Tyrell, as he clearly was to her. She lowered her voice, and seemed to think I wouldn’t be able to hear. “She’s a looker, ain’t she? But them ain’t breedin’ hips, boy. You sure she’ll be able to get that baby out?”
I sniffed. This remark was offensive on so many levels I wasn’t even sure I had caught them all. I could see from the tightening of Rafe’s lips that he was suppressing something — a grin, most likely — but his voice was soothing. “She’ll be fine.”
The woman smiled back. “You’re lookin’ out for her, ain’t you, boy?” She reached up — way up; she was barely five feet tall — and patted him on the cheek.
A car door slammed outside, and just as quickly as that, the atmosphere in the kitchen changed. The old woman stiffened, and her hitherto vague brown eyes became sharper. “They’re comin’ for me.” She glanced over her shoulder towards the front hall. “Filthy cops. You won’t let’em take me away, will you, Tyrell?”
Rafe hesitated, for just long enough to make her take another look at him. Something seemed to switch over in her brain, and her eyes narrowed. “You ain’t my Tyrell. What’re you doin’ in my house? Help! Intruders! Help! Help!”
Rafe took a step back, straight into me. I grabbed hold of him to steady myself while outside in the hallway, someone picked up speed and came barreling through the door, fetching up in the kitchen with a gun in both hands. I did my best to shrink behind Rafe’s bigger frame. The old woman shrieked and crumpled in a heap on the floor. Rafe lifted his hands slowly, in the universal gesture of surrender.
“Christ!” a disgusted voice outside the door said. “Put the gun away before you shoot someone.”
Officer Truman flushed and lowered the weapon just as Officer Spicer came trotting through the door. He took in the situation at a glance, and didn’t seem too surprised. I guess a beat cop gets used to seeing all sorts of things. He nodded cordially to me. “Mornin’, Miz Martin. Mr. Collier. Sorry about that. And where’s... damn, she’s fainted. Oh, well; it’ll make it easier to get her in the car. Last time she gave us a hell of a time.”
He nodded to Truman who, having secured his gun in its holster, bent and lifted the old lady in his arms. He headed for the door with his burden, and I addressed myself to Spicer.
“Where are you taking her?”
Spicer didn’t seem to mind sharing the information with me. “Back to the nursing home. She keeps walking off, and they keep calling us to bring her back. Poor old bird.” He shook his head.
“Who is she?” I asked, although I was pretty sure I already knew the answer. This had to be the homeowner; who else would worry about intruders?
Spicer’s words confirmed my theory. “Name’s Jenkins. Lived here up till just a few weeks ago. Can’t remember it ain’t her home no more.”
“Alzheimer’s?”
Spicer shrugged. “Or she’s just forgetful. Happens to most of us when we hit eighty or so.”
I nodded. When I didn’t say anything else, Spicer tipped his uniform cap and started to walk off. He stopped after a few steps and turned back. “What happened here, anyway?”
“Oh.” I glanced at Rafe, who was standing next to me, sunk in thought. “We came back to see the house one more time. We’d only been here a few minutes when Mrs. Jenkins turned up. She must be an early riser.”
Spicer confirmed that she was. “Old folks don’t sleep so good no more. Nursing home attendant said she disappeared before breakfast. Ain’t but a quarter mile walk.”
I nodded. “At first she was worried about us being here, but then she seemed to think she recognized Rafe. She called him Tyrell.” I paused, hoping that Spicer could give me some more information, but if he had any, he chose not to share. “Then we heard the car door slam, and she realized you were coming. I don’t think she likes it where she lives now.”
“Ain’t the nicest
I sniffed. This remark was offensive on so many levels I wasn’t even sure I had caught them all. I could see from the tightening of Rafe’s lips that he was suppressing something — a grin, most likely — but his voice was soothing. “She’ll be fine.”
The woman smiled back. “You’re lookin’ out for her, ain’t you, boy?” She reached up — way up; she was barely five feet tall — and patted him on the cheek.
A car door slammed outside, and just as quickly as that, the atmosphere in the kitchen changed. The old woman stiffened, and her hitherto vague brown eyes became sharper. “They’re comin’ for me.” She glanced over her shoulder towards the front hall. “Filthy cops. You won’t let’em take me away, will you, Tyrell?”
Rafe hesitated, for just long enough to make her take another look at him. Something seemed to switch over in her brain, and her eyes narrowed. “You ain’t my Tyrell. What’re you doin’ in my house? Help! Intruders! Help! Help!”
Rafe took a step back, straight into me. I grabbed hold of him to steady myself while outside in the hallway, someone picked up speed and came barreling through the door, fetching up in the kitchen with a gun in both hands. I did my best to shrink behind Rafe’s bigger frame. The old woman shrieked and crumpled in a heap on the floor. Rafe lifted his hands slowly, in the universal gesture of surrender.
“Christ!” a disgusted voice outside the door said. “Put the gun away before you shoot someone.”
Officer Truman flushed and lowered the weapon just as Officer Spicer came trotting through the door. He took in the situation at a glance, and didn’t seem too surprised. I guess a beat cop gets used to seeing all sorts of things. He nodded cordially to me. “Mornin’, Miz Martin. Mr. Collier. Sorry about that. And where’s... damn, she’s fainted. Oh, well; it’ll make it easier to get her in the car. Last time she gave us a hell of a time.”
He nodded to Truman who, having secured his gun in its holster, bent and lifted the old lady in his arms. He headed for the door with his burden, and I addressed myself to Spicer.
“Where are you taking her?”
Spicer didn’t seem to mind sharing the information with me. “Back to the nursing home. She keeps walking off, and they keep calling us to bring her back. Poor old bird.” He shook his head.
“Who is she?” I asked, although I was pretty sure I already knew the answer. This had to be the homeowner; who else would worry about intruders?
Spicer’s words confirmed my theory. “Name’s Jenkins. Lived here up till just a few weeks ago. Can’t remember it ain’t her home no more.”
“Alzheimer’s?”
Spicer shrugged. “Or she’s just forgetful. Happens to most of us when we hit eighty or so.”
I nodded. When I didn’t say anything else, Spicer tipped his uniform cap and started to walk off. He stopped after a few steps and turned back. “What happened here, anyway?”
“Oh.” I glanced at Rafe, who was standing next to me, sunk in thought. “We came back to see the house one more time. We’d only been here a few minutes when Mrs. Jenkins turned up. She must be an early riser.”
Spicer confirmed that she was. “Old folks don’t sleep so good no more. Nursing home attendant said she disappeared before breakfast. Ain’t but a quarter mile walk.”
I nodded. “At first she was worried about us being here, but then she seemed to think she recognized Rafe. She called him Tyrell.” I paused, hoping that Spicer could give me some more information, but if he had any, he chose not to share. “Then we heard the car door slam, and she realized you were coming. I don’t think she likes it where she lives now.”
“Ain’t the nicest
Similar Books
