Bound To Be Dead: Cozy Mystery Bookshop Series Book 3 by Tamra Baumann (best historical fiction books of all time txt) 📗

My father somehow convinced my Uncle Frank, the mayor, to spring for the crazy contraption because it’s a fundraiser. If you ask me, my dad should shoot Uncle Frank—who’s been trying to run me out of town and steal the contents of my inherited trust—from the cannon, but we can’t have everything we wish for.

Next, my dad makes a show of holding up two knives. “Now I’ll attempt to throw both of these knives at once. Cross your fingers and toes, ladies and gentlemen. This is the most dangerous attempt so far.”

I close my eyes and screw up my features to make myself look scared as my dad grunts, and two more knives magically appear at my waist. One blade on each side just as planned. It garners thunderous applause from the crowd while my dad prances around the stage, whipping his cape around with all the flair of a matador.

After another bow, my dad holds up a finger. “Ladies and gentlemen, for the last knife, I’m going to do something special for my hometown crowd. It’s only worked once, so will you all please cross your fingers for Sawyer?”

As my dad turns his back on me and winds up to throw the last knife over his shoulder, a louder than normal thump sounds, causing me to glance at my feet. The blade is sticking out between my high heels, but my dad never threw the knife in his hand.

Whoops.

Tina in the back must’ve pushed the button too soon. She has one job. To push the button when my father yells out, “Three.” It’s tough getting good help these days.

While people’s faces crunch in bewilderment, my dad quickly tosses the knife on the table beside him, tugs off his blindfold, and trots over to release me. To cover the mistake, my dad bellows, “With the power of magical misdirection, you all watched the knife in my right hand, didn’t you? But I threw one with my left, making this trick even more difficult. How about a big round of applause for Sawyer?”

Slow applause builds as people are seemingly trying to decide if they believe my father or not. I’m so dizzy, I have to hang on to my dad as he removes the straps from my ankles. When he’s done, he whispers, “Now give the crowd some razzle-dazzle like you mean it.”

Brother. I hate this part most.

I force another big smile and lift my hands above my head in a silent “Taa-daa” gesture, and then strut around the stage like a prize pony at a horse show. Just the way my dad taught my sister and me when we were kids.

Not wanting to make eye contact with anyone, my gaze drifts toward the back of the auditorium. Dylan, our town’s sheriff and the man I have a complicated relationship with, is standing in the rear. For a moment, I’m grateful for a friendly face, but he’s not even trying to contain his amusement. The tall, dark, and built sheriff is smiling from ear to ear either because he knows strutting is not my style or because this is the one and only time he’ll ever see me in spandex. His eyebrows hitch in appreciation, so yeah, it’s probably the spandex.

When the applause reaches a thunderous level, my dad’s face lights up again with pride. I’m not sure how I’ll ever show my face in public again.

Dad takes a sweeping bow, then stands up and turns as white as the starched shirt he’s wearing. When his eyes start to roll into the back of his head, I take off across the stage in my high heels to save him before he faints. He has a habit of doing that now and then.

Dad calls out, “Dylan! Come quick. It’s ba, blah, blood,” as his knees threaten to buckle.

Luckily, I reach my father before he crumples into a total heap. I grab his arm and help him slowly to the floor. “What’s wrong, Dad?”

He throws a hand over his eyes and points with the other one toward the bull’s-eye I was just strapped to. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

Dark liquid pools from under the black curtain behind the wooden bull’s-eye. It’s where Tina was standing and pushing the buttons to release the knives. They mechanically shoot from the back of the target. My dad doesn’t really throw anything. The blades he shows the audience get artfully tucked into a pocket inside his cape. At the same time, someone else stands behind the drapes and pushes the remote to activate the blades on the target. Could that puddle be oil from the motor that turns the oversized bull’s-eye?

I leave my dad’s side and move closer to the ever-growing pool of dark liquid. The metallic tang in the air confirms it’s not motor oil. It’s blood.

My stomach takes a dive.

I hate the sight of blood too, but I have to help whoever’s bleeding. Just as I head to the curtain, Dylan’s big hand wraps around my arm to stop me.

He says, “Help your dad. I got this.”

“Okay.” I turn around and nearly bump into Uncle Frank. He glances at the blood and then quickly jogs toward my father. Ripping the lapel mic from my dad’s suit, Uncle Frank leans down and says, “Who’d like to see Max get shot into a huge vat of ice cream? Let’s all head to the parking lot to watch the show. Renee even offered free scoops for anyone who makes a donation!”

A cheer goes up from the crowd as people rise and head for the doors.

Dylan reappears and takes the mic from my uncle. “Everyone take your seats, please. There’s been an accident. I need everyone to stay put for a few minutes so we can get the EMTs in and out quickly.” He motions with his head to one of his deputies in the audience to man the back doors.

My Uncle Frank, who’s tall, big-boned, and bald-headed, says, “We need their donations. Why are