Free No Hope In New Hope (Samantha Jamison Mystery Book 7) by Peggy A. Edelheit Page A

The shed was about fifteen feet by twenty feet, so it took me a few minutes. I got to the doors and cautiously felt for the thumb latch. The whole shed was made of rough sawn wood. I gently touched the surface to avoid getting splinters. I finally stopped when it dawned on me there was no latch on the inside. “Uh-oh!”
    Now skittish, I jumped when a hand tapped me.
    “What do you mean, uh-oh?” demanded Martha.
    There was shuffling then four iPhone flashlights flicked on. It didn’t matter. There was no inside latch.
    “If no one uses it from the inside, why have one? Those logs down there must prop the two doors open,” I said.
    “Too late now. How are we to get out?” asked Betty.
    “Let’s call Clay,” said Martha.
    I looked down at my cellphone: nothing. “Martha, check yours. I have no signal. Betty and Hazel try yours too.”
    “Zip, zilch, uh-uh,” they responded in succession.
    …We were in a no-fly signal zone.
    I heard labored breathing behind me and turned.
    Betty put a hand on Hazel’s arm. “Easy does it now.”
    “…Her panic attacks,” said Betty. “Any exit plans?”
    “Well, we can’t rake our way out, can we?” said Martha.
    “How about we try pushing on the doors?” I said.
    The four of us heaved at the count of three. …Nothing.
    “We could yell,” I suggested, “but it’s isolated here.”
    There was a moment of silence then…
    “Help! Help! Help! Help!”

 
     
     
    Chapter 37
    Time (Drags) Marches On…
     
     
    With no windows, a low roof: hence no loft, no axes or hammers found to try and break our way out, we eventually gave up, lapsing into silence. Some tool shed! Both Betty and Hazel were sitting on the back of the Harley trailer, I was balancing on a roll of wire fencing and Martha was sitting in the wheelbarrow, her legs dangling over the edge.
    We turned off our cellphone flashlights to conserve our batteries. Every fifteen minutes one of us kept trying to get a signal. It was a lost cause: No matter what corner of the shed we tried: nothing, nada, zip.
    Out of the dark a voice said, “I’m hungry.” Hazel.
    “Was a matter of time,” Martha said in a mocking tone.
    “I have low blood sugar issues,” Hazel replied.
    “Among others, namely food,” retorted Martha.
    Betty intervened, “Somebody sounds grumpy.”
    “Ease off, Martha,” I said. “You know she’s sensitive.”
    “…And still hungry,” griped Hazel.
    “Next thing you know she’ll have visions,” said Martha, who then began mumbling, “…It’s here somewhere.”
    Now curious, I asked, “What is? Where?”
    “My purse. …Here it is!” It sounded like she was ripping something open. Cellophane? “Ah, finally.”
    “What are you doing over there?” asked Betty.
    “I carry two big boxes of this stuff around just in case.”
    “Boxes of what? In case of what?” I asked.
    “Emergency foil-wrapped chocolates!”
    Suddenly Martha was the most popular one in the shed.
    “Alright, alright!” she said. “One person at a time!”
    She gave us each a big handful. We wolfed them down.
    “They’re odd-shaped, but quite succulent,” said Betty.
    “Each has a tasty liquid center,” said Hazel, chewing.
    They were delicious: dark sweet and … something else. I couldn’t pin it down precisely, but we were so hungry at that point no one was complaining. We kept eating them.
    Hazel began laughing. “My blood sugar must have been really low,” she said. “I’m feeling kind of lightheaded.”
    “Maybe you ate too fast,” I said, laughing.
    “Oh!” said Betty, giggling. “I feel…” She giggled again.
    I was feeling lightheaded myself. “Martha…”
    “…Yes?” she said evenly, still munching on the candy.
    The last thing I needed was for these elderly ladies to get sick, me included. I hit my light on the box cover. Too late… The candy was bottle-shaped. I could barely speak.
    “…Contains alcohol. Imported/Denmark. Ingredients: Cointreau, Jim Bean whiskey,