Twenty-One

Bad was too kind a word for Grace’s movie but we sat and watched and waited for the hero to save the heroine until six.

“I can’t stand any more of this. How about we switch to 60 Minutes?” I asked.

“Fine with me.” Grace exited her cocoon and and flipped the television dial.

Morley Safer filled the screen.

Ding dong.

“That’ll be the pizza.” I hauled myself off the couch, stopped in the kitchen, and grabbed my billfold from my purse.

The patrol office and a very nervous pizza guy waited on the front stoop.

“You ordered pizza?” the officer asked. He was the approximate size of a mountain and his face was hewn from granite. No wonder the pizza guy was shifting from foot to foot and looking over his shoulder at his still-running car.

“I did.” I paid the delivery man and he hurried down the drive to his car.

“Are you hungry, officer?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You’re sure? We’ve got plenty. It’s combo.” The man could guard us just as effectively from inside the house as he could from his car.

“I’m on duty, ma’am.”

It wasn’t like I was offering him a tequila shot.

The smell of hot tomato sauce and melted cheese wafting from the box made my mouth water. “Fine. Let me know if you change your mind or if you want hot coffee or a bathroom or—”

“I’m on duty, ma’am.”

Who was I to argue with hewn granite?

I closed the door. With Max at my heels (the pizza smell had attracted him like a moth to a flame), I returned to the kitchen. Plates, napkins, and a knife to separate the slices—I stacked them all on top of the box. “Grace,” I called. “What do you want to drink?” I poured myself a glass of wine and waited for her answer.

“Grace, honey—” louder this time “—do you want a drink?”

Her response was garbled.

I pulled a Tab from the fridge and added it to the top of the pizza box. If she wanted something else, she could get it herself. Then, with balancing skills I didn’t know I possessed, I centered the box on my left hand and grabbed the wine glass with my right.

If I didn’t trip over Max (who was underfoot with a pizza-induced spring in his doggy steps), dinner was served.

Together we two-stepped toward the family room.

Until Max stopped dead in his tracks. Of course I tripped over him but the only casualty was sloshed wine.

“Max,” I snapped. “What are you doing?”

Max growled.

“What is it, buddy?”

I stepped around him and wished I hadn’t.

A bedraggled—wet, dirty, with leaves in his hair—Bruce Petteway had joined Grace in the family room. Not just joined her. Seized her. The two stood in front of the television, facing me. Bruce held a gun. A gun he pressed against Grace’s ribcage.

I didn’t drop the pizza. I didn’t drop the wine. Mainly because a strange been-there-done-that calm washed over me. I deposited dinner on my desk. “What are you doing, Bruce?”

Next to me, Max growled. Deep in his throat. He’d been-there-done-that too.

Bruce didn’t answer me.

“How did you get in here?” I demanded.

“The back door was unlocked.”

I gave Grace the look. The look Mother usually saved for my worst transgressions—finding bodies, dating a homicide detective, wanting to meet my half-sister.

Bruce settled his gaze on me. His irises were pinpricks and he seemed to vibrate like a human tuning rod. What kind of drugs was he on?

“I’m sorry. I forgot to lock the door when I let Max in.”

Max growled. Deeper this time. His lips drew back from his teeth. He looked truly fearsome.

“Control your dog!” Bruce shifted the gun away from Grace and pointed it at Max.

With Bruce’s gaze fixed on Max, I slipped the knife on the pizza box into my sleeve. What good was a kitchen knife against a gun? Not much, but the knife was all I had. I clutched the handle tightly. “Grace has nothing to do with this.”

Grace made a tiny mewling sound in her throat.

“Let her go. Please.”

Bruce pointed the gun at Grace’s ribs again.

I held up my free hand. I give up. You win. Let go of my daughter! I hadn’t seen this coming. Bruce, a killer? I hadn’t credited him with enough gumption. Quite clearly I’d been mistaken. Was he the real estate investor who’d killed Leesa? Had he killed Ray? Jane had described the man as bulky. Bruce was definitely bulkier than Ray. I was bulkier than Ray.

I inched closer to the man with the gun and my daughter.

“Stay where you are!”

I froze. “Let Grace go. Please.”

He shook his head. “It didn’t have to be this way.”

“Mrs. Russell—” a strident voice carried from the kitchen “—I have had quite enough of you and the shenanigans in your house. They affect my property. Do you know some man just snuck through my backyard?” The voice grew louder and louder until Margaret Hamilton was framed by the doorway.

Bruce shifted the gun’s aim from Grace to my next-door neighbor.

