Part 22 (1/2)

”Well, I'm going to find out.”

”I'll sign,” Dwight Truman squeaked. He rushed past me. ”I'm the chamber president. It must be a gift to the town from one of our wonderful alumni.”

He scrawled his name on the form. The deliverymen backed away from the box. Everyone gazed worriedly at the strange, anonymous gift. ”Lucky us,” Michael Conners called from behind the bar, ”but would it not be best to hunt for a greeting card before we open the monster?”

”Good point,” Amos muttered. He, Mutt, and Sandy did a thorough search of the exterior. ”No card stuck anywhere,” Amos announced.

”Tear off the paper,” I told him.

He nodded. Sandy leapt ahead of him. ”Stand back, Chief, I'm good with paper.” She clawed the box like a small blonde cat. The huge bow and colorful Christmas wrappings fell away, revealing only a rough wooden crate.

Del stepped forward. ”Let's look for a latch.” He and Amos felt along all the seams, to no avail. ”Go over to the station and get a pry bar,” Amos told Mutt.

”Hold on, no need for that.” Dan McNeil, our town fix-it man extraordinaire, marched over with an unlit cigar b.u.t.t clenched between his teeth and his rented tux open to show a World Wrestling Federation belt buckle. ”I'll open that baby,” he growled.

He plucked an all-in-one screwdriver gadget from his pants pocket then began probing along one edge of the giant box.

”Right here. I found it. Come on, Mama. Open up for Daddy.”

”Wait a minute,” Amos ordered. ”I want everyone to back up. Everybody, back. I'm going to call for a bomb dog.”

”Too late, Chief.” Dan popped the door open. Suddenly we were face-to-face with the box's contents. Around me, people gasped. After a stunned moment, I put a hand to my throat. I couldn't believe what I saw.

The Ten-Cent Gypsy.

Dwight backed away from the box unsteadily, his eyes s.h.i.+fting, looking for escape. All the blood drained from his face. ”You can't blame this on me,” he said in a high voice. ”I didn't know what her card meant.”

Ham Bigelow whipped a cell phone from his tuxedo pocket, punched a speed-dial number, and hurried off to a corner for a private conversation. Similar frantic conferences were going on among all the other longtime Mossy Creekites. Hank Blackshear took Casey by the shoulders. ”I promise you, I can explain,” he said in response to her bewildered scrutiny. ”And I want you to remember this, no matter what happens: None of the rabbits were hurt.”

Rainey dropped her guitar. ”I only mixed the perm, I didn't put it on her,” she said, and fled the room.

Jess Crane turned to Sue Ora. ”I want to do a story about the elephant.”

She nodded. ”There's a Pulitzer in this. And maybe a screenplay.”

”Ida, what the h.e.l.l's going on?” Del asked.

I leveled a somber gaze at him. ”All I can say right now is that this has something to do with the fire at Mossy Creek High School.”

Amos, still staring into the box with the expression of a soldier facing a war, turned to speak to Sandy. He opened his mouth but she cut him off.

”I'm on it, Chief. Come on, Mutt.” She and her brother ran into the inn's foyer, grabbed their coats, and left the building.

Amos and I traded a stricken look.

”Look at this way,” I said. ”Your father couldn't stop what happened then, but now you have a chance to make things right.” I paused. ”Or at least you may find the elephant's bones and the plastic Easter duck.”

Amos.m.u.ttered, ”ThankyouGladtobehere.”