Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 4) (21 page)

Easing my bedroom door open with the gun barrel, taking a quick peek around the door frame, I spotted the outline of a large figure in the hall across the living room, in front of the guestroom. Ducking to safety, I once again yelled a verbal warning, this time accompanied by a sound that usually sends any sane person running away: the pchk pchk—this is the best onomatopoeia I can come up with, but it doesn’t do that chilling sound justice—of a pump action shotgun being chambered prior to some serious badassery.

I hadn’t spent much time practicing with this particular gun. My father gave it to me after a little run-in with an unsavory character back in San Francisco. That time I’d used my grandmother’s old 12-gauge, loaded with rock salt and dried bacon rind. My father, being a practical sort, decided this was not good enough and, for my birthday, bestowed upon me a 20Ga Remington 870 Wingmaster JR, with an 18.5-inch barrel. It’s the thought that counts.

Don’t let that
junior
thing fool you. While many consider this a starter gun for youngsters, I deem it the perfect weapon of home, or boat, defense because of its smooth action, and shortened butt stock. When I left for Mexico I had to leave it in Oakland, but thanks to Craig, that baby was back in my hands and ready for action.

In the nick of time, it seems.

When racking the slide, I prayed the intruder recognized that ominous sound and would head for the hills while dumping his own load, but the bastard turned and ran at me. “Stop or I will shoot!” I yelled, but the idiot never broke stride.

I fired and instantly re-chambered, even though he screamed, let loose a string of f-bombs, and disappeared through the open front door of the house.

Standing my ground, ready in case he was a complete moron and doubled back, I tried a little unsuccessful breath control. Shooting indoors is much louder than out in a cow pasture, but I keep a pair of earplugs attached to the gun, and had the good sense to use them. Even so, my ears rang, but not much louder than the roar of pumping blood. In spite of all that inner noise, I still heard the Rottweiler going nuts, then the blessed growl of high-powered engines. A lovely glow of flashing red and blue lights washed the living room walls.

Backing into my bedroom, I shut the door, told the 9-1-1 dispatcher the cops had arrived, where both Jan and I were in the house, and hung up. The phone rang instantly.

Thinking it was Jan, I said, “Stay where you are for now. Everything’s all right. I nailed the bastard and the cops are here.”

“What?” Jenks squawked.

Crap.

“Uh, Jenks, I’m just a little busy right now. Can I call you back?”

Not waiting for his reply, I cut him off and called Jan, who wanted to know, “Hetta, who’d you shoot? I heard him yell. Is he really gone?”

“Yep. I sure hope the cops got him.”

“Can I come out of the bedroom now?”

“Absolutely not. Lay down on the bed with your hands on your head, and the lights on. Bye.”

I hung up, called 9-1-1 once again, affirmed we were both unharmed, and staying put. The dispatcher connected me directly to an officer outside my house. As I answered his questions, I slid to the floor and leaned against the bed, opened the breech on the gun, put it on the floor, and kicked it away.

Suddenly exhausted, I crawled on the bed and pulled the covers up to my chin.

My meltdown began with teeth chatters, then crying. A female officer bristling with firepower entered, spotted pitiful me on the bed, asked if I was injured, and then if I could stand. She was still taking no chances, wanted my hands on display, so I had to let go of my blankie.

Getting out of bed, with my hands held high and legs rubbery wasn’t the easiest of feats, but I managed. “I’d move faster, if I could,” I sniveled. “My legs feel like jelly. Did, uh, I kill someone?”

The officer lowered her gun and smiled. “Not with bacon and salt, you didn’t, but you sure put a dent in his pride, hit him right in the nu…uh, groin.”

Jan came up behind her and smirked. “Yeah, Hetta, they don’t call you a ballbuster for nothin’. Thank God it’s over. The bastard walked, well, limped, right into their arms. You did good.”

“Yeah?” I snuffled.

“Yeah. And I have even better news. Here,” she shoved her cell phone into my hand, “Jenks wants to talk to you.”