I pulled out my knife.

Max launched himself at the stranger in his house. Teeth bared. Hair raised in a ridge on his back. Max was a terrifying beast. Fortunately, the stranger he went for was Bruce and not Margaret.

Bang!

“Eeeeeeee!” High-pitched. Ear-splitting. Coming from Margaret or Bruce? Impossible to tell.

Bruce was on his back with Max planted on his chest.

Max’s gleaming teeth were less than a quarter-inch from Bruce’s throat.

Margaret was on the floor clutching her upper arm.

Grace was shaking, but not so much she couldn’t kick the gun Bruce had dropped under the couch.

Bruce pushed at Max.

Max bit him. Hard. In the fleshy part of his hand.

Blood dripped onto Bruce’s face and he gasped. “Get him off! Get him off!” His voice was a falsetto.

“I’m shot.” Margaret’s voice was a deep bass.

I held up my knife. “Grace, go get that knucklehead cop.”

Grace took off at a run.

Margaret dragged herself off the floor. Blood welled through the fingers clasped on her arm.

“Mrs. Hamilton, how badly are you hurt?”

She firmed her chin and leveled her witchy gaze at Bruce—and Max. “Only a scratch thanks to that beast.”

Max looked over his shoulder and grinned at her.

“Don’t,” she warned, “think you’re forgiven for that squirrel.”

Max grinned bigger.

Bruce groaned.

I had no sympathy. It was one thing to threaten me and something entirely different to threaten Grace. I pointed the knife at him.

Officer Hewn rushed in, his steps slowing as he took in one shot next-door neighbor, a dog that might or might not be vicious, a woman with a knife, a man on the floor, and a fast-cooling pizza.

“What happened?” he demanded.

“He shot me.”

“He grabbed me off the couch.”

“He threatened my daughter.”

Bark.

“The dog attacked me.”

We all spoke at the same time.

The first cracks appeared in Officer Hewn’s hewn face. Worried cracks. How-do-I-explain-half-the-neighborhood-waltzing-through-the-back-door-while-I-sat-in-my-patrol-car cracks. He swallowed loud enough for us all to hear him. “I called this in. Detective Jones is on his way.”

Thank God for small favors.

“This is the man who’s been sitting in your driveway watching your house all day?” Margaret’s tone let us all know she wasn’t impressed.

“It is.”

Margaret Hamilton sniffed. “They would have been better served paying Marian Dixon.”

My nosy, across-the-street neighbor had probably spent her afternoon and evening watching the man paid to watch my house. And she’d done it for free.

Officer Hewn scowled at us. For about a half-second. “You’re shot?”

“I already told you that.” Margaret sounded mightily put out. If I were Officer Hewn, I’d be worried she’d turn me into a rock. Or worse.

“He shot you?” Office Hewn pointed at Bruce.

“Yes.”

“Where’s the gun?”

“Under the couch.” Grace’s voice was small.

For the first time, Officer Hewn seemed to notice the knife in my hand. “What are you doing with that?”

“It’s for the pizza.” I dropped the knife on the box.

Margaret Hamilton cackled.

“Max, come here.”

Max surveyed Officer Hewn, decided the police officer was up to the task of controlling Bruce, and came to my side.

Bruce didn’t move. Max had knocked all the stuffing out of him.

The whine of sirens reached us in the family room then came, “Ellison!” Anarchy’s voice boomed throughout my house.

“Family room,” I called.

The pound of running feet on hardwoods came next.

Then Anarchy.

He skidded to a stop in the doorway “You’re all right?”

“I’m fine. Mrs. Hamilton has been shot.”

Mrs. Hamilton leaned against the white wall and the wall had more color than she did. “He just grazed me.” Margaret Hamilton might fly a broom whenever the moon was full, but she was a brave woman.

“You need to sit down.” I led her to a chair.

She refused to sit. “Your upholstery.”

“To hell with the upholstery. Sit down.”

“An ambulance is on its way,” said Anarchy. “Grace?” His gaze landed on my daughter. “You’re all right?”

She nodded.

Anarchy shifted his gaze to Bruce and his eyes narrowed. His lips narrowed. His focus narrowed.

Bruce shuddered.

A uniformed officer appeared in the door. “The ambulance is here.”

“I don’t need an ambulance,” Margaret objected. “I’m fine.”

She’d been shot. In my home.

“I’ll follow you. We’ll have the doctors look at you then I’ll drive you home.”

She looked as if she meant to object. Strongly.

