Chapter Thirty-One

John, are you home, honey?” she called out. There was no answer, and in a way Deidre was glad. She wanted to be the one to put together a nice meal for them. On the way back from Isabella, she had decided that, when the mysterious murders were solved, she would like to resign from office. She was worn to a frazzle.

After dinner she wanted to relax in front of an open fire and discuss the idea with him. But first, she thought, a romantic meal might be best.

Deidre had stopped at the grocery store and bought two steaks, filet mignon. She planned to serve twice-baked potatoes, cheese-coated cauliflower, and cheesecake for dessert. She had picked out an expensive red wine.

It was unusually warm for October, perfect weather to fire up the gas grill and prepare the steaks. She’d wait for that until John walked in the door.

Deidre had just finished the potatoes and the cauliflower was steamed when she heard his familiar footsteps come across the deck. She met him at the door and threw her arms around his neck.

John straightened up, lifted her off the floor and walked into the kitchen. He gave her a kiss on the lips and held her tight.

“What have I done to deserve this?” he asked.

“That’s just because you are you. But you better put me down. I’ve got steaks to put on the grill,” and she pointed to the two pieces of meat on the counter.

It took twenty minutes to finish cooking the meal, and when it was done, Deidre had to admit it was a masterpiece. She turned the lights down low and lit two scented candles that sat on the table. “Welcome home, my dear,” she crooned as she lifted her goblet in a toast.

They took their time eating, never once mentioning work. Deidre felt her tension fade in John’s presence. She was contented, loved, peaceful, and safe.

“Let’s leave the dishes for now,” she bargained. “I’ll do them later. I’ve got something I’d like to talk over with you.”

“This sounds serious,” John said, but his face showed he wasn’t concerned. He grabbed Deidre from behind, gave her a hug, and kissed the back of her neck. They took their goblets and the bottle of wine into the living room and adjusted some floor cushions to recline against.

“So,” John began. “What’s this important thing you want to talk about?”

Deidre took a sip of wine, but before she could begin, John got up and went to the fireplace. He picked up the poker, rearranged the dying embers, and added two billets of split birch. The bark immediately flared up, and the flames produced a warm glow in the room. John began to sit down next to Deidre, moving carefully so as not to spill his wine.

Without warning, the living room window crashed inward, sending shards of glass scattering to all corners of the room. At the same time, a series of gunshots shattered the joy of what had so far been a magical evening. She heard the squeal of tires on the pavement as a vehicle sped away into the night.

At the same time, before Deidre could react, she felt John push her to the floor, covering her body with his. She felt his arms tighten around her, felt the muscles of his chest tighten, heard his breath expel from his lungs as he came to rest. Then all was quiet, not a normal quiet but an eerie silence that could only be described as a total absence of sound.

“What was that?” Deidre asked, dazed.

John didn’t say anything.

“You’re so heavy on me. I can hardly breathe,” she gasped. “I’m okay. Just roll off.”

John didn’t move. He didn’t answer. Deidre gave him a shove, and his lifeless body flopped off hers.

“John, John, please John, look at me!” she shrieked. Deidre cradled John’s head in her hands. Then she saw the puddle of blood growing under his thorax. “No!” she screamed. “It can’t be.” She sat holding him, rocking back and forth in her misery. She made no move to call 911. John was dead.

Time became meaningless to her. It may have been a minute or an hour, but the wail of sirens broke into her consciousness. She heard fierce pounding on the outer door, but she was too stunned to move. After a few seconds, she saw the unlocked door swing open, and two uniformed police officers rushed in. One took John from Deidre’s arms, and the other knelt in front of her.

“Deidre,” the woman yelled. “Are you hit?” Deidre looked at her blankly. The officer shook Deidre. “Deidre, say something to me.” She tried to get up from the floor. The officer helped her. She looked at the other officer bent over John, and collapsed again.

Deidre was aware when the EMTs arrived, but their presence barely registered.

“What do we have?” one of the men asked.

Deidre heard the officer’s response as if through a fog. “I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do here, guys.”

The two officers moved Deidre to a chair in another room, and she sat, nearly catatonic. Finally, she became somewhat cognizant of what was going on around her. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” she asked with no expression.

The officer who was attending to her answered with a barely audible, “Yes.”

Deidre heard a recognizable voice.

“She can’t stay here tonight. Why don’t we get her over to my house? I’ve called her doctor. He’s a good man, one of the few who will make house calls. He said he’d be here in fifteen minutes.”

Deidre recognized the voice and looked up to see Mrs. Olson, Inga, standing in front of her. Mrs. Olson knelt down.

“Oh, my dear child, how dreadful. Will you come over to my house, at least for a while? It’s best if we give these people space so they can do their jobs. Come, dear, let me help you.”

