Deadly Gamble

Chapter 18

Chapter 18

After falling asleep around four a.m., I didn't rouse again until after nine. Somewhere in the back of my memory, I thought I'd had a productive day planned but now I couldn't seem to focus. I showered and dressed in jeans and sweater. I really should go in to the office; there was correspondence waiting, I remembered. But Stacy's plight seemed to loom large. I couldn't help but wonder what had happened when she went home last night, if she went home. I speculated as to whether I should call.

Rusty and I went through our morning breakfast routine then left for the office. We arrived to find Ron pouring coffee into his mug with one hand, gripping his lower back with the other.

"So, how was bowling last night?" I teased.

He shot me a look through pinched eyebrows.

"I thought you were there to surveil not to participate."

"Well, you know. It looks kinda suspicious to sit around a bowling alley all evening and never pick up a ball," he explained.

"And Joey just happened to talk you into throwing a few."

"Yeah, well. . ."

"I'm not gonna ask who won. Obviously, your back didn't."

He ignored that and took his coffee to his own office. I stopped by Sally's desk on my way upstairs. She handed me one pink slip. Sarah Johnson. Sarah Johnson. . . Oh, yes, the one who worked with Jean Detweiller. Now what would she have to tell me?

As it turned out, I had to ponder the question awhile longer. There was no answer at the number she'd given. Assuming she still worked the late shift, maybe I could catch her as she arrived at work this afternoon. This left me without much choice but to go ahead and answer the letters that had stacked up on my desk.

By two o'clock I had that nasty little chore taken care of, Sally had left for the day, and Ron was again glued to his telephone. I slipped a note in front of him, letting him know I was switching on the answering machine and leaving. I'd been wondering how Josh was doing, and since the Detweiller house and Sarah's work were so close together, I might as well make one trip of it.

The boxy little house looked all closed up, with no cars in the driveway when I pulled up to the curb. I knocked on the front door anyway. No response. No big surprise. As I stepped off the porch, I saw a lady in the next yard holding the garden hose sprayer over a flower bed. She raised her hand in a little wave.

"Hi," I said, cutting across the Detweiller drive to approach her.

"Nobody's home there," she said. She leaned a bit closer to me. "The man and his wife were both murdered."

She didn't say "died" or even "killed." This one liked to get the sensational tidbits right into the conversation. I looked closely at her for the first time. She was in her late fifties, with short gray hair mostly hidden by a wide-brimmed gardening hat of turquoise fabric with pink dots the size of quarters all over it. Her pink garden gloves were nicely color coordinated, although the green slacks and pullover she wore clashed badly with the hat.

"I was hoping to find Josh at home," I told her. "Maybe he's back in school today."

"Oh, I don't think so," she said. "That blond girl was here earlier. I think her name's Casey. They had that music blasting me practically out of my house all morning. Then, about an hour ago they left together."

This woman must do a lot of yard work. She really was up on her neighbor's movements.

"I heard that Mr. Detweiller was killed right here in the driveway," I said. "You probably heard the shot."