Double Shot by Diane Mott Davidson Read Free Book Online

deeply. Somehow, thought. I didn’t feel able just then to tell Tom what had happened.
“I’m reading a report here of shots fired. Down near you, about eight this morning?”
“That was me. I fired my gun.” I wanted to elaborate, but somehow felt unable to. Ordinarily, he was able to return my calls right away, sheriff or no sheriff. And he usually greeted me so enthusiastically, Miss G. what are you up to now? Miss Goldy, everything all right? As silence lengthened between us, I had to remind myself again that his behavior was not owing to anything I had done. Tom had turned all his anger at losing that case inward, and I was going to have to gut it out.
Finally Tom said, “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
“Oh. Tom. Somebody broke into the Roundhouse. I surprised him when he was still here. He . . . shoved me out of the way and whacked the back of my neck so hard that I passed out — “
“Wait, wait. Do you need me to come up there? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Really. I called the department and they sent a patrolman who took a report. You should know, thought, the prowler had sabotaged me. he must have thrown the switches on the fridge and freezer compressors last night, so all the food was spoiled. Then this morning, he broke down the back door and left a string of trout in the refrigerator and bags of mice on the floor. I didn’t see a face.”
“But you tried to shoot the guy?”
“No. I was so startled by the mice that I shot the gun by accident. I made a hole in the floor, but — “
“Goldy. Who do you think could have done this?”
“John Richard? Some enemy I don’t know about? I can’t imagine. Listen, I’ll be okay. Julian and Liz have offered to clean up. And get this, John Richard was at the Kerr lunch. Demanding loudly that I bring Arch over at four to play gold.”
“Let me meet you at his house. Please?”
“Marla’s already offered. I turned her down. I promise, Tom, I’m staying in the van while Arch hauls his clubs to the Jerk’s door.”
He sighed and said he’s see me that night. I clapped the phone shut and consulted my watch: 1:15. My aching body pined for a shower and a nap. Unfortunately, I had miles to go before I slept. . . .not to mention returning home to a husband who was on an entirely different emotional path from mine.
I wrote checks to Liz and Julian. A short while alter, my van pulled out of the Roundhouse parking lot. Had my assailant been watching for me very early this morning, perhaps from the trees on the far side of the creek? Who would want to ruin a caterer’s food? And most problematic: Would this person strike — and strike me — again?
I piloted the van around the lake and down Main Street. The severe drought and ensuing watering restrictions had given Aspen Meadow the dusty look of an Old West village. Still, the merchants had bravely put out a proliferation of artificial flowers. Fake geraniums poked from window boxes outside Aspen Meadow Jewelry. Plastic ivy twined around lampposts the length of Main Street, from the Grizzly Bear Saloon to Darlene’s Antiques and Collectibles. Local kids and tourists vied for the best viewing spot in front of Town Taffy’s big window, where mechanized silver arms pulled and stretched shiny ribbons of candy. Aspen Meadow depended on tourists and locals alike to spend large amounts of money during the summer months, and the store owners were determined to don their usual festive look. I’d even heard that members of our Chamber of Commerce had pestered CNN to quit reporting on Colorado forest fires. Those newscasts were ruining business!
When I pulled up in front of our own drying dying lawn, I tried to ignore it, along with the flowers, now struggling, that Tom had so lovingly nurtured through the last two summers. The Alpine rose-bushes, chokecherries, and lilacs, even the aspens and pines, all drooped with thirst. But I was powerless to help them, as exterior watering had been banned.
Inside,