Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

animal. They say you revert to a primitive state under extreme stress. And this was extreme stress. I’d just discovered a body on a quiet Easter morning, been deserted by my own true love, fallen off a ladder, and was now being threatened by a ragamuffin who was either drunk or had recently been drunk. But that wasn’t the worst of it. I was in very real danger of wetting my pants. I was not about to brook any nonsense.
    “This is a citizen’s arrest,” said the ragamuffin. Only it came out something like, “Thish ish a shitizens arresht.”
    I giggled. Disrespectful, perhaps, in the presence of a corpse, but I couldn’t help it. Thish was ridiculous.
    The woman waggled the thing in her pocket. Somewhere not far away, I heard a car start up.
    “Come on,” I said, and put my hands down by my side. “Let’s talk it over.” I reached out my right hand, palm up, like cops do on TV when they’ve cowed the bad guy and he’s ready to release his hostages. The woman should have put her beer bottle or gun or whatever it was peacefully in my paw, but instead she whapped my hand with her weighted pocket. Maybe it really was a gun. It certainly hurt enough.
    Without thinking, I drew back the injured member and used it to bash her. It
is
true about those primitive instincts. I bashed her and then I got her in a sort of half bear hug with the other arm. And then I found out how frail she was. She grabbed me with her free hand, kneed me in the stomach, and jerked me down to the ground.
    I pulled her hair. That gave her the idea of pulling mine. My face was very close to hers and she positively stank of booze. If I didn’t wet my pants, I was certainly going to throw up. And that made me mad.
    I started kicking, not really aiming, just flailing out. She started kicking, too, and we were banging up each other’s shins pretty well. My right arm was under her body, which felt a lot heavier than it looked. I tugged, trying to get it out, thinking I could use it to push her away. But she wasn’t budging. All of a sudden her grubby hand slammed down over my face, grinding hard.
    “Ladies! Ladies, please!” said a gentle, rather cultured male voice. Through the ragamuffin’s fingers, I saw another hand cover hers, a black one, and suddenly she was off me, standing up, writhing to get away, but firmly held by an elderly gent in a cream-colored suit.
    “Thanks,” I said, and sat up, getting my breath back.
    “Easy. Easy now,” said the black man, and the woman relaxed. I didn’t blame her. He was a very reassuring sort of chap.
    “Her pocket,” I gasped. “She may have a gun.”
    “I don’t have no gun.” The woman’s voice was sulky. She pulled out a beer can. (I’d been partly right, anyhow.)
    Heavy steps pounded toward us. “Rebecca—what’s going on?” yelled Rob. I got up and fell into his arms.
    “Did you catch him?”
    He shook his head. “He had a car. I heard him leave, but didn’t get a glimpse of him or the car.”
    “People, people, will someone help me get to that poor man?”
    The well-dressed black man, apparently undaunted at coming upon three maniacs and a probable corpse, was trying to jockey the ladder back into place. The minute his back was turned, the ragamuffin started to run. I tripped her. Not a civilized act, but I was still in my primitive state. She hit the ground cursing. I tried to help her up, but she flailed out at me.
    “Rebecca!” Rob was shocked.
    “She claimed she had a gun—”
    I stopped in mid-explanation, the sound of sirens drowning me out. I looked up again at the man on the cross. The sun wasn’t up yet, but the fog had lifted enough so that the corpse must now be visible—perhaps some newspaper carrier or other early riser had called the police.
    “Young woman,” said the black man, “your fly is open.”
    “Who are you?” asked Rob, as I pulled my sweater back down.
    “I am the Reverend Ovid Robinson of the Third Baptist Church. I am to give the sermon this morning. Who might you be, sir?” He didn’t extend his hand and I didn’t blame him.
    But the opening was all Rob needed. He took over immediately, suddenly the reporter on a story, the self-appointed authority in charge. Quickly, he introduced himself and me, explained our presence, ran down the discovery of what was almost certainly a body, and was about to turn to the ragamuffin when the Reverend Mr. Robinson interrupted. “Very well, Mr. Burns. Now will you please help me do