Chapter 28

MY MR. COFFEE machine was brewing freshly ground Kenya beans while Phoenix and Flynn were in the living room, digging the bullet out of the wall. Chet sat at the kitchen table, and I was cleaning, medicating and dressing the cut on his hand.

“You’re a good medic,” he said.

“I spent a lot of time in places where the nearest doctor was two hundred miles away.”

“Your husband was the conservationist photographer, Ian Tyler.”

“Yes.”

“I recognized some of his work on the walls in your dining room. He was good.”

“He was amazing.”

“The print you have in the corner—of the young chimp washing his hands—I bought a copy of that at a gallery. It’s in my house in Greenwich.” He caught the sudden grin of pride on my face. “What is it?” Then he guessed. “Wait a minute! You took that picture, didn’t you?”

“It was on the first roll I shot in Africa. We were visiting friends of Ian’s in the district of Karen. The chimp was one of their pets. I saw him dipping his little hands into the water bucket and took the picture before I thought about it. Just beginner’s luck.” I finished bandaging and stepped away from the table. “Try to keep that dry for the next twenty-four hours.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I turned and opened an upper cabinet to get some coffee mugs. Chet got up and stood behind me. Too close; he was making me nervous.

“Did you take any other pictures that are hanging in the dining room?”

“No.” I moved away to take a package of Oreos out of my big brown cookie jar that was modeled after an ancient, knotty tree stump. I arranged them on a plate. To keep Chet at a safe distance, I handed him the plate of cookies. “Would you put these on the table, please?” I could feel him watching me as I placed half-and-half, sugar, Sweet’N Low, spoons, and napkins on a tray with the coffee mugs.

When I finished, Chet picked up the tray and set it on the kitchen table, too.

In spite of the fact that I had enjoyed his kiss—or maybe because of it—I wanted to tell him we couldn’t go out together again. Then I remembered he hadn’t asked to take me out again.

At that moment, Phoenix and Flynn came into the kitchen. Phoenix carried the bullet in a clear plastic evidence bag. Flynn sniffed the air like a bloodhound, and headed directly to Mr. Coffee. “That smells great,” he said.

“Sit down.” I gestured to the four chairs around the kitchen table, and everyone sat. I poured coffee into the mugs and distributed them, then I took the only seat left, between Phoenix and Chet. I looked at Detective Flynn, who was inhaling the Oreos, and asked him what they had learned from the bullet.

Phoenix answered for him. “It’s a thirty caliber. Stainless steel jacket.”

“A man-stopper,” Flynn added, between bites. “Wasn’t no kid out there with a BB gun. Our bullet’s probably a 30.06 from a five-shot bolt-action Springfield.”

Chet asked Flynn, “You’re an ex-Marine, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m a retired Marine.”

Phoenix was smiling. “There’s no such thing as an ‘ex’-Marine.”

“You got that right,” said Flynn.

“Will you be able to identify the rifle?” I asked.

“The bullet’s pretty damaged,” Flynn said, “but Forensics will be able to tell us something.”

Phoenix turned to Chet and said, rather pointedly, I thought, “We have to talk to Mrs. Tyler. Don’t let us keep you from wherever it is you’re going.”

Chet turned to me and said, “We haven’t had a chance to talk yet. Why don’t I go wait in another room—”

The front doorbell rang.

“Want me to get that?” Phoenix asked.

“No.” I rose and started for the door. Flynn stayed seated and reached for another Oreo, but Chet and Phoenix stood, signaling their good manners. As I left the kitchen, I gave the three men a parting shot, so to speak, “Play nice while I’m gone, boys.”

I thought the police officers were back, ringing the bell, but when I opened the door, I saw one of the last people I expected.

“Penny?”

“Hi, Morgan,” she said. Even with her face devoid of makeup and tight with worry, she looked much younger than forty-three. “Matt said there’d been a shooting at your apartment.” She peered at me closely. “Thank God, you look all right. Were you hurt?”

“No, the bullet missed.”

“I hope you don’t mind my coming over.”

“Of course not. Come on in.”

Penny Cavanaugh let me take her jacket and indicated the tote bag she was carrying. “I made sandwiches. Matt and G.G. get hungry when they go out investigating in the middle of the night.”

From the stunned expressions on their faces, Phoenix and Flynn were two very surprised detectives when I showed my newest guest into the kitchen.

“Aunt Penny? What are you doing here?”

Chet stood up again. He smiled at Penny. “Aunt Penny? You look too young to be a detective’s aunt. Hello, I’m Chet Thompson.”

