them.”
The house was dark when we returned. The car was in the driveway. Jeanne Ellen was nowhere to be found.
“You sure it was Jeanne Ellen?” Lula asked.
“Positive. All the hair stood up on my arm, and I got an ice-cream headache.”
“Yep. That would be Jeanne Ellen.”
Lula dropped me at the door to my apartment building. “Anytime you want to do surveillance, you just let me know,” Lula said. “Surveillance is one of my favorite things.”
Rex was in his wheel when I came into the kitchen. He stopped running and looked at me, eyes bright.
“Good news, big guy,” I said. “I stopped at the store on the way home and got supper.”
I dumped the contents of the bag on the counter. Seven Tastykakes. Two Butterscotch Krimpets, a Coconut Junior, two Peanut Butter KandyKakes, Creme-filled Cupcakes, and a Chocolate Junior. Life doesn’t get much better than this. Tastykakes are just another of the many advantages of living in Jersey. They’re made in Philly and shipped to Trenton in all their fresh squishiness. I read once that 439,000 Butterscotch Krimpets are baked every day. And not a heck of a lot of them find their way to New Hampshire. All that snow and scenery and what good does it do you without Tastykakes?
I ate the Coconut Junior, a Butterscotch Krimpet, and a KandyKake. Rex had part of the Butterscotch Krimpet.
Things haven’t been going too great for me lately. In the past week I’ve lost three pairs of handcuffs, a car, and I’ve had a bag of snakes delivered to my door. On the other hand, things aren’t
all
bad. In fact, things could be a lot worse. I could be living in New Hampshire, where I would be forced to mail order Tastykakes.
It was close to twelve when I crawled into bed. The rain had stopped and the moon was shining between the broken cloud cover. My curtains were drawn, and my room was dark.
An old-fashioned fire escape attached to my bedroom window. The fire escape was good for catching a cool breeze on a hot night. It could be used to dry clothes, quarantine house plants with aphids, and chill beer when the weather turned cold. Unfortunately, it was also a place where bad things happened. Benito Ramirez had been shot to death on my fire escape. As it happens, it isn’t easy to climb up my fire escape, but it isn’t impossible, either.
I was laying in the dark, debating the merits of the Coconut Junior over the Butterscotch Krimpet, when I heard scraping sounds beyond the closed bedroom curtains. Someone was on my fire escape. I felt a shot of adrenaline burn into my heart and flash into my gut. I jumped out of bed, ran into the kitchen, and called the police. Then I took the gun out of the cookie jar. No bullets.
Damn.
Think, Stephanie—where did you put the bullets? There used to be some in the sugar bowl. Not anymore. The sugar bowl was empty. I rummaged through the junk drawer and came up with four bullets.I shoved them into my Smith & Wesson five-shot .38 and ran back into my bedroom.
I stood in the dark and listened. No more scraping sounds. My heart was pounding, and the gun was shaking in my hand. Get a grip, I told myself. It was probably a bird. An owl. They fly at night, right? Silly Stephanie, freaked out by an owl.
I crept to the window and listened again. Silence. I opened the curtain a fraction of an inch and peeked out.
Yikes!
There was a huge guy on my fire escape. I only saw him for an instant, but he looked like Benito Ramirez. How could that be? Ramirez was dead.
There was a lot of noise, and I realized I’d fired all four rounds through my window, into the guy on my fire escape.
Rats! This isn’t a good thing. First off, I might have killed someone. I
hate
when that happens. Second, I haven’t a clue if the guy had a gun, and the law frowns on shooting unarmed people. The law isn’t even all that fond of citizens shooting
armed
people. Even worse, my window was trashed.
I ripped the curtain aside, and pressed my nose to the window
The house was dark when we returned. The car was in the driveway. Jeanne Ellen was nowhere to be found.
“You sure it was Jeanne Ellen?” Lula asked.
“Positive. All the hair stood up on my arm, and I got an ice-cream headache.”
“Yep. That would be Jeanne Ellen.”
Lula dropped me at the door to my apartment building. “Anytime you want to do surveillance, you just let me know,” Lula said. “Surveillance is one of my favorite things.”
Rex was in his wheel when I came into the kitchen. He stopped running and looked at me, eyes bright.
“Good news, big guy,” I said. “I stopped at the store on the way home and got supper.”
I dumped the contents of the bag on the counter. Seven Tastykakes. Two Butterscotch Krimpets, a Coconut Junior, two Peanut Butter KandyKakes, Creme-filled Cupcakes, and a Chocolate Junior. Life doesn’t get much better than this. Tastykakes are just another of the many advantages of living in Jersey. They’re made in Philly and shipped to Trenton in all their fresh squishiness. I read once that 439,000 Butterscotch Krimpets are baked every day. And not a heck of a lot of them find their way to New Hampshire. All that snow and scenery and what good does it do you without Tastykakes?
I ate the Coconut Junior, a Butterscotch Krimpet, and a KandyKake. Rex had part of the Butterscotch Krimpet.
Things haven’t been going too great for me lately. In the past week I’ve lost three pairs of handcuffs, a car, and I’ve had a bag of snakes delivered to my door. On the other hand, things aren’t
all
bad. In fact, things could be a lot worse. I could be living in New Hampshire, where I would be forced to mail order Tastykakes.
It was close to twelve when I crawled into bed. The rain had stopped and the moon was shining between the broken cloud cover. My curtains were drawn, and my room was dark.
An old-fashioned fire escape attached to my bedroom window. The fire escape was good for catching a cool breeze on a hot night. It could be used to dry clothes, quarantine house plants with aphids, and chill beer when the weather turned cold. Unfortunately, it was also a place where bad things happened. Benito Ramirez had been shot to death on my fire escape. As it happens, it isn’t easy to climb up my fire escape, but it isn’t impossible, either.
I was laying in the dark, debating the merits of the Coconut Junior over the Butterscotch Krimpet, when I heard scraping sounds beyond the closed bedroom curtains. Someone was on my fire escape. I felt a shot of adrenaline burn into my heart and flash into my gut. I jumped out of bed, ran into the kitchen, and called the police. Then I took the gun out of the cookie jar. No bullets.
Damn.
Think, Stephanie—where did you put the bullets? There used to be some in the sugar bowl. Not anymore. The sugar bowl was empty. I rummaged through the junk drawer and came up with four bullets.I shoved them into my Smith & Wesson five-shot .38 and ran back into my bedroom.
I stood in the dark and listened. No more scraping sounds. My heart was pounding, and the gun was shaking in my hand. Get a grip, I told myself. It was probably a bird. An owl. They fly at night, right? Silly Stephanie, freaked out by an owl.
I crept to the window and listened again. Silence. I opened the curtain a fraction of an inch and peeked out.
Yikes!
There was a huge guy on my fire escape. I only saw him for an instant, but he looked like Benito Ramirez. How could that be? Ramirez was dead.
There was a lot of noise, and I realized I’d fired all four rounds through my window, into the guy on my fire escape.
Rats! This isn’t a good thing. First off, I might have killed someone. I
hate
when that happens. Second, I haven’t a clue if the guy had a gun, and the law frowns on shooting unarmed people. The law isn’t even all that fond of citizens shooting
armed
people. Even worse, my window was trashed.
I ripped the curtain aside, and pressed my nose to the window
Similar Books
