to cheer him up. There’s this used-guitar shop about an hour from Oklahoma City. I was there. Ask the owner and he’ll confirm it.”

  “Why was your business card found on Georgia?”

  “Aren’t you smart? The police already talked to me about it. I did give Georgia my card, but it was a couple of months ago. I was trying to convince her to leave Trace alone. I told her there could be incentives for her cooperation. She never responded.”

  I frowned as a better picture of Jono formed in my mind. “You like trying to pay people off, don’t you?”

  “Money talks. That’s all I’m saying. I know what language most people speak, and it’s cash. Anyway, please tell Trace that I called. Goodbye!”

  I hung up the phone and set it back where I found it.

  Jono was a manipulator. Just how far would he go to get what he wanted, though?

  Before I could dwell on it too long, my phone rang. I pulled it out and saw that Sherman had texted me a video.

  Bingo!

  I pulled it up. Sure enough, at 6:07 yesterday, a woman whose hair and frame matched Georgia’s entered the room next to mine. I continued to watch, waiting for someone to emerge. No one did.

  At 6:24, the door to my room opened. I walked out, and instead of walking toward the atrium as I always did, I walked in the opposite direction, my back toward the camera.

  The only problem was that I’d been at the fire during that time. Someone else had dressed up like me and snuck into my room! Someone must have managed to unlock the adjoining door.

  Could it have been Jono? He was thin enough and not that tall. What if he put a wig on? Could he pass for me on a grainy video? I didn’t know.

  Trace came running in through the door and pointed outside. “I have a feeling we are in for quite a storm.”

  I followed his gaze and frowned. “Those clouds look fierce.”

  He nodded solemnly. “They appear to be. Don’t be alarmed. It might not mean anything yet.”

  I swallowed hard. “Or it could mean everything.”

  CHAPTER 31

  “I’ve been through hurricanes, Trace.” A gust of wind swept inside the stables and propelled strands of my hair into my eyes. “But not tornadoes.”

  He grabbed my arm. “We need to get to a storm shelter.”

  “What about the horses? We can’t leave them.” I couldn’t let these animals fend for themselves. It just didn’t seem right.

  “Horses have good instincts. We’ll leave the door to the stable open so they’ll be able to get out if they need to. They’re smart animals.”

  Hesitantly, I nodded and started at a slow jog toward the outside.

  As we stepped outside, a smattering of rain hit us. A new voice cut through the air. “You’ve got to help. I think Wentworth is going crazy!”

  Skye ran toward us. Her eyes were wide and darting madly about. Did she have some posttraumatic stress kicking in right now? Why else would she look like that? Why else would she say Wentworth was going crazy?

  “What do you mean?” Trace met her in five strides.

  “We were inside, and he just started throwing things. I thought he was going to kill me! The look in his eyes was just . . .” She shuddered. “What should we do?”

  Wentworth was Georgia’s right-hand man? He couldn’t be. Not Wentworth.

  I glanced toward the dark clouds and saw that they’d begun to churn. And it was headed our way. “I don’t know if this is the best place to be right now,” I yelled.

  “Come on. I’ve got to get you guys to safety,” Trace said. “There’s a storm shelter not far from the house. Our best bet is to wait it out there.”

  The wind gusted, nearly blowing me down. Debris flew in my face—dust and dirt and maybe even some sticks and leaves.

  I held one of Trace’s hands, and Skye held the other. We pushed through the wind until we reached the storm shelter doors. With some effort, Trace managed to open one. He ushered us inside and paused at the top of the steps.

  “I’ve got to go back for Wentworth,” he said.

  “Trace . . .” I wanted to argue, yet I understood his urge to help his friend.

  But what if Wentworth tried to kill him?

  Just then, a loud bang sounded outside. I could only imagine what might be flying through the air.

  “You guys are going to be okay down here,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

  “Please be careful!” I called to him.

  He shoved on the door. “What?”

  He pushed harder, but nothing happened.

  “Maybe something fell on it. There was a pile of wood and debris not far from the door,” I said.

  He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I just know we’re not getting out of here right now.”

  I reached the bottom and shivered. The space was cold and dark, with only two small windows at the top of one wall. I assumed they were there for airflow in case people were to get trapped down here.

  I imagined Wentworth emerging from the shadows. We’d be goners down here, stuck with no escape. There was a ladder, an old armoire, a table, and some chairs. The ground was cold and gritty—either packed dirt or filthy cement, I couldn’t tell which. The lights flickered above us, and I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination or if the whole place was rocking.

  “We’ll wait it out here,” he said, starting down the steps.

  “Is this normal?” I asked, feeling the pressure around me drop.

  “Tornadoes in Oklahoma?” Trace asked, joining Skye and me as we hunkered by the wall. “They’re about as normal as worms in an apple. You know they happen; you just hope you don’t taste them.”