“Please, Mrs. Hamilton,” said Grace. “I won’t be able to sleep unless I know you’re okay.”

“You don’t need to follow me. I’ll catch a cab when they’re done with me.” She sounded brave and strong but I wasn’t buying it.

“Are you kidding?” I asked. “You saved us.” Besides, it had been months since I’d been to the emergency room. If I didn’t put in an appearance soon, they might forget me.

“Hmph.”

We followed her to the hospital. In the Mercedes. Not thinking about what had happened in the passenger seat where Grace sat was the best policy. I needed a new car.

“I’m really sorry, Mom. About the back door.”

“It’s okay, honey. I’m just glad you’re safe.”

“Why—” she looked down at her hands. They were clasped together in her lap.

“Why did Bruce invade our home and point a gun at you?” Just thinking about it made my fingers tighten on the steering wheel.

She nodded.

“Either he’s a murderer or he’s having a very bad divorce.”

“I hope it’s the divorce. It’s too scary to think about a multiple murderer digging a gun into my ribs.”

It was too scary to think of anyone digging a gun into her ribs.

I needn’t have worried that the staff at the hospital would forget me. They greeted me like a long-lost family member. “Mrs. Russell, how are you? Mrs. Russell, it’s nice to see you. Mrs. Russell, who did you bring in tonight?”

“Fine. Nice to see you too. I’m here about Margaret Hamilton.”

They put her on the fast track. And I didn’t even mention Mother’s name.

Two hours later, Mrs. Hamilton was in the passenger seat of the Mercedes. “I told you it was just a scratch.”

“You were right.” I wasn’t about to argue with her.

“It was nice of you to follow me—and to wait. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I fixed my gaze on the road ahead of us. “Thank you. You saved us.”

“Hmph.” Mrs. Hamilton turned away, her gaze fixed on the darkness outside the passenger window.

I drove in silence.

Grace, who sat in the backseat, had the good sense to stay quiet.

I pulled into Margaret Hamilton’s drive, stopped under the porte cochere, and hurried around to the passenger’s side to help her out.

She opened the car door herself. “Thank you.” She regarded me with beady black eyes. “Thank you, Ellison.”

She’d never called me by my first name. Never invited me to use her first name.

I took a breath. “It was my pleasure, Margaret.”

We stared at each other for a moment then she opened the door to her home and sent me on my way with a firm nod of her chin. “Keep that dog out of my yard.”

“I will.”

“And buy him a bone from me.”

“Consider it done.”

Grace and I pulled up our own drive, parked behind the house, and entered through the back door.

Grace looked around the empty kitchen. “I want cocoa. Do you want cocoa?”

“Sure. Give me a minute and I’ll make it for you.” I walked toward the family room.

“I’ll make it,” she offered.

“Thanks.”

I stepped into the family room.

Bruce was gone.

Officer Hewn was gone.

The smear of Margaret’s blood on the wall was gone.

The pizza was gone.

Anarchy was there.

We stared at each other. Lord only knew what I looked like. He looked perfect. Coffee-brown eyes, slightly sardonic grin, his hair mussed as if he’d been running his fingers through it as he waited for me to come home. Be still my heart.

“How’s your neighbor?”

“She’ll be fine. How’s Jane?”

“She’s safe.” A twitch at the corner of his mouth threatened to turn his sardonic grin into a genuine smile. “I’ll need to take statements.”

“Can it wait till tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here.”

He would? “Oh?”

“I’m spending the night.”

“The neighbors will talk.”

“The neighbors are already talking.”

I couldn’t argue that. “Grace is making cocoa. Would you like some?”

He gifted me an actual smile. “I would. Thank you.”

We walked back to the kitchen with his fingertips burning a hole in the back of my sweater.

Grace looked up from the stove and smirked at us. “I made enough for three.”

We sat around the island in companionable silence and drank hot cocoa.

Grace finished first. “I’m tired.” She stood, rinsed her cup, and put it in the dishwasher. “I’m going to bed. See you in the morning.”

“Wait.” I rose from my stool and hugged her tightly. “I am so, so glad you’re okay. I love you.”

“Love you too, Mom. And don’t worry, I’m not like traumatized or anything. Mr. Petteway wasn’t nearly as scary as some of the people we’ve faced.”

Oh dear Lord. How many evil people had we faced? I’d lost count. Apparently, Grace had not.

Mother was right. My finding bodies had to stop. I could retreat to my studio, paint, and keep my nose far, far away from other people’s problems. Then Grace wouldn’t have to deal with guns and blood and fear. “I am so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” She grinned. “Besides, life at our house is never boring.” With that, she kissed my cheek and disappeared up the backstairs.

