Twelve

A second frantic buzz rang out, followed by a third. Then silence.

I quickly moved toward the back door and realized that I’d left my phone on the counter.

“Madame,” I called over my shoulder. “Grab the—”

“I know what to do,” came her firm reply.

I hoped that Madame wouldn’t jump the gun and call 911.

“Just keep it ready!” I told her. Though a delivery made no sense at this late hour, it was possible.

As I hurried through our back pantry, I considered the crime rate in our city and paused at the door. I wasn’t crazy enough to throw the lock and simply open up to goodness knows what. First, I peered through the tiny security peephole.

Outside all was darkness—a good thing because a motion-sensor LED array was mounted above this entrance. If someone was out there, then that light would illuminate the alley and area around the door.

Behind me, Madame’s heels clicked lightly as she approached.

“Be ready with that phone,” I whispered, still peering through the peephole.

“What phone?”

I turned to find Madame not with my phone, but a baseball bat!

We kept the thing stashed under our coffee bar for emergencies, and I’d forgotten about it. Obviously, Madame hadn’t. Now she stood there, resplendent in her formal ball gown, poised to swing like Babe Ruth at home plate.

While it surprised me, I didn’t object. After all, a ticked-off octogenarian raising a bat in real time was a better option than a 911 operator asking me to “describe your emergency.” And I didn’t even know if there was an emergency. Not yet anyway—

“All right,” I said. “Get ready!”

Leaving the lock’s chain in place, I threw the dead bolt. Now all I had to do was crack the door to activate the motion-sensor lights—except there were no lights. I peered through the crack and spotted the shattered glass on the cold ground.

I was about to slam the door shut when I heard a new sound. The booming thump that our dumpsters made whenever a heavy bag of trash was tossed inside.

Was somebody dumping illegal garbage in our alley?!

The very idea made my blood boil because it exposed our business to hefty fines. I filled my lungs with righteous air and was about to let loose a stream of verbal broadsides to scare away the garbage-dumping jerk when I heard a voice. A man’s voice—

“I don’t have it! That’s why I’m here. That’s what I’m looking for!”

The voice was loud, almost shouting, and oddly familiar. I strained to listen for a reply, but if there was one, it was too soft for me to hear. Then the loud voice spoke out again.

“It must be here,” the man insisted. “I’ve got to find it.”

Another pause, then—

“NO! It’s mine. I would never give it to you! Never!”

His words ended in a choked scream, a fearful, hysterical cry that I finally recognized.

It’s Mr. Scrib!

I threw the chain off the steel door and yanked it fully open. An arctic blast instantly smacked me in the face. Light from our shop spilled into the alley, but the darkness quickly absorbed it. I could see my breath rise in curly clouds, but our two dumpsters and beyond were nothing but vague shapes in the gloom.

Suddenly, a strong beam of illumination stabbed through the darkness. Madame found the flashlight!

“Careful, Clare,” she warned as she passed the light to me.

“Wait here,” I replied.

I was sure Mr. Scrib was still in the alley, maybe deranged and needing help. Maybe even hurt. I listened for his voice but heard nothing—only the traffic on Hudson.

As I approached the first trash bin, the light that seemed so bright a moment ago was suddenly inadequate. So was my attire—a thin cotton sweater, black slacks, and an apron were no protection against the chill. I began to shiver.

When I heard a piteous groan, I directed the beam at the cry and found the man. Mr. Scrib was slumped over, his eyes closed, and his body completely still against one of our two metal dumpsters amid a heap of cups, napkins, lids, newspapers, and shredded plastic bags. On the icy ground I spied blood.

As I approached Mr. Scrib, someone burst out from between the two dumpsters. Startled, I took a step backward. Then someone grabbed my arm and I screamed.

“Clare!” Madame said. “I have the phone!”

“Call an ambulance,” I replied, pointing to Mr. Scrib’s inert body.

At that moment, a car turned off Hudson Street. Its headlights flashed across the alley, briefly bathing a fast-moving silhouette. I spotted the running figure just before that glare blinded me.

The attacker was fleeing the scene!

I didn’t know if Mr. Scrib was unconscious or dead. And if he was dead, then I was the only witness to his murder. But what did I witness? I saw next to nothing to help the police ID the old man’s attacker.

Maybe someone else would have been afraid. But I wasn’t. The very idea of someone getting away with an assault—maybe even murder—right here in my back alley infuriated me.

And that fury fueled my feet.