“We have only an approximate time of death for Stanley,” Kanesha said. “A window of about three hours at the moment. It’s possible that Mr. Tucker murdered both men. Now, is that all?”
I knew better than to press my luck any further. “Yes, thanks.”
She nodded. “Stay safe.” She opened the door and stepped out. I closed it behind her.
Haskell Bates passed by me as I entered the kitchen, and moments later I heard the front door open and close again. Stewart, still at the table, watching the antics of cat and dog as they played nearby, said, “Haskell’s making a run to his place to retrieve a few necessities. He’ll be back in time for dinner.”
“Good,” I said. “He surely wouldn’t want to miss whatever that is you’re cooking, Azalea. It smells wonderful. What is it?”
“Meat sauce.” Azalea stirred the pot on the stove. “Mr. Stewart’s recipe.”
“It may be my recipe,” Stewart said, “but you make it better than anyone, even me.” He smiled when Azalea turned around to thank him.
“I do add a little something extra,” she said before she turned back to the stove.
“And you won’t tell me what it is,” Stewart replied in a mock-severe tone. “I’ve guessed everything from allspice to wormwood, but she won’t ever tell me if I’m right. You’re a hard woman, Azalea Berry, but I adore you anyway.”
“You get on with your fool self.” Azalea waved a hand in Stewart’s direction without turning around. “Why don’t you set the table, do something useful.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Stewart said and grinned at me. He and Azalea picked at each other like this all the time.
“While you do that,” I said, “I’m going to run upstairs and change out of my monkey suit into more comfortable clothes.”
Stewart eyed me critically. “You do look handsome in a suit, Charlie. It doesn’t take much imagination to see where that gorgeous son of yours gets his looks, Grandpa.” He winked.
“Thank you.” I rewarded him with a courtly dip of the head. Chuckling, I headed upstairs to change.
Halfway up I realized I had left my briefcase in the car. I would retrieve it after dinner, I decided. I had no plans to work this evening. Upward I went.
Downstairs again a quarter of an hour later, I discovered Azalea on the point of departure. The food was ready, and we could serve ourselves. Stewart was assuring her that he would personally see to the cleaning of the kitchen.
“I’ll supervise,” I said, and Azalea smiled.
“You need me to come in tomorrow, Mr. Charlie? I don’t mind. I could turn out one of those bedrooms upstairs, get it ready.”
“No, that’s not necessary,” I said, and Stewart echoed me.
“I’m going to have to work on Haskell a bit more before he’ll be willing to live here permanently,” Stewart said. “There will be time enough for that once I’ve convinced him.”
“All right then,” Azalea said. “Have a blessed evening, and enjoy your meal.”
I escorted her to her car, which was parked in the driveway, and for once she didn’t argue. It was already dark outside, thanks to the storm clouds. Although the streetlights did illuminate the street decently, they were far enough apart to allow shadows in some places. Shadows made me uneasy at times like this.
I waited and watched till Azalea’s taillights disappeared down the street before I turned to go back inside. No car followed her, and I relaxed. She should be safe at home, especially with that shotgun of her late husband’s.
Because I wasn’t paying attention, I caught my foot on the welcome mat, and I stumbled sideways a couple of inches. Something buzzed right by my head and struck the door just as I put my hand on the knob.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I twisted the knob and pushed at the same time so I could dive inside. I slid a couple of feet on the polished wood.
“Charlie, are you all right?” Stewart hurried toward me.
“Stay back,” I said as I propelled myself around behind the door, scrambling like a crab. “Someone shot at me.” I slammed the door shut and then slowly got to my feet away from the windows on either side of the door.
Stewart halted several feet away and pulled out his phone. Moments later he was speaking to the 911 operator. While he talked to the operator, I turned off the lights in the hall and the one over the front door outside. Then I peered cautiously through the blinds at the yard and the street. Everything appeared as usual. No one wielding a gun, no cars driving by. I engaged the locks on the door.
The faint noise of a siren reached my ears. I went to the stairs and sat on the third tread. My chest still heaved from the exertions and the adrenaline. Diesel and Dante ran into the room, and the cat came right to me. He meowed, and I rubbed his head. Dante danced around Stewart’s feet and barked until Stewart shushed him.
The sound of the siren had grown increasingly louder, and now I could see the play of the flashing lights against the blinds. Stewart ended the call with 911 and went to slip the lights back on. He had the door open before the Athena police officers were halfway up the walk. Right on their heels came Haskell Bates, a large canvas bag in one hand and a suitcase in the other. He had changed out of his uniform into civilian clothes.
I spent the next twenty minutes talking to the police officers while Stewart and Haskell kept Diesel and Dante out of the way. Finally, Haskell stepped forward to assure them that he would communicate with the sheriff’s department, who would investigate further because of the connection of this incident to the ongoing murder investigation. The city cops didn’t argue. The police department and the sheriff’s department worked well together, and in cases like this, they didn’t waste time over jurisdictional matters.
Before they left, however, the older of the two policemen examined the door and found the bullet embedded in the thick oak. It had entered the door a good inch above my head.
“You were lucky, Mr. Harris,” he said. “Good thing you stumbled at just the right time.”
In the background I heard Haskell talking on his cell, and I wondered how long it would be before his colleagues arrived to examine the door.
“Yes, sometimes being clumsy has its rewards, I guess.” I smiled. “Thank you, Officers, for responding so quickly.”
I ushered them out, and then Stewart, Haskell, and I, along with two hopeful four-legged friends, moved to the kitchen for our delayed meal.
While we ate—and Diesel and Dante both begged for food—Stewart, Haskell, and I discussed the incident. Stewart opened a bottle of red wine, and we toasted my lucky escape. My blood pressure was settling back to normal, and I thanked the Lord for my clumsiness at the right moment.
“Although,” I said, “I can’t help thinking that there was more than luck involved in this.”
“What do you mean?” Stewart asked. “If you hadn’t stumbled when you did, well.” He grimaced.
“Either the shooter isn’t a good marksman,” Haskell said, “or he never intended to kill Charlie. Maybe frighten him or only wound him.”
I nodded. “That’s what I was thinking, after the first rush of sheer terror subsided.” I had a sip of my wine. “Otherwise, why did the shooter wait until I was about to come into the house to fire? I was a lot closer to the street for a couple of minutes, and surely if he wanted to kill me, he had a better chance of succeeding then, instead of when I was at the door, an additional fifty or sixty feet away.”
Diesel tapped my leg with a large paw, and I gave him a bit of buttered bread. No garlic, only bread and butter. He chirped in thanks as he attacked his tidbit.
“I see what you mean,” Stewart said.
The doorbell rang, and Haskell stood. “That will be Chief Deputy Berry. I’ll go.” He walked briskly from the room.