Chapter 4
It wasn’t that bad, honestly. I mean, I didn’t even think the Port-a-Potty had been used—it smelled like whatever chemicals they put in there, that’s all. Since this was summer on the Oregon Coast, it wasn’t even hot. But, on the other hand, it wasn’t where I wanted to spend the rest of my life.
So, I kicked, hammered, and shouted for help.
The shouting didn’t seem to do much, but the kicking and hammering worked. One moment, I was trying to batter down the door. The next, there was a sound as something slid along the Port-a-Potty’s door and then hit the ground with a clatter. I shoved the door open and emerged into the parking lot.
The women were gone, of course.
I hadn’t heard an engine start, and a quick glance at the cars in the lot told me the women had left on foot. I briefly considered going after them again, but let’s face it: my pride couldn’t take another blow. Like it or not, it was time to get Deputy Bobby.
I sprinted back to the intersection where I’d left him, but he wasn’t there. Deputy Dahlberg had taken his place, directing cars in and out of the lot that had been reserved for the craft fair.
She glanced at me as I approached, and then she gave me a second look. “Everything all right?”
“Do you know where Deputy Bobby went?”
Dahlberg’s expression was a little too knowing for my liking, but she only said, “He’s on break.”
I said a few words you cannot say at a church craft fair.
With a laugh, Dahlberg pointed toward Two Girls and a Scoop. “He’s over there, getting ice cream. Hold on.” She brushed at my shoulder and held up her hand, which was now covered in glitter. “You really got into the spirit of things, didn’t you?”
I opened my mouth to tell her I didn’t know where that had come from, and then the pieces fell into place.
Phyllis’s hand on my shoulder, shoving me into the Port-a-Potty.
The gun that wasn’t a gun.
The smell of glue and vinyl.
That abominable hat.
And, of course, their plan for how they were going to get out of here without being caught.
I sprinted across the street, ignoring Dahlberg’s shout and the blare of a horn from the startled driver of a minivan. Deputy Bobby looked over at the sound. Everybody looked over. I found myself thinking a few of those words you can’t say at craft fairs.
“I know I said I’d buy you ice cream,” Deputy Bobby said as I reached him, “but if you get yourself run over first—”
“Old ladies,” I gasped. “Shoplifting. Escaping. Craft fair!”
(I was out of breath. Sue me. I’d almost been hit by a minivan, and nobody is supposed to run for more than five seconds at a time.)
Deputy Bobby squinted at me. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
I nodded, gulping air.
And then, I saw the big, brown van coming out of the craft fair lot. I recognized the woman behind the wheel as Joan, the one who had started this whole mess by stealing my ice cream cone.
“That’s them!” I stabbed a finger at the van as it started its ponderous turn across the intersection. “Stop them!”
“What are you—”
“Bobby, stop that van!”
If you’ve never seen a real-life superhero, let me introduce you to Deputy Bobby Mai. I watched as he made a snap decision. And then, without missing a beat, he sprinted into traffic, raised his hand, and shouted, “Stop!”
And you’d better believe Joan stopped.
Everybody stopped, even Deputy Dahlberg.
I was leaning against Two Girls and a Scoop, trying to catch my breath, when Chaleena stuck her head out to see what was going on.
“Perfect timing,” I said, still sucking in air. “About my cone earlier.”