CHAPTER 5. An Explosive Notion

THE MAILMAN AND I arrived at the Cooper Family Bakery to find it mobbed. Dr. Lilly hadn't been exaggerating-the line of customers ran down the block. Some were locals, but most appeared to be festival attendees.

"Look, Pen!" Seymour elbowed me. "A friend of ours is almost up to the counter. C'mon!"

Seymour was fine with cutting the line. Me? I wasn't so comfortable with the dirty looks we were getting until I saw who the "friend of ours" was: Bud Napp.

This is your chance, baby. Wait till Buddy boy's all sweetened up with pastries, then grill him!

"Check!" I told Jack. But Seymour beat me to the lanky hardware store owner.

"Hey, Thor, where's your mighty hammer?"

It was Seymour 's favorite joke with Bud, who used a ball peen hammer to maintain control over the Quindicott Business Owners Association meetings. Bud used to have a real judge's gavel, until someone lifted it. Now he carried his "good-as-a gavel" to and from our meetings on his tool belt.

"Hi, Bud!" I said brightly, hoping to make up for Seymour 's jibe.

"Hello, Pen," Bud said, touching the brim of his Napp

Hardware baseball cap. Then he frowned at Seymour. "Cut the crap, Tarnish. I'm not in the mood."

Seymour 's eyes bulged. "My, we're testy today. What's eating you?"

Bud was silent as he eyed the people around us. "Nothing I care to talk about."

Noting Bud's surly mood, I quickly changed the subject by explaining my plight. Bud immediately offered to help me transport the coffee and pastries back to the bookshop in his hardware store van.

Ten minutes later, he'd downed two doughnuts and a large coffee, then rolled the truck up to the front of the bakery and unlocked the rear double doors. The crowd parted as Seymour and I loaded up the goodies. The three of us wedged ourselves into the front seat of the van. With my elbow jammed into Bud's overalls, we were off.

During the short drive down Cranberry Street, Jack reminded me to get going with the grilling, and I cleared my throat.

"So, Bud, what did you think about that accident last night at the theater?"

Bud cursed and shook his head. "I won't take the fall for that one. No way," he declared.

"Who's blaming you?" I asked.

"Who isn't? Your pal the Brainiac for starters." Bud's calloused fingers squeezed the steering wheel. "That's the thanks I get for stepping in at the last second when that fancy restoration firm in Newport couldn't be bothered with final fixes."

A bicyclist swerved into Bud's path. He hit the van's brakes and horn. The van lurched, throwing me and Seymour forward and back.

"Woah, Speed Racer, chill!" Seymour cried.

"I've got a good crew. The best!" Bud continued, ignoring Seymour. "Not a bunch of bums hired off the street. My guys know what they're doing!"

"Including Dixon Gallagher?" I asked.

Bud frowned. "I know Dixon looks too young to be skilled, but believe me, he is. He's been working for me part-time for more than ten years. I taught him some, but he already knew plenty because his dad's a master electrician. When that boy finally gets over his rock-star fantasies and quits his garage band, you can bet he'll quit me, too, and start earning serious money in the union."

"So Dixon hung the speaker?"

"No, Pen. I hung that speaker myself, and I know the job was done right."

I watched that cyclist in front of us pedal casually off to the side of the street, as if he hadn't almost been run over. Festival attendees took advantage of Bud's situation and jaywalked in front of his van. Bud cursed and honked again.

"What did Chief Ciders say?" I asked.

"That moron with a badge? He claims crossed electrical wires sparked a fire, which damaged the support rack and caused the speaker to drop onto the stage." Bud slammed the steering wheel. "That dog don't hunt, I tell you! I've been saying we need a real fire marshal in this town, not a bunch of know-nothing volunteers who see two wires within fifty feet of one another and immediately cry 'electrical fire.' "

The street cleared and Bud pushed the pedal to the metal. I was forced back into my seat again as we raced the final few blocks. Then the van screeched to a halt in front of Buy the Book. Seymour immediately popped the door and hopped out.

I stayed. "Tell me more."

"There was no fire and no fire damage, Pen," Bud asserted. "The ceiling wasn't even scorched, and the fire alarm and sprinkler system never went off."

"What do you think happened?"

"The speaker was hung from the ceiling on a metal brace. One of the struts actually broke. Truth is, Penelope, I think a small explosive was used."

"What?!"

"I know it sounds crazy. But I also know construction materials. A short, electrical fire could not have generated enough heat to snap steel. A long fire might, but a fire of any duration would have left evidence. Smoke, scorching-and we'd have heard the fire alarms go off." A shadow crossed Bud's face. "I'm positive there was an explosion."

"How could someone plant a bomb up there? On the ceiling?"

"Easy. There's a ladder in the wings. It goes right up to a catwalk, which runs along the ceiling above the stage. The speaker mount was within easy reach of anyone standing on that catwalk."

"But if it's vandalism, who did it? And why?"

Bud couldn't answer that one, but I was sure someone else had some theories.

"Jack? Are you hearing this?" I quietly asked the ghost.

Yeah, baby. If someone blew the speaker to kill Hedda, they almost succeeded. It could have been little Harmony who'd arranged it. She was probably the only one who knew her granny was going to make a last-minute appearance.

"You're right, Jack, but if the explosion had a remote device, it could have been triggered by anyone in the audience that night. You heard Seymour -he said Pierce Armstrong might be showing up at the festival. What if he's here already? Hedda testified against him at his trial. What if he was in the audience last night and rigged the speaker to kill Hedda in some kind of long- overdue revenge scheme?"

Good call, baby. After all, old Hedda's been out of the spotlight for decades. Your pal Dr. Lilly said few people even knew she was still alive. It's darn coincidental that the first night she steps into the public light again, bam!

"Hey!" Seymour cried from the sidewalk. "Are we gonna unload here or what?"

I climbed down out of the van, then turned and leaned through the open window. "We'll talk about this later, Bud."

Bud nodded, then left the cab and unlocked the rear doors. Despite the bumpy ride, everything looked fine. Seymour carried the thermal containers to the front door of the bookshop and set them down on the sidewalk. Rather than fumbling in my purse for the keys, I rang the bell. Sadie would show Seymour where to put the coffee when she came to the door. Meanwhile, I went back to retrieve the neat stack of boxed donuts from the back of Bud's van.

Before I could grab the goodies, Bud jerked his head in the direction of the street. "Here comes trouble," he warned.

I peered around the van's rear door-and my heart sunk.

It was Councilwoman Marjorie Binder-Smith. She'd recently abandoned her wannabe-Hillary hairstyle for a "Nancy Pelosi look" (according to Colleen at the beauty shop). Her formerly short, blonde hair had been dyed chestnut brown and grown to her shoulders; her ubiquitous pantsuits were gone, replaced with calf-length skirts and sweater sets.

A uniform of dark blue followed the woman as she charged across Cranberry Street, her hair rigid in the spring breeze. The Quindicott police officer had his hat pulled low, his gait was much slower than Marjorie's, his broad shoulders slumped.