Inga steadied Deidre with one arm while she gently placed her other arm around her shoulders. In that fashion, she steered Deidre out the back door and over to her home. She led Deidre to the sofa, and Deidre flopped down and curled up in the fetal position. Inga sat on the floor by her head and stroked her hair. She began to pray for Deidre, something Deidre could never remember anyone having done for her before.

By that time members of her department had arrived, and Jeff knocked on Inga’s door.

“Come in,” Inga said, raising her voice to be heard.

Jeff came over to where Deidre was lying on the couch, and he knelt down by her side.

“Deidre, I’m so sorry. Forgive me for interfering at a time like this, but you know how important it is to gather as much information as soon as we can.”

Deidre sat up, her nose puffy red and her eyes swollen from tears. She nodded.

“Did you hear anything before the shots came through your window?” Deidre shook her head.

“How about after, did you hear a car leaving? Could you see anything?” Again Deidre shook her head.

“Thanks, Deidre,” Jeff said and stood up. “I’ll come back tomorrow. Maybe things will be clearer then,” and he turned to leave.

“They were after me,” Deidre said, her voice flat, muted.

Jeff turned back. “Yes, I know.”

“All John was doing was stoking the fire. They had no reason to target him.”

“I don’t think they did. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. From what we can tell, the gunmen sprayed the living room, hoping to hit you. I doubt they cared who else they took down.”

“How many were there?”

“We don’t know. We’ll find as many slugs as we can. I’m sure some will be found imbedded in the walls and furniture. We found two different kinds of casings ejected onto the street from their guns. They are medium-sized. I would guess about thirty caliber.

“Whoever it was left the scene in a hurry. The tires of their car left rubber marks ten yards long when they sped away.”

There was another knock at the door, and Inga gave the same invite she had to Jeff. This time it was Dr. Jonas. He spoke briefly to Deidre, tried to assess her mental state and seemed relieved that she would be staying with her neighbor during the night. Before he left he gave her samples he had brought with him.

“This is something to help you sleep. If you want more in the days ahead, call my office, and I’ll write out a prescription. Please stop by anytime if there is anything I can do to help you. I’ll leave a note for the receptionist to make time for you. You won’t have to wait for an appointment.”

Jeff and Dr. Jonas left Deidre sitting on the couch with Inga sitting beside her, holding her hand. “Can I fix you a cup of tea, dear?” Inga asked. Deidre nodded. “Would you like me to call anyone, a relative, a friend?”

“My mother died four years ago. I had a brother, but he was killed in a rollover when he was nineteen. He was drunk at the time. My sister was last seen on the streets of Birmingham. She hung out at a place called Five Corners, but she was pretty much a junkie. How’s that for a dysfunctional family?” she asked rhetorically.

Inga patted her hand and went to the kitchen. Soon she returned with two steaming cups of mint tea. The two women, one in her seventies, the other in her thirties, sat in silence, each holding their hot cups as though the warmth could permeate their souls.

“You’re very kind, Inga,” Deidre finally said. “Will you stay by me tonight?” Deidre seldom allowed herself to reveal any vulnerability, so this statement surprised even herself.

“Certainly, my dear. I’ll be here for you. My home is yours for as long as you need. I can’t imagine you going back . . . You’re welcome to stay with me as long as you want.”

Deidre looked at Inga with a mixture of pleading and thankfulness. She put her cup on the table by the couch and lay down. She closed her eyes and drifted into a fitful, troubled sleep.

Sometime during the night—Deidre was unaware of the time—she awoke, clearly hearing John’s voice and feeling his hand on her shoulder. He gently shook her, saying, “Deidre, Deidre.”

She sat up with a start. Her heart raced and she answered, “What? What is it?” It took a moment, but she realized it had only been a dream. Inga had gone to bed. Deidre sat alone in the dark, feeling vulnerable, lost. Eventually, she lay down and fell asleep. She had no more dreams.

The sun came up around seven o’clock, and Deidre jerked awake at the first sign of daylight. She sat up, panicked for a moment, and then realized where she was. Inga was sitting in a recliner across the room, looking at her.

“You’re awake. I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, but I suppose that would be difficult. Why don’t you use my bathroom, freshen up a bit, and I’ll fix us a light breakfast.”

Deidre looked at herself in the mirror. She was a mess. Her face was swollen, and her eyelids drooped in a way she had never experienced. Her blond hair was twisted in swirls that stood up from her scalp, and there were streaks of mascara marking her face.

“Can I take a shower, please?” she called down the hall. Deidre heard Inga put down a bowl in the kitchen, and the older woman came into the bathroom, laid out a fresh towel and washcloth, then turned on the shower. She hugged Deidre tightly and returned to the kitchen without saying a word. Deidre appreciated her silence.

She stood in the shower, letting the steamy water wash over her, raised her face into the spray, and wept. Eventually, she cried herself out. After toweling off, Deidre dressed, combed her hair, and resolutely faced the day.