Author of Mystery and Suspense Novels

Excerpt

THE MOURNFUL TEDDY

     Suddenly we were interrupted by a sound that's absolutely guaranteed to command your undivided attention: the metallic RICK-RACK of a cartridge being chambered into a 12-gauge pump-action shotgun.

     "Get your hands up!" shouted a woman from somewhere in the corn.

     My cane fell to the ground as Ash and I instantly obeyed. Turning my head slightly, I yelled, "I'm sorry about-"

     "Shut up!"

      I've found it's always the wisest course not to argue with someone employing a shotgun as a rhetorical tool, so instead, I whispered from the side of my mouth, "Honey, on the count of three, I'm going to fall down and I want you to bail."

     Ash squinted at me and her jaw dropped. The truth is, she looked so affronted that you'd have thought I'd asked her to leave so that I could flirt with the woman in the cornfield. At last she said, "Brad, if you believe I'm going to run away while you stay here, you need your head examined."

     "I said, shut up!" came the voice from the corn.

     "Sorry!" I replied.

     "Well, you should be for even thinking that." Ash glowered at me.

     "Actually, I was apologizing to the lady with the riot gun."

     "So you aren't sorry?"

     "I'm very sorry for getting you caught in an ambush. I'm not sorry for trying to get you out of it."

     "And what would you do if the situation was reversed? Would you run?"

     "That's different."

     "How?"

     "Because I couldn't conceive of life without you."

     Her eyes softened. "I love you, Brad."

     "WILL YOU TWO SHUT UP?"

     "Sorry!" I waved in what I hoped was a placating manner in the direction of the voice. "I think we have everything settled here."

     There was a second or two of tense waiting and then two women stepped from behind the screen of cornstalks. Like veteran soldiers on a reconnaissance patrol, they approached slowly and cautiously. Both were armed and both wore belligerent expressions, which is never a good combination.

     The younger of the two was pointing the shotgun at us and the comfortable way she held the weapon snug against her right shoulder told me she was experienced in its use. I estimated her age as being about 35 years and under ordinary circumstances, I'd have considered her pretty. She had curly neck-length brunette hair, rosy skin, and a pleasantly sculpted face faintly dotted with freckles across high cheekbones. Her clothing was guerilla war chic-a lilac colored ribbed t-shirt with a picot collar, baggy desert camouflaged fatigue pants of taupe, sand, and bits of chocolate brown, and scuffed black military jump boots. Oh, and if you're a little troubled by the fact that a street-savvy former homicide inspector knows what a picot-trimmed collar is, imagine how I feel.

     The young woman's weapon was noteworthy too. With its slate gray matte finish, brutal and utilitarian lines, and folding shoulder stock, it looked like something you'd expect Arnold Schwarzenegger to have used in one of the Terminator films-which, in fact, he did. It was a Franchi SPAS-12, the kind of high-tech shotgun used by many police SWAT teams.

     I also recognized the gun the older woman held in a professional two-handed combat grip. It was a dated but exquisitely maintained Smith and Wesson .357-magnum revolver with a four-inch barrel and nearly identical to the gun issued to me in the police academy back in 1978. One thing was clear: these women weren't into home DIY projects, but they did take fine care of their firearms.

     There wasn't much of a facial resemblance, but the women's physiques were so similar, in that they carried their weight in the belly region-not that I have any room to talk-that I assumed they were mother and daughter. The mother was about 60 years old and looked as tough as beef jerky-but I expect that being both a moonshiner and Liz Ewell's neighbor had a way of aging you. Her skin was leathery from too much sun, there were deep frown lines around her mouth, and her wiry hair was warship gray with a yellowish cast. Mom preferred the retro Hollywood Western look: faded straight-legged blue jeans tucked in at mid-calf to brown boots, a threadbare blue and green plaid woolen shirt, black leather vest worn unbuttoned, and a tan basket-weave gun belt with a cross-draw holster. I was tempted to ask if she was going to be meeting the Earps at the OK Corral later this afternoon but, for once, I managed to hold my tongue.

     "Stand still," the old woman snapped.

     I assumed she was talking to me because my left leg was hurting so much I was trying to hop on my right foot without attracting her potentially lethal attention. "I'm having trouble standing. I need my cane."

     "Too bad. What are you doing on my property?"

     "We came up from the river and just wanted to see where the road went." The answer was technically the truth. I didn't think that mentioning we were investigating a murder was going to improve our situation.

     "Yeah, I'll bet. Search 'em, Claire."

     Ash's eyes widened. "Claire-"

     "Quiet! And don't make me tell you again." Mom pointed the big revolver at Ash's nose to emphasize the point.

     Claire slipped up behind me and kept the business end of the shotgun flush against the back of my skull while she frisked me for weapons with her left hand. I discovered she had a melodious voice when she said, "You try anything stupid and they'll be picking up pieces of your skull in Grottoes."

     "That's about ten miles from here, isn't it?"

     "Yeah."

     "There's a visual I didn't need."

Available in August 2006 from Berkley Prime Crime