No Cats Allowed

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.

I had time for the last bite of pasta and meat sauce and a final sip of my wine before Haskell came back with Kanesha.

“Were you hurt?” she asked.

“Maybe a bruise or two from hitting the floor,” I said. My knees would be complaining before long. “Nothing serious, though.”

Kanesha nodded. “Tell me what happened.”

I complied with her request, and when I’d finished, she didn’t respond right away. Finally she said, “I wonder if the shooter was aiming to kill you or only frighten you.”

“We were discussing that before you arrived.” I repeated the gist of the conversation.

“Hard to say, really, but it seems to me more like a threat rather than an intent to kill.” Kanesha looked at Haskell. “Where were you?”

He regarded her with his usual stony expression. “I ran home to pick up a few things. I was gone less than half an hour.”

Kanesha shrugged and turned back to me. “I’ll check on the whereabouts of the suspects, try to find out what they were doing when this happened.”

“Is your mother okay?” I asked.

“She’s fine. The police are keeping an eye on her house. Melba Gilley’s, too, just in case. They should have the bullet out by now. I have to go. Y’all be careful.” She turned and walked out. Haskell followed her.

“She’s in a bad mood,” Stewart said. “She can’t stand it when things like this happen. She’s definitely got control issues.”

“That’s probably one of the things that makes her so good at her job.” I had a few control issues myself, and I could sympathize with Kanesha. “I hope she gets this sorted out soon. I don’t like feeling I’m in a state of siege, practically.”

Stewart got up from the table and started clearing. Dante pranced around, still begging for food, but Stewart told him firmly the food was all gone. Diesel tapped my leg again. I had saved one last bite of bread and butter for him, and he accepted it happily before Stewart took my plate away.

I got up and put my wineglass in the sink. Two servings of wine were my limit. Stewart and Haskell were welcome to the rest of the bottle.

Haskell returned, stony expression still intact, and poured himself more wine after he resumed his seat. “They’re gone.” He drank down half the wine in his glass and set it aside.

Interesting dynamics, I thought as I resumed my seat. Was Kanesha really angry with him because he wasn’t present when the attack took place? If so, it wasn’t fair. He couldn’t have known. I started to say something, then thought better of it. Haskell was intensely private, and I didn’t want to offend him. His relationship with his boss was his business, not mine.

Stewart came over to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. Haskell looked up at him, and Stewart smiled. Haskell returned the smile briefly, and I could see the set of his shoulders change to a more relaxed position.

I pretended to be busy giving Diesel attention, lest Haskell realize I had seen the interaction.

“Seems like there isn’t much progress in this case.” Stewart sat across from Haskell and refilled his wineglass. “Any luck in tracing the gun that was used in the second murder?”

“We’ve identified the type of bullet used,” Haskell said. “But since this state doesn’t require registration of firearms, for the most part, it doesn’t do a lot of good. Unless the suspects voluntarily reveal their firearms, we can’t do much.”

“Unless you can get a search warrant,” Stewart said.

Haskell nodded. “And even with a search warrant, they can conceal the weapons somewhere else. We pretty much have to find the weapons on them. In a lot of cases, that’s what happens, especially in domestic violence situations. Something like this, however, is much harder.”

“That’s discouraging,” I said.

“The way it is,” Haskell replied with a shrug. “How about you show me how your alarm system works? Long as I’m going to be here a few days, I’d better know how to set it and turn it off.”

“I can show you,” Stewart said. “You haven’t changed the code lately, have you, Charlie?”

“No, it’s still the same.” The six-digit code I used was my late mother’s birthday.

Stewart rattled it off, and I nodded. “That’s it.”

I stood. “Since you’re going to take care of that, I guess Diesel and I will head upstairs. I’ll bid you both good night.”

They both said good night in return, and I was halfway up the stairs, Diesel at my side, when I remembered my briefcase. This time I did turn around and go down the stairs. When I walked into the kitchen, Stewart was standing behind Haskell, still in his chair, massaging the deputy’s neck and shoulders.

“Sorry,” I said, “I forgot that I needed to get my briefcase out of the car. It’ll only take a moment.”

The two men nodded, and I hurried past them to the door. I flipped on the switch for the garage light and went to the car. I grabbed the briefcase and hurried back inside, turning off the light and locking the back door. “Good night again,” I said.

“See you in the morning,” Stewart called after me. He told Dante to stay, otherwise I think the poodle would have followed me upstairs for more playtime with Diesel.

I found my sweet boy on the bed when I got upstairs. He was already stretched out, no doubt tired from all the attention from his small and enthusiastic canine friend.

I put the briefcase on top of the chest of drawers and proceeded to change into my comfortable pajama shorts and T-shirt. I had about a hundred and fifty pages left in Lionheart, and I planned to read until it was time to call Helen Louise around ten.

A quarter of a frustrating hour later, however, I discovered that not even Penman’s masterful storytelling could keep my mind from jumping back and forth from the twelfth century to the present. Reluctantly I set the book aside, marked my place, and let my mind focus on the events of the day. Particularly on the terrifying event of the evening.

Had the shot been an attempt at murder? Or simply intimidation?

What was the point of intimidation? To keep me from going back to the library and perhaps reneging on my acceptance of the temporary position?

What good would that do, other than simply to delay the inevitable? At some point, the job would be filled, and the new library director would no doubt be asking the same questions about the budget that I would. If there were indeed problems with the budget other than those caused by Peter Vanderkeller, that is.

I hadn’t found anything in my studying of the figures today, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a problem concealed in them. I might have to dig deeper—a lot deeper—to find evidence of any malfeasance, if it was there.

I considered the other unanswered questions.

Why had Porter Stanley come to Athena in search of Reilly?

How did the intruder get into the library administration offices without a key?

Was there a connection between Stanley’s appearance and Reilly’s murder? Or only coincidence?

Hard luck on Stanley if it were the latter. Had he simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time? In other words, had he happened to witness Reilly’s murder?

Were the pranks against Reilly the work of the murderer? Or were murderer and prankster two different people?

After lying there a few minutes and going round and round over these questions, I decided I ought to write them all down. I often thought better, and more clearly, when I wrote things down.

I got out of bed to retrieve a notepad and pen from the briefcase. I settled back against my pillows and began to record my questions. When I’d finished, I read through them again. Diesel never stirred the entire time. He really must be tired, I thought.

I tapped the pen against the pad while I went over the questions yet again. As I did so, I noticed that the cap looked odd. I held it under the bedside light to examine it, and I realized that the cap contained a detachable part. I pulled it out and discovered that it was a thumb drive.

How clever, and how useful. Then I noticed the pen bore the logo of one of the library’s longtime vendors. Vendors often gave away promotional items like pens, thumb drives, notebooks, and so on. This was the first of its kind that I had seen. It wasn’t mine, so it had to be one of the ones from the director’s desk.

I looked at my list of questions again and ran down them. I tapped the pen against the paper a few more times. Then I stared at the cap of the pen. I pulled out the thumb drive and looked at it in sudden wonder.

Could this be what the intruder had been searching for?