That liar! Miranda had told me to my face—in this very kitchen—she didn’t go to pole classes!
Even further back on her grid, a smiling Miranda held up a giant Starbucks cup. The caption read: “The pumpkin spice latte has dropped! My favorite day of the year!”
And just like that I’d found her: Pumpkin Spice.
Cheyenne had seen Miranda Carson heading down the alley behind Huckleberry’s the night Connor was killed. Which meant Miranda might’ve been the last person to see him alive.
Thirty-Three
Wednesday
Miranda’s redbrick Queen Anne, with its wraparound front porch, multiple chimneys, and big bay windows, was basically one big ornate flourish. An incongruously rusty GMC Jimmy blocked in Miranda’s white Jeep Cherokee, so I parked on a side street. The twins were at school, so Little Sister and I were on our own. When I opened my passenger door, the dog leapt out with Alice’s Betty White latex mask hanging from his teeth.
“Gimme that!” I said, but when I lunged for it, the dog danced away. As I made another grab, a flash of movement inside Miranda’s big bay window caught my eye. A large figure shoving someone with flaming red hair. Miranda. My heart contracted.
Little Sister slunk toward the house, teeth bared, a low growl thundering in his throat while I made a grab for my handbag. After tucking the fake pistol down the front of my pants and the bear spray in my bra, I scooped the Betty White mask from the ground and hurried after the dog.
Through a side living room window, I could make out a man pressing Miranda against the living room wall, his forearm to her throat. Ralphie. And standing to the side like a fireplug, Errol. Dark spots swirled in my vision. I could see it again. Baylee’s severed finger with its chipped orange polish. I didn’t like Miranda. But I couldn’t leave her alone and undefended with two men who shared a kink for women’s terror. Little Sister was already barreling through the crackedside door, snarling and barking. Before I could think, I yanked on the Betty White mask, pulled out the bear spray, and followed behind. (Maybe the fake gun would’ve been more effective, but I wanted something with the potential to inflict actual pain.) As I stumbled through Miranda’s kitchen to her living room, the eyeholes of the latex mask were so criminally small I clipped my hip on the edge of the kitchen counter.
“Where’s Nikita?” Ralphie was shouting. “Tell me!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Miranda sobbed. “Leave me alone.”
“What in the actual fuck?” Errol said as he spotted me. That’s when Little Sister sank his teeth into Errol’s calf meat, his pit bull jaw locking tighter than a pickle jar. As I headed toward an astonished Ralphie, my foot caught on a coffee table and I went down hard, hitting the floral rug with aWHUMP! Realizing I’d need to rely on chaos rather than fighting precision, I rolled onto my back and screamed like an Irish banshee bringing an omen of death as I pointed the bear spray at Ralphie and squeezed.
Ralphie’s yowls of pain eclipsed my own shrieks. When he clutched his hands over his eyes, Miranda grabbed his shoulders and executed the classic fight move known as “knee to nuts.”
Amidst the general pandemonium, I climbed to my feet, yanked the gun from my pants, and pointed it at Ralphie while shouting, “The ATF is on its way! The ATF is on its way!”
In a panic, Ralphie staggered out the front door, tumbling down the steps. From what I could make out through the mask’s eye holes, Errol was trying to follow him, but the forty pounds of pit bull clinging to his leg hampered his progress.
“Little Sister!” I shouted. “Let go.”
The dog unclenched his jaws. At the bottom of the steps, Errol pulled Ralphie to his feet and the two staggered through the snow to the GMC Jimmy, shouting off-color expletives as they went.
“Tell Nikita we’ll find her!” was the last thing Ralphie yelled before he slammed the car door. The Jimmy caught on some slush, its wheels spinning impotently before it skidded out of the driveway.
Little Sister frisked worriedly as Miranda limped to the couch. The adrenaline in my bloodstream told me to beeline out of there before Miranda could call the cops. But as I made for the door, she said, “Tilly? Even with that ridiculous mask on, I know it’s you. Besides, I recognize your dog.”
Sheepishly, I tugged off the mask, happy to take a gulp of air that didn’t smell like a plastics factory.
“You saved my life,” Miranda said, collapsing on the couch. “I think I sprained my ankle.”
“Shoot,” I said. “Again?” I could picture high-school-cheerleader Miranda doing back handsprings across the football field until her ankle gave out and she went down like a sack of potatoes.
She waved a hand at my pistol. “Can you put that thing away? You’re making me nervous.”
“It’s fake.” I slumped into a yellow gingham chair as I waited for my heart to stop jackhammering. A lamp and coffee table had been knocked over in the scuffle, but otherwise the only sign of violence was a cacophony of floral patterns slugging it out for dominance. The place seriously looked like the Lilly Pulitzer catalogue had thrown up all over it. To stall, I said, “You really nailed that guy’s nuts.”
“I took self-defense classes at the Krav Maga studio one time. Thank god I have an alarm system. Maybe I should borrow a real gun from my mom? In case they come back? No, that’s crazy. Wait. Tilly, why are you even here?”
“Who were those guys?” I said. Better to find out how she knew Ralphie and Errol before I started asking questions. Little Sister whined and nuzzled my hand. That’s when I noticed the blood. The stitches in his ear had ripped during the kerfuffle.
“God knows. As far as I can tell somebody stole my license and usedit to rent a snowmobile and then blew up those guys’ snowmobiles? It’s so trashy it makes me dizzy.” Wincing, she swung both legs up onto the couch. “Could you grab me a bag of peas out of the freezer?”
I needed a minute to think so I headed to the kitchen. Miranda’s freezer was clearly the purview of a child-free couple. There was nary a chicken nugget, fish stick, corn dog, or waffle to be found. I grabbed the frozen peas and a daisy-printed dish towel.
“Here you go,Pumpkin Spice,” I said, tossing her the frozen peas a little too hard. I wanted her off-balance.
