left the house about six-thirty.”
Rhona butted her cigarette as she pulled into the drive of the doctors’ house and admired the two storey stucco mock Tudor. No doubt about it, two doctors, even with the state paying the freight, did a whole lot better than one detective, also paid by the state. Maybe she should have gone to med school instead of Police College. Very funny. Her high school science marks had ruled out options requiring courses like biochemistry.
Dr. Yantha conducted her through a string of cool, minimalist modern rooms to the kitchen. In contrast to the rest of the house, hand-painted Mexican tiles, a terra cotta floor, oak-trimmed cabinets and a collection of exotic cacti huddled under the skylight, reaching for remembered desert heat. Light made the kitchen warm and inviting. From a wicker basket in the corner, two Siamese cats regarded her with suspicion.
Hollis, in a dry tracksuit, nursed a mug of coffee. She shook her head. “I can’t believe it happened. My mind is racing around like a hamster in a wheel. When he broke into the church office and tried to invade the manse, I figured it was because of Paul’s work. But—this.” Her eyes reflected her puzzlement. “Unless the killer was the worst marksman in the world, he could have killed me. He must be trying to scare me.” Her brow furrowed. “And I don’t know why.” She moved her mug in circles on the table. “I’m not going into hiding but I don’t ever, ever, want another experience like this.”
She wasn’t hysterical, but she wasn’t her usual controlled self. And who would be? “It certainly was a frightening experience,” Rhona said.
“Frightening ranks as a major understatement when you hear the rest. I also came within an inch of being flattened by a transport truck when I ran across the road to escape the killer. I misjudged the truck’s speed. The backwash tossed me in the ditch. The driver thought he’d killed me, and I was afraid he’d killed the dog.”
“Horrible,” Rhona said. “I don’t want to push you but, if you feel okay, finish your coffee, and we’ll return to the scene.”
“Thanks for picking me up and fixing me up,” Hollis said to Kas. “I’ll be in touch with Tessa later—we have to talk.”
“It was nothing. Tessa . . .” Kas stopped. He and Hollis exchanged a meaningful glance.
Rhona felt she was missing something; she determined to burrow away until she reached the truth about Tessa.
“Why don’t you stay with us tonight? Don’t rattle around in the manse feeling scared about what may happen next,” Kas said.
“It’s kind of you, but you have your cats, and I have MacTee. There’s a control pad for the security system in my bedroom. I’m due for a good night’s sleep, and the best chance is at home in my own bed.”
The dog, hearing his name, woofed briefly to remind them of his existence. Hollis retrieved him from the adjacent laundry room.
Being a cat person, Rhona didn’t relish having this large wet dog in her car, but she didn’t have an option—Hollis wasn’t going anywhere without him. Dr. Yantha must have read Rhona’s mind. He collected a threadbare Hudson’s Bay blanket from the laundry room. “Throw this over the seat. I don’t want it back.”
Maybe he had redeeming features after all.
At the Experimental Farm, a cruiser was parked beside the yellow barn, and two slicker-clad men were examining the track. “Was the marksman behind the barn?” Rhona said when they drew up beside the police car.
“Yes, where the men are. I had a quick glimpse.” She pointed toward the track. “I’d passed those barns when he shot at me. Then another bullet splashed into a puddle ahead of me.”
“With this rain, there’ll be footprints. I’ll tell them where to search for the bullets.” Rhona left the car and slogged through the mud to speak to the two policemen stringing yellow police tape and cordoning off the area close to the barn. After a brief conversation, she squished to the car and smiled at Hollis. “You deserve a few perks with seniority. I did my years out in the field plodding around in the rain. Did you run here from your house, or do you have a car somewhere?”
Hollis directed her to the parking lot, where Rhona stopped some distance from Hollis’s truck. “Give me your keys. Remain here until I’ve done a thorough examination.” Hollis watched Rhona give the truck a careful visual once-over before she started it, switched it off and returned.
“Did you think it might be booby-trapped?” Hollis asked, clearly wanting Rhona to deny it.
“Always better to make sure. I’ll follow you to the manse.”
At the house, Hollis disarmed the alarm and opened the door. Rhona checked the house. And found it—a padded brown envelope with no stamps and an address composed of cutout newspaper letters lying on the floor in front of the front door’s brass mail flap. Rhona backed away and tiptoed to the kitchen.
Hollis, who’d poured herself a glass of milk, sat at the kitchen table. “Oh no, what is it? What’s wrong?”
Rhona placed her finger on her lips. “We have to leave. Very, very quietly. Slide off the chair.”
“Why?” Hollis set the glass gently on the table and eased to her feet.
“There’s an envelope on the floor in the front hall that didn’t come through the post office. It may be a hand-delivered sympathy letter, but I doubt it.”
MacTee bounded into the kitchen, his exuberantly wagging tail signalling his pride in his retrieving abilities. A brown envelope sagged from his mouth. The dog sashayed over to Hollis, gave the envelope a saliva-laden munch and dropped it at her feet.
“Out.” Rhona grabbed Hollis’s arm and yanked her toward the door.
“What . . .”
MacTee took a tentative step toward Hollis, stopped and considered the letter.
“If he picks it up again, he could trigger an explosive device.”
“No,” Hollis commanded.
MacTee frowned and turned his full attention to the envelope.
“No,” Hollis deepened her voice as she repeated the order while Rhona pulled her arm to hurry her out of the room.
MacTee cast one more longing look at the envelope before he wagged his tail and followed them out of the house.
“Don’t stop here. Flying glass could kill us,” Rhona said and hauled Hollis around the corner of the house to the driveway. “It might be a letter bomb,” she said tersely.
“A—letter—bomb?” Hollis said each word as if it came from Urdu or Hungarian and had no meaning for her. “You did say—letter bomb?”
“I did. Fat padded brown envelope. No postmark. Cut out letters.” She removed her cell phone from her giant handbag, called the station and ordered the bomb squad to the manse.
Twelve
Outside, Hollis frowned. “I had something crucial to tell you, but I can’t remember what it was.” She