Could this night get much worse?

I gave Jenks a quick rundown on what just happened, swearing on my saintly grandmother’s grave that I had done absolutely nothing to bring the nutcase to my doorstep. Jenks, while sympathetic, didn’t come across as convinced of my innocence, but did say he loved me and missed me and that counted for a lot. Our conversation was cut short by the arrival of yet another law officer.

Topaz Sawyer, a diminutive deputy with a head of hair which closely resembled that of a shaggy German Shepherd, led me to a dining room chair, asked if I’d like some water, and calmly began asking me questions. What I really wanted was a stiff shot of anything but water.

Jan had been escorted by a second officer into my office. My guess is they separated us to see if our stories of the night’s events matched.

After another round of questioning, some of it repetitious, Ms. Topaz asked, “Do you make it a practice to leave your garage door open, Hetta?” We were practically bosom buddies after a half-hour in each other’s company.

“Absolutely not. It was closed, and I locked the door into the pantry, as well. I am very security conscious.”

Another deputy approached. “Looks like he tried that door, didn’t work, so he bumped the front door.”

“Bumped?”

“As in bump locked it.”

“Bump locked? What the heck is that?”

Topaz wrote something on the growing incident report. “It’s a master-type key you can buy on the Internet that, inserted into the lock and then bumped with a special tool, allows the key to turn. Takes a few seconds. We’ve seen a few break-ins we suspected were bumps, but this is the first time we caught the guy with the key.”

“Yeah,” another said. “Not only that, he evidently had your garage door opener, but thanks to a better locking system on the fire door into the house, he couldn’t bump the lock. We found the opener next to his SUV.”

“Was it white? His car?”

“Yes, why? Do you know someone with a white SUV?”

“I saw one  earlier today when I was sitting in the courtyard. I heard a car, and the neighbor’s dog was barking, so I looked out. She only barks at strangers, so I knew it wasn’t her owner or his family. A white car was leaving, headed down the road. We don’t get much traffic, since it’s a dead end.”

Jan, who’d joined me at the dining table, opened her mouth, but slammed it shut at my warning look. She’d give me hell later for not telling her about the white SUV, especially in light of the one that chased us. On top of that, I thought we owed Ted a call before giving away the fact that my garage door opener was last seen on my VW’s visor at his winery, so for now we needed to clam up.

“Well, the dude must be a moron,” I said, “or can’t read. There is an ADT sign outside, and stickers on all the windows.”

“Truth is, a lot of folks have fake security signs. Maybe he thought no one was home, so even if the alarm went off, he’d have time to grab some stuff before police arrived. One thing for sure, I don’t think he was expecting you to be armed.”

Jan grinned. “Hetta’s almost always armed. It’s one of the reasons I hang out with her.”

I shrugged. “Hey, my daddy always said some folks’ll think you’re paranoid if you carry a gun, but if you have a gun, what the hell do you need to be paranoid about?”

Topaz smiled. “So we can assume you have other firearms in the house?”

“Only a .38 revolver, which is in the office, a 30-30 in the hall closet, a .22 automatic in my bedroom, and a pellet pistol in the garage, for pigeons. I hate pigeons. Oh, and, uh, a .9mm Springfield XDM.” I was reluctant to admit owning the semi-automatic with nineteen in the clip and one in the chamber, but figured I’d better come clean since they’d probably find it anyway.

“An XDM? Why didn’t you use it, instead of a shotgun?”

“Truthfully? I figured XDM’s were banned here, like in California.” I also didn’t want to admit I’d acquired it illegally in California. I have friends in low places.

“Nope. Hell, I wish I had one.” Her smile widened. “Why rock salt and bacon rind in the shotgun? It works very effectively at close range, but won’t do much otherwise.”

“The second round is a double aught, and the last three are slugs. My grandmother says that’s the way to load, you know, just in case.”