  The wind kicked up, and the lights flickered again. My ears started popping.

  Skye pulled her knees to her chest while Trace stood and began pacing. The tight set of his shoulders and his rigid jawline told me that he was worried also.

  The intensity of sound outside strengthened. The funnel cloud must be getting closer. I closed my eyes, imagining the destruction.

  Lord, protect us. Protect everyone in this storm’s path. Oh, and please help us to find some answers, give us closure.

  “We’re just going to have to wait this out,” Trace said, his hands on his hips.

  “I’m so bad at waiting.” I paused. Had I said that out loud?

  “Sometimes, waiting is all you can do,” Trace said. “There’s no other choice but to hold tight until things calm down.”

  As I lowered myself to the floor, I tho
ught about all the ways that could apply to my life. Half of the time, I waited too long and missed opportunities. The other half, I pushed ahead before I should. Life was such a delicate balance sometimes, and I often tilted the scales too quickly in one direction or the other.

  The ground began to shake, the walls vibrating from the pressure and wind outside.

  “Get under these tables!” Trace yelled.

  Skye ducked under a small table beside her while Trace and I huddled under an old, farm-style kitchen table.

  My heart pounded hard in my chest. My ears continued to pop. My throat tightened.

  I wanted to look outside. I wanted to see what was coming. But sometimes we didn’t have that luxury. In life and in tornadoes.

  I put my head between my knees and waited.

  And waited.

  I tried to brace myself, prepare myself, for the walls to be ripped away. For flying debris to assault us. For winds strong enough to suck us into the sky.

  My blood rushed through my ears, nearly drowning the sound of the tornado.

  The house shook harder.

  The wind howled.

  Hail slammed into the ventilation window.

  Then there was quiet.

  Stillness.

  The wind died.

  The atmosphere calmed.

  I raised my head and glanced at Trace. “Is it over?”

  “Sounds like it,” he said. “It appeared quickly and now it’s gone.”

  I let out a breath of relief. Thank goodness. “Can we come out?”

  “Stay put for a few more minutes, just in case,” Trace said. “I’m going to try that door one more time.”

  I glanced over at Skye. She stretched her legs out. The bottom of her boots stared back at me, and I spotted a little flower emblem on the bottom. My heart shuddered a beat.

  I’d seen those same boots in the picture of Skye, the one with . . . daisies on the table behind her. Why hadn’t I thought of that before?

  Those footprints I’d seen after Dud was shot—the ones that matched the set outside of the window at Skye’s place—I’d assumed they were Georgia’s. I’d assumed they were the evidence that tied both crimes together, that connected Georgia with them.

  But what if I’d tied the wrong person to both crimes?

  I sucked in a deep breath as the implications of my thought washed over me.

  CHAPTER 32

  I shook my head. No, I wasn’t thinking clearly. That had to be it.

  Why would Skye stage her own abduction? Why would she kill Dud? And, even if she did, why was she back here with us now? Unless . . .

  I couldn’t even finish my thought.

  I glanced up at her. She stared at me with a dark, foreboding look in her eyes. Did she know that I knew? That I suspected something? More facts collided in my head.

  The security guard, Quinton, had said he’d seen a dark-haired woman with Dud before he died. I’d assumed that Georgia had changed her look again, since people said that’s what she did.

  What if that woman was Skye and not Georgia, though?

  Trace stomped back down the steps, shaking his head. “Bad news—the door still won’t budge. It looks like we’re stuck down here for a while, at least until someone comes to check on us.”

  I swallowed hard. That wasn’t good. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Something must be on top of those storm doors.” Trace pulled out his cell phone.

  “Stephen used to love storms, you know,” Skye said.

  Trace paused, the phone still in his hands but his fingers no longer moving.

  “Who’s Stephen?” I asked, an idea loosely circling around in my brain. I watched Skye carefully, trying to get a read on her, trying to anticipate what she might be thinking.

  “My brother,” Skye said.

  “The one who died, right?” I questioned, realizing I sounded callous. However, if my theory was right, then this was no time to be polite.

  She nodded. “Suicide.”

  I glanced at Trace and saw a wrinkle form between his eyes. He was beginning to put everything together. The fact that all along he’d been the real target here. Not Georgia. Not Skye. Not Dud.

  Trace.

  “Stephen was your brother?” Trace asked.

  “Half-brother, actually. That’s why we had different last names.” Her eyes looked colder and darker by the moment.

  Trace continued to stare at Skye, his face taut and slightly bewildered. “But he was my drummer. Before Dud.”

  He seemed to be processing everything out loud.

  I remembered what he’d told me before. Stephen—I hadn’t known his name until now—had done drugs and acted irrationally. Trace had to let him go from the band, and shortly after that he’d taken his own life.

  As realizations continued to hit me, my gut churned.

  Was Skye trying to avenge her brother’s death? Had she killed Dud to ruin Trace?

