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But she was made of sterner stuff than she thought. When I told her I had yet to check the upstairs rooms, she grabbed her trusty fireplace tongs and followed me every inch of the way.
Finally satisfied no one was lurking in the house, we collapsed at the kitchen table and let the shakes take over. Fargo was the only calm one of us. Cindy finally poured us a stiff tot of Ken s expensive brandy, and while
it may have stiffened our backbones, tonight it unsurprisingly did nothing for our libidos.
We knew there would be no bed sport and little bed sleep this night. Cindy made coffee, and after the machine finished its gurgle, she got up to pour us a mug. Fargo picked that moment to whine to go out. Startled,
Cindy whirled around and caught me with a sharp blow to the cheekbone with an empty mug. I yelped and bent over, hand to face. The damn thing really hurt!
 Oh, Lord, you go through an eight-room house where a lunatic might have hidden and you are fine until I almost kill you with a coffee mug! She began to laugh in a pitch I didn t like.
 Shut up, I muttered was my cheek broken?  And get some ice!
 Yes, yes, of course. Oh, darling, I am so sorry.  She kept apologizing as she wrapped ice in a clean dish towel and held it gently against my cheek.
And so the night went. We moved from the kitchen to the living room couch and took turns dozing, and finally all three of us fell asleep, tumbled together like a litter of overgrown puppies.
Sometime before we all faded out last night, Cindy had set her little travel alarm for seven a.m., and had put it on the dining area table so one of us would have to be up and moving to shut it off. It woke me with a
surprisingly loud noise that sounded almost like a siren.
I worked myself free from pillows, Cindy and Fargo and staggered toward the clock. When I got near it, I saw the time read six fifteen. While I was puzzling that out, I realized the sound I had heard really had been a
siren at the foot of the mountain, where the little private road met the main road into town. And it now sounded like two police cars and the whoop-whoop of an ambulance. There must have been an accident and
apparently a serious one.
Beulaland s finest would have to handle it without my oversight. I made it to the bathroom and turned on the cold water. A face-wash and tooth-brush would have to be enough until I had some coffee and maybe
something solid in my stomach. When I looked in the mirror I recalled that my headache was not entirely due to Ken s brandy. I had a sizeable, colorful shiner, and my cheek was sore as hell. It even hurt when I brushed my
hair.
Just as I poured the coffee and took my croissant out of the micro, Cindy and Fargo arrived. Their timing was always good. I opened a door for one and poured coffee for another.
 Why are we up so early? she asked plaintively.  Oh, your poor cheek! she added.
 There was some sort of accident down on the main road. The cop sirens woke me, and I thought it was the alarm clock.
 Should we go down?
 The cops are there. Leave it to the pros.
At that moment there was an authoritative knock at the front door. As I reached the living room, I could see through the window: our guests were the sheriff and Deputy Spitz.
 It s the cops, I called over my shoulder and heard Cindy scamper for the bedroom. I figured they were looking for possible witnesses to the accident, but I did quickly shove the pistol under a couch cushion as I
passed. I opened the front door. Fargo scooted in, the two men stood like statues.
 Good morning Sheriff, Deputy. May I help you with something?
 We hope you may have some helpful information. May we come in? Johnson looked about as untidy as I did. His clothes were rumpled and sagging, his hair had been hastily combed and his eyes were bloodshot.
Dave Spitz looked like a recruiting poster.
 Come on in the kitchen, there s coffee and some pastry if you like. I didn t want them in the living room.
We sat at the kitchen table, and I poured coffee. Jeffie refused a pastry, which surprised me, and Spitz could hardly have one if the boss-man didn t. So I had my second.
 That s a nasty bruise, Ms. Peres, Johnson remarked.
 It feels nasty, and my own dog is to blame. He startled Ms. Hart last night, and when she turned around she accidentally clocked me with a coffee mug.
 Really? Spitz asked me neutrally.
Johnson didn t bother to comment, but asked.  Is she here? Ms. Hart I mean.
 She s dressing. I imagine she ll be here in a minute.
And she was, looking fresh and well-groomed. I now felt doubly grungy.
 Good morning, gentlemen. I understand there was an accident at the foot of the hill earlier. I hope it wasn t serious.
 Well, it may have been an accident. We haven t entirely ruled that out. Johnson gave a wolfish grin.  But it was certainly serious, all right. In fact it was fatal.
 Damn! I took a sip of coffee.  That s too bad& helluva way to start your day.
Cindy looked concerned.  Was it anyone we would have known?
 Well, now, I don t know. We aren t sure of his identity ourselves. Johnson sounded almost coy, as he removed several credit cards and what looked like drivers licenses from his shirt pocket and began to read off the
names on them.  Do either of you know a Michael Cully of Galveston, Texas? As we each shook our heads, he moved on to the next.  A Michael Sullivan of El Paso, Texas? A Michael McNulty of Gadsden, Alabama? A
Michael McCurry of Rome, Georgia?
 Well of course, we know a Michael actually Mickey McCurry. Cindy stated.  But I thought he was from Knoxville. Is he dead? She was not a good poker player; she looked as relieved as one who has just learned
that the giant meteor is going to by-pass the Earth by ten miles.
 Is there really a Rome, Georgia? I asked.  I guess I stopped with Venice, Florida.
 There is a Rome. Johnson looked irritated.  And Mickey is dead. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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