could get it and put it away, and all.
“It was really dark that night, no moon out, just some rain, but the lights from the gin made this kind of glow across the parking lot there in front of those railroad ties. I was getting out of my car when I saw this guy walk up to the Robert Clay shack and knock on the door. I didn’t think anything about it until the guy inside opened the door and this guy on the porch shoved him backward. The guest was kinda little, you know, and this other guy was pretty big. So I stopped, since the guest let out a weird sound when the guy pushed him inside. Then the other guy—the big guy—went inside and slammed the door behind them.”
She sucked in a deep breath and I nodded encouragingly, afraid to say anything for fear she might stop talking.
“Well, I know it wasn’t any of my business and all, but I’m kinda nosy, I guess,” she went on, her voice lowering as if afraid to be overheard, “so I went up to the window. It’s the one on the right side, low enough for me to look in if I stand on my toes. I saw that the big guy had a gun, and the guest was holding his hands out like he was trying to get him to stop pointing it at him. They were talking, but there was a band that night and it started up playing again and I couldn’t hear anything they said.
“Then the big guy—he hit the little guy across the face with the barrel of the gun, then stuck it right in his mouth. I didn’t know what to do. I got away from the window pretty fast, I’ll tell you that. After I put my cart back up where it goes, I kinda went that way again, just to see if everything was okay. That’s when I heard the gunfire. I got really scared. I took off, got in my car, and I stopped at the first payphone I could find to call nine-one-one. I figured the guy had shot and killed him, so that’s what I told the operator. Then I hung up. I tried to help him, I really did. I just . . . didn’t want the police to ask me too many questions.”
Impulsively, I put my hand on her arm. She was shaking. “Thank you, Patty. You did all anyone could have expected you to do.”
“No. If I had went in and told somebody, maybe they would have come out and stopped it before he got shot.”
“Or maybe they would have been shot, too. In a situation like that, it’s hard to know what to do.”
She gave me a grateful look. “Thank you, Miz Hollandale.”
I cringed a little at my deception, but Bitty would never know about it, so no harm done.
“One more question, please. This big guy—could you describe him for me?”
“Um, let’s see . . . he was probably around six-two or a little over, a big build, dark hair . . . I think he had a beard. I couldn’t see well, because even though the porch light was on he was in shadow part of the time.”
She frowned a moment, then said, “Oh! I forgot—when he turned around a little bit I saw that he has some kind of scar on his face, right here—”she motioned with one hand, her finger skimming along her cheekbone to her mouth—“it looked bad, you know?”
Her description definitely left out Rob’s confrontation with Larry Whittier. While what I had found out confirmed part of Rob’s story, it wouldn’t be enough to convince the police. Finding the big guy with a beard and a scar was an option, but it wasn’t a very appealing one. I had no desire to run into him, again—or for the first time.
Something about her description told me that our intruder of the night before was a different person from this other man. What on earth had Larry Whittier gotten himself into?
CHAPTER 6
“I can’t believe you destroyed my slipper, Trinket,” Bitty complained as we packed our overnight cases. “Just look at it. Most of the feathers are gone, and the heel is battered so badly it looks like I walk on the sides of my feet.”
“You do.” I looked sadly at my torn white cotton nightie. My tussle with a Ninja had done it no favors. I rolled it up and
“It was really dark that night, no moon out, just some rain, but the lights from the gin made this kind of glow across the parking lot there in front of those railroad ties. I was getting out of my car when I saw this guy walk up to the Robert Clay shack and knock on the door. I didn’t think anything about it until the guy inside opened the door and this guy on the porch shoved him backward. The guest was kinda little, you know, and this other guy was pretty big. So I stopped, since the guest let out a weird sound when the guy pushed him inside. Then the other guy—the big guy—went inside and slammed the door behind them.”
She sucked in a deep breath and I nodded encouragingly, afraid to say anything for fear she might stop talking.
“Well, I know it wasn’t any of my business and all, but I’m kinda nosy, I guess,” she went on, her voice lowering as if afraid to be overheard, “so I went up to the window. It’s the one on the right side, low enough for me to look in if I stand on my toes. I saw that the big guy had a gun, and the guest was holding his hands out like he was trying to get him to stop pointing it at him. They were talking, but there was a band that night and it started up playing again and I couldn’t hear anything they said.
“Then the big guy—he hit the little guy across the face with the barrel of the gun, then stuck it right in his mouth. I didn’t know what to do. I got away from the window pretty fast, I’ll tell you that. After I put my cart back up where it goes, I kinda went that way again, just to see if everything was okay. That’s when I heard the gunfire. I got really scared. I took off, got in my car, and I stopped at the first payphone I could find to call nine-one-one. I figured the guy had shot and killed him, so that’s what I told the operator. Then I hung up. I tried to help him, I really did. I just . . . didn’t want the police to ask me too many questions.”
Impulsively, I put my hand on her arm. She was shaking. “Thank you, Patty. You did all anyone could have expected you to do.”
“No. If I had went in and told somebody, maybe they would have come out and stopped it before he got shot.”
“Or maybe they would have been shot, too. In a situation like that, it’s hard to know what to do.”
She gave me a grateful look. “Thank you, Miz Hollandale.”
I cringed a little at my deception, but Bitty would never know about it, so no harm done.
“One more question, please. This big guy—could you describe him for me?”
“Um, let’s see . . . he was probably around six-two or a little over, a big build, dark hair . . . I think he had a beard. I couldn’t see well, because even though the porch light was on he was in shadow part of the time.”
She frowned a moment, then said, “Oh! I forgot—when he turned around a little bit I saw that he has some kind of scar on his face, right here—”she motioned with one hand, her finger skimming along her cheekbone to her mouth—“it looked bad, you know?”
Her description definitely left out Rob’s confrontation with Larry Whittier. While what I had found out confirmed part of Rob’s story, it wouldn’t be enough to convince the police. Finding the big guy with a beard and a scar was an option, but it wasn’t a very appealing one. I had no desire to run into him, again—or for the first time.
Something about her description told me that our intruder of the night before was a different person from this other man. What on earth had Larry Whittier gotten himself into?
CHAPTER 6
“I can’t believe you destroyed my slipper, Trinket,” Bitty complained as we packed our overnight cases. “Just look at it. Most of the feathers are gone, and the heel is battered so badly it looks like I walk on the sides of my feet.”
“You do.” I looked sadly at my torn white cotton nightie. My tussle with a Ninja had done it no favors. I rolled it up and
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