  But what about Georgia? How had Stalker Girl been involved with all of this?

  “His death was always your fault, you know.” Skye stood, suddenly looking less like an innocent victim and more like a vicious, conniving killer. All her focus was on Trace.

  “What are you talking about?” Trace asked.

  “You got too big for your britches. You thought you were better than him. That he was expendable. So when the going got tough, you cut Stephen out of the band. Right in the time when he needed you guys the most. You turned your back on him.”

  Trace raised his hands as he pleaded his case. “That’s not true, Skye. Stephen had a lot of problems. We tried to get him help. We gave him a lot of opportunities to change. We thought the only thing that could help him was hitting rock bottom. None of our pleas got through to him.”

  “Liar!” Her voice rose and became coarser, angrier. “You didn’t want him to hold the band back. You were afraid he’d bring all of you down.”

  “Stephen had a lot of issues, Skye. A lot of issues. He needed help.”

  “So you kicked him to the curb? How loving of you.” Bitterness dripped from her words. She reached behind her and emerged with a gun. “Now you’re going to pay.”

  “Skye . . . no.” Trace’s eyes widened, and he stepped back.

  Skye’s nostrils flared as she stepped toward him. “Stephen killed himself. Meanwhile, the person responsible—that would be you—is as happy as can be. You’re living your dreams, doing what you love, raking in money, adored by so many. If they only knew the real you.”

  “Skye, I mourned for your brother when he died. I hoped he would get his life together and never anticipated things would end as they did. I still miss him.”

  I glanced around, knowing I had to do something. I had to time my moves carefully, though. All Skye had to have was one knee-jerk reaction and someone could die.

  Reaching behind me, I tried to pull my phone out and dial 911.

  “I want to see your hands, Gabby St. Claire,” Skye said, jerking the gun toward me. “You’re too clever for your own good. You were never supposed to be involved here. You ruined everything!”

  I pulled my hands forward and set my phone on the table. “I saved your life.”

  “I would have gotten myself out of that house before it burned down.”

  “So, this whole thing was a setup?” I asked. “You made me believe that you were Georgia, got me to follow you out to that house. Was I supposed to die?”

  She smirked. “It would have been nice.”

  “Why? Why did you go through all that trouble?”

  “Can’t you see? Everything was on purpose. I never liked country music. I knew Trace liked to check out that old music store, so I made sure I was there one day when he was. The meeting wasn’t chance at all. I moved here just so I could make Trace realize everything that I’d lost because of him.”

  Suddenly, the wind started whipping up outside again. My already tight nerves tightened even more.

  “Let me guess: Georgia was your scapeg
oat.”

  “I saw her following Trace around everywhere like a little lost puppy dog. I knew a easy mark when I saw one. I was actually holding her hostage. She was so unstable that everyone easily believed she was the guilty one. My plan worked like a charm.”

  “You tried to kill her, though, and make it look like a suicide.”

  “I did. Yesterday was the perfect day. I swung by the hotel, finished off Georgia, and then went to the video shoot. As soon as I had the chance, I sweet-talked the guy at the front desk and smashed your precious guitar. After that, I stood outside of the conference center until you emerged, and I made sure that you saw me, Gabby, and followed me to the house. As soon as I saw you walking down the road, I lit the gasoline and tied myself up.”

  I shook my head, trying to process all of that. “You’re the one who lured me into the bull pasture?”

  She shrugged. “Well, at that time I thought you might be dating Trace. I had no idea you were going to be stepsiblings.”

  “You had this whole plan worked out, didn’t you? And Georgia was the perfect victim.”

  “She was. I planted Georgia in that hotel room knowing she’d look guilty. I even used her credit card. It all worked just as it was supposed to.”

  “But video surveillance shows a girl who looks like Georgia entering that hotel room around six last night,” I said. “Georgia was in that hotel room dead before that. Who was she?”

  Skye shrugged. “Just some dumb teenager who’d do anything for fifty bucks. I told her to keep her head down, go in the room, and exit from the adjoining room a few minutes later. I gave her a wig to put on before she exited so she’d look like you.”

  “You’re clever. But how did you get the key card to my room?”

  She smiled. “Haven’t you ever heard of womanly charms? Some guys—even professionals working at the front desk of hotels—will do anything for a pretty girl with an innocent smile.”

  I needed to keep her talking. “So, why not let everyone think she was guilty and that you got away with it? Why ruin everything by pulling out a gun now? You were home free.”

  “And Trace is still going on tour, still happy. He still hasn’t learned his lesson.” She sent a scathing scowl his way. “That’s unacceptable. There are consequences to our actions, Trace. That’s what I always told my students. Theirs usually involved extra homework.” Her scowl turned into a malevolent smile as she took a step toward Trace. “Yours will be a little harsher than that, unfortunately.”