“Penny Cavanaugh,” she said. Penny turned to look at me, her eyes full of questions. I could almost hear her wondering, Who is this gorgeous man?

Before I could decide what to say, Flynn spoke up. He indicated Penny’s tote bag with a nod of his head, and asked, “Is that roast beef I smell?”

“Yep,” she said. “Just the way you like it.”

Penny unpacked the sandwiches and I took a platter out of the cupboard. In less time than it takes me to give Mr. Coffee a fresh filter, Penny had arranged the sandwiches on the platter with an artistry that impressed me. When I put cookies on a plate, they look like cookies on a plate. When Penny arranged food, it looked like the cover of Gourmet magazine.

Even though Chet had just eaten dinner, all three men attacked the food like NBA players after an overtime game. I had to admit I couldn’t blame them. Penny made fabulous sandwiches: perfectly done roast beef piled between thick, soft slices of homemade bread, with spicy mustard, pickles and horseradish on the side. As though her spectacular sandwiches were not enough, she had also made a large bowl of warm German potato salad. The first taste ruined me for commercial potato salad forever.

“You should have your own cooking show,” I told her between bites.

Chet looked up from his second meal of the night, gazed at her soulfully and in a cowboy drawl, said, “Marry me, Penny Cavanaugh.”

“I’m already married,” she replied. She didn’t add that her husband was supposed to be dead but would be coming back.

Flynn, having finished the last of the roast beef sandwiches, burped discreetly and resumed his detecting. “Let’s go back in the living room,” he said.

Penny gasped when she saw the bullet hole in the window. She glanced around, looking for something. “Where’s the yellow crime scene tape?”

“There’s only a hole in the window of a private apartment,” Phoenix said. He was scowling at everyone in the room, especially Chet. “I want some answers.” He started his interrogation with me, “You made it easy for the shooter. Why were you standing in front of the window with the lights on?”

His sharp tone annoyed me. “You make it sound like a crime,” I snapped.

“That was my fault,” Chet said. “I was looking out at the lights in the park and I asked Morgan to tell me what one of them was.”

Flynn snorted and looked at me with pity. “You fell for that? Lady, you don’t get around much, do you?”

Phoenix aimed knife-sharp eyes at Chet. “So, getting Morgan to stand in front of the window was your idea.”

“No, kissing her was my idea. Looking out the window was just my excuse.”

Listening to this, Penny’s eyes were getting as large and round as silver dollars.

I was angry, but I wasn’t sure at whom. I started with Phoenix: “Just what are you implying, Detective?”

Chet answered, “He thinks I set you up.”

“It crossed my mind,” Phoenix said.

“That’s ridiculous. I’m on the third floor. Whoever took a shot at us must have been standing inside the park wall, on that hill of rocks. That’s a distance of at least a hundred and fifty, maybe two hundred yards. Bullets don’t keep flying straight-arrow. He’d have to aim slightly upward, calculate the wind, allow for the drop and for the fact that the bullet had to go through glass. He couldn’t have been positive which one of us he would hit.”

All three men and Penny were staring at me.

Phoenix broke the spell. “You know a lot about guns,” he said.

“I know how to shoot.”

“I’m impressed,” Chet said.

Flynn aimed a suspicious look at Chet and asked, “Just who are you? What’s your part in this?”

“I write books on crime.”

“That’s where I’ve seen you,” Penny said. “On Oprah.”

“I’m doing the story of Damon Radford’s murder,” Chet told them.

“When did you make up your mind?” I wanted to know.

“While we were lying on the floor together, covered in broken glass.”

“Oh,” Penny sighed, “how romantic . . .”

Phoenix made a low sound in his throat, something like a growl. We ignored him.

“I’d like you to help me solve this case,” Chet told me. Before I had a chance to reply, Phoenix started bellowing.

“That’s crazy! You want to get yourself killed? You write soap opera—”

“Daytime drama. We don’t call it ‘soap opera.’ ”

“I don’t care what you call it!” Phoenix snapped. He lashed out at Chet next. “I can’t stop you from sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” he said, “but by God, if you get in the way of our investigation, I’ll slap you in jail for obstruction.” He turned to me again. “I’ll arrest you, too.”

“Well,” I said to Phoenix, “you certainly are persuasive.” I gave him my sweetest, most agreeable smile. Then I looked at Chet and asked, “Do you want to go partners on a lawyer when Phoenix ships us off to Rikers Island, the NYPD’s version of Devil’s Island?”