“In case of what? That the guy is still in one piece? You must have some family,” Topaz said, but again, there was a note of humor. “I’d say the guy got very lucky the first round nailed him, and even luckier he got out the door. If you can say stumbling right into the loving arms of a border patrol agent lucky. You called the Border Patrol after you dialed 9-1-1?”

“A gal cannot have too many armed men about. I called everyone I could think of. There is almost always a Border Patrol vehicle close by, so I figured they might respond first. Looks like I was right.”

“They were Johnny on the spot. Any idea who this guy is?”

“Since I still haven’t seen him, nope. I’ve only lived here for a few weeks, and I don’t know a lot of people yet. You think he might have actually been after me?”

She shrugged. “It’s a possibility.”

“More like a probability,” Jan mumbled under her breath.

“Excuse me?” Topaz asked.

Jan, cowed by my glare, said, “Nothin’.”

After everyone left, we jammed a chair under the doorknob, even though the dead bolt was working fine again after being bumped. The next day, I planned to replace it with a new bump-proof model and charge the cost to the owner.

Jan and I had a glass of wine to calm our nerves and went back to bed for what was left of the night. I couldn’t sleep, and gave up at six, even though it was still dark. Jan didn’t fare any better in the sleep department, so morning found us jangled with caffeine, and generally grumpy. It was into this atmosphere that the hapless property manager bungled. Evidently, bad news passes fast in this small community.

When I opened the door, he was inspecting the door lock. Luckily I’d already mopped up the blood spatters in the hall and out in the courtyard.

“What now?” I growled.

“May I come in?”

I threw the door open, he stepped inside as though entering a viper pit.

Jan moved between us, whispering out of the side of her mouth, “The man is just doing his job, Hetta.” To him, she asked, “You want some coffee?”

He eyed me warily. “Uh, that would be nice.”

“We’re out on the verandah. Go on out, Hetta will bring your coffee, won’t you, dear? Cream and sugar?”

“Black.”

I couldn’t find any rat poison, so I left his coffee black and joined them outside. A foursome was on the green already, enjoying a morning that dawned surprisingly warm for their tournament. Little could they guess that just a few hours ago my house was the scene of crime, fear, and violence. My stomach did its twentieth flip-flop of the morning as the night’s events rushed back.

“Are you all right, Miss Coffey?

“Yeah, Hetta, you look awful pale.”

“I’m fine, or as fine as someone can be after being terrorized in the dark of night.”

The property manager put his cup down. “Understandable that you are upset. After all, you shot a man.”

Jan’s eyes bugged out and she scooted her chair away from him, as though dodging the line of fire.

“Listen to me, you twerp. I am not upset because I blasted a piece of vermin who broke into my house in the middle of the night. I am upset because I didn’t kill the bastard. And I am very upset that you rented me a house with unsafe locks on the doors.”

The poor dude leapt to his feet, mouth hanging open in shock. “Now look, you can’t possibly blame me, er, the owner, for this.”

Jan read where I was headed and joined the fray. She hasn’t studied at the side of the master for nothing. “Yeah, if it hadn’t been for Hetta being here, your owner’s stuff would probably be in Mexico by now. You should give poor Hetta a freakin’ reward.”

Atta girl, Jan.

“However, I’ll settle for new locks. And not being evicted,” I told him, doing my best to sound wronged. I would have added a sniffle, but thought that was overdoing it.

Scurrying for the front door, he said, “Someone will be here today to change the locks, and I’ve already informed your lawyer that she was correct, and you can have as many short-term visitors as you like. Sorry for your trouble.” With this, he escaped.

We dissolved into giggles, drawing a frown from a golfer trying to sink a putt.

“Miss Coffey, I am Sergeant MaGee from the Cochise County Sheriff’s department, Investigations Division. Do you mind if I come in and ask a few questions?”

I sized up the tall blonde dude at my front door. Covering most of his hair was a woolen cap, with, of all things, two blue earflaps. He was handsome, in an Irish Wheaton terrier sort of way. “Please. Want some iced tea?”
Or a dog biscuit
?