That is when Christa broke. “She knows where the marks are because she put them there!” Bud Kinnaman, who had run the show for thirty-one years, put on his reading glasses. “Young lady, this hall was locked at nine last night. Fairboard keys only.”
“Then she did it before — at home,” Christa cried. “She was supposed to be at the airport—” She stopped.
The detective nodded. “Christa,” I said, “on Sunday the thirteenth at 8:34, you called Elwood. You said I had been caught at the airport.” She stared. “Nobody was caught. Nobody told you about a pistol. Who told you it was a pistol?”
“I saw—” she started. “Stop talking,” Twila said. “At midnight, you were standing in my doorway. I was awake, Christa. I heard every word.” Quietly: “It is in her carry-on.”
Detective Havamp laid my printout of the August listing on the velvet. “You were selling it in August,” she said to Twila, “before anyone knew it was missing.”
Twila whirled on her daughter. “You brought it back to me. You swore she would never look in that pocket.” “You told me to put it in her bag!” Christa screamed. “You said they would find a gun for sure!” “Shut up, Christa. Calling the airport was your idea. You wanted her in handcuffs.”
Forty people heard every word.
Garrick stood at the back, still holding a box. “Christa,” he said quietly. “You wrapped it in my sock.” She opened her mouth and shut it. Then: “You were not supposed to know.”