“She’s a great kid.”

“She is,” I agreed.

“She’s got a great mother.”

I shook my head. “There’s nothing wrong with boring. Grace’s biggest worry should be her date for next weekend, not getting shot in the family room.”

Anarchy stood. Anarchy wrapped an arm around my back, pulling me close. Anarchy traced my cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. “Don’t worry about Grace. That kid has more bounce to her than a rubber ball.”

My word-forming ability fled.

He leaned down and brushed his lips across mine.

Fire.

“Want to grab those blankets and pillows?”

“What?” There. I’d formed a word.

“I’m spending the night on the couch.”

“You don’t have to do that. We’re fine.”

“I’m not convinced Bruce killed Ray.” He released me. “I’m not convinced Bruce killed anyone.”

I wanted to disagree—life could return to normal if Bruce was the killer—but I couldn’t. “I’ll get them.”

A moment later I stood in the family room handing over a stack of bedding. “What if Rocky was telling the truth? What if the killer is a real estate developer?”

“Rocky telling the truth?” Anarchy raised his brows. “Not a snowball’s chance. Why don’t you let me worry about killers and—” his voice died.

Something in my expression killed it. “Let me worry about killers—”

“That sounded patronizing, didn’t it?”

Uh, yes. Incredibly so. I nodded.

“That’s not how I meant it. Catching killers is my job.”

“And my job is painting pretty pictures.”

“Ellison—” with his free hand, he raked his fingers through his hair and his brow furrowed “—I’m making a mess of this. I apologize.” He dropped the bedding on the back of the couch and stepped closer to me. “You are a brilliant—” he leaned forward and brushed my cheek with a kiss “—capable—” now a kiss tickled the corner of my mouth “—brave woman.”

How could I possibly stay annoyed with a man who kissed me like that? Especially when his eyes told me he meant every word he said?

“I’m just old-fashioned enough to want to protect you.”

I nodded and took a step away from him. I had to. If I didn’t, I’d melt into his arms like some old-fashioned damsel who needed protecting. I shifted my gaze to the stack of sheets and blankets and pillows. “You’ve got everything you need?”

“Not by a long shot.”

I wanted that instant—the sudden joyous leap of my heart, the warmth in Anarchy’s gaze, the electricity arcing between us—caught in amber. A precious jewel of a moment to be treasured forever.

“Good night.” The only words I could manage.

I climbed the stairs slowly. The weight of my thoughts affecting my feet.

Anarchy and me? A future?

I considered the possibility as I washed my face, as I brushed my teeth, as I selected a silk nightgown the shade of midnight instead of flannel pajamas. I considered and reached no conclusions.

One thing I did know, Anarchy’s antagonism toward Rocky O’Hearne had colored his judgment. The things Rocky had told us—they’d stuck with me—they had the ring of truth. And if Rocky was telling the truth, then I knew who’d killed all those people.

If. A big if. One I couldn’t hope to prove.

I pulled back the comforter and climbed into bed.

Max circled three times then settled onto his bed with a tired sigh. Being a hero was exhausting work.

“Thank you, Max. I love you.”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t have to.

I settled into my pillows and closed my eyes.

I opened them again five minutes—two hours—later. Something was wrong. I felt the wrongness in my bones.

I lay in bed and listened—the heat blew through the vents, the wind outside rushed through the trees and flung an occasional leaf or twig against the house.

Nothing amiss.

But something didn’t feel right.

I reached into the drawer of my bedside table, picked up my gun, and slid out of bed.

Max lifted his head.

“Am I imagining things?” I whispered.

He rose to his paws.

Together we tiptoed down the hall. Together we paused at the top of the stairs.

Voices.

I heard voices.

I tightened my grip on the gun and descended the stairs. Maybe Anarchy was watching television—except there was nothing on past midnight on a Sunday night.

Maybe Anarchy was talking to Grace—except the timbre of the voices was too deep.

Maybe—maybe there was a stranger in my house.

I sidled down the hallway toward the family room.

“Where is she?” A man’s voice. Not Anarchy’s.

My mouth was sand-trap dry.

“You won’t find her. Besides, she can’t identify you.”

“I guess that means you’re the only one.”

I was glad of that dark nightgown.

I hid in the shadows just outside the doorway to the family room.

Anarchy, sleep-mussed and unarmed, stood with his hands raised.

And—dammit, I hated being right—Bill had a gun pointed straight at Anarchy’s heart.