Danger Comes Home (Kelly O'Connell Mystery) (21 page)

“I have to go get the girls,” I said. “They must be terrified.”

“Oh, yeah,” Mr. Courtesy-of-the-Year said. “But you may not want them to listen to how their momma nearly killed a man.”

Those words cut like a knife. “I don’t,” I said, “but I won’t be back until they are reassured.” I kept my word, spending almost half an hour with them, talking quietly, assuring them we were all out of danger.

“You’ve said that before,” Maggie said resentfully. “I can’t believe you anymore.”

I drew her to me. “Mags, I will never, ever let anything happen to you.”

“But what about you and Mike? What would we do if something happened to you?”

“It won’t,” I said, “It’s all over.”

“I’ve heard that before,” she said, “It’s all over until the next time.”

Em interrupted, “Maggie, let’s not borrow trouble. Let’s just be glad Mike and Mom are okay, and we can go to sleep. I’m really, really tired.”

Dinner was long past when I tucked the girls into our bed and returned to the living room, where Buck was impatiently pacing. “Every ambulance-following reporter in town is out there. The major news channels. They’re going to demand a statement.”

“Give it to them,” I said. “I will not step foot out of that door, and I will not let any of them in here.”

I sat next to Mike on the couch, and he put an arm around me. “Kelly, Kelly, I’m so grateful I taught you to shoot—and you’re such a good marksman. Who knows what Ellerman’s plan really was? He was a desperate man.”

Somehow we got through Buck’s questioning, repeating each detail over and over. No, we hadn’t seen anyone lurking around the house. No, we had no reason to suspect we were in danger…no threats, no nothing. Life had just been getting back to normal.

Buck said he’d have to question Mona, and I asked him to wait until morning. It was now near midnight, and I didn’t think Jenny needed any more nighttime surprises. To my surprise, he agreed and, going one step farther, he said he’d take care of the news media and clear them out.

Wearily we prepared to close up the house, but there was a knock at the back door. Joe stood there. “I just now got into the driveway. When I came home, there were these emergency vehicles, and I was scared to death. Everyone okay?”

So of course he and Mike had a beer and I had another glass of wine—what would my head feel like in the morning?—and we told the whole story one more time.

“I feel like I brought all this on you,” Joe said. “Just because I had wrong ideas five years ago. I don’t know that I can ever make it up to you.”

Mike put an arm around his shoulders. “You already have, Joe, many times over. Go reassure Theresa. We’re going to bed.”

But we didn’t. Once everyone was gone and the house was quiet, I didn’t have the feeling of blessed relief that I expected. The shakes came back—violently. And I began to sob. Mike held me in his arms and rocked me like a baby, smoothing my hair and whispering, “Shhh, shhh. It’s all okay now.”

Finally I raised my head and looked at him. “It will never be okay. I may have killed a man tonight. And it’s the second time I’ve shot a man. How did I become someone I don’t like?”

“Kelly, listen to reason—the first time, you saved your own life; this time, you saved my life. You aren’t a killer. But you are a well-prepared citizen. As long as you keep getting into these scrapes, I’m grateful that you know how to shoot.”

“You got into this one,” I said a bit defensively.

“Well, both of us. But I just want us to settle down and be a normal family.”

“How can the girls feel normal when their mom has shot two men?”

“Time and sleep,” he said. “You need both.”

I was sure I’d never sleep, but we both slept hard, and in the morning I dimly heard the girls stirring about, making themselves breakfast. With relief, I realized they weren’t planning breakfast in bed for us. No cold eggs and pale, cold coffee. Finally, remembering the slumber party, I dragged myself out of bed, leaving Mike to sleep on, undisturbed.

Ellerman died the next day. Mike looked away from me when he told me, as though he couldn’t bear my reaction. But then, as I sobbed, he came to me and wrapped me in his arms.

“Did he have a wife? Family? Children?” I managed between gulps.

“Divorced. Grown children.”

“I should reach out to them. Write a letter. Do something. Flowers aren’t enough.”

“Kelly, you might just add to the pain. The department will see that it’s smoothed over as much as possible in the obituary and any news releases. You don’t have to do anything. No one expects that.”

In the end I did write a letter to the two grown children. I never heard from them and have no idea how my sympathy was received. We never told the girls, and they didn’t ask.

My dark thoughts didn’t go away—not for months, and perhaps they haven’t ever vanished. I hate that gun. I put it in its drawer, cautioned the girls again, and tried to forget about it. But too often I relived that shooting, both waking and dreaming. I couldn’t accept that I’d killed a man. I guess I thought I had a scarlet “K” for “Killer” on my chest—or my forehead.

Mona had her soft opening on a Sunday night late in July. By then, the restaurant had been thoroughly cleaned, every nook, cranny, and floor tile, which I personally know Mona scrubbed on her hands and knees with an old-fashioned brush and plenty of ammonia water. Freshly washed and starched curtains hung in the windows, and a large banner proclaimed the Grand Opening would be August first.

The kitchen had been professionally steam-cleaned and was stocked with disposable serving ware, the fridge and freezer filled with Nathan’s hot dogs, and the prep counter refrigerated compartments full of condiments. A menu hung behind the counter, and Mona printed smaller takeout menus that people could take with them. She emphasized telephone orders would be accepted and carryout was a major option.

Of course, we wouldn’t settle for takeout. We brought beer, wine, and lawn chairs, knowing how small Bun Appetit was. I had gotten the girls toques and white aprons. Mona had promised they could “help” that day but she stressed such helping would not be a regular thing. Sure, she’d done it when she was young but these days she said kids in the kitchen were a red flag to food inspectors and generally a jinx on a restaurant. Maggie was not at all discouraged by that since she figured it meant Jenny would spend more time at our house.

So we gathered—Mike, the girls and me; Anthony and his boys; Joe and Theresa, who were still in our guest apartment but looking for a place of their own; Keisha and José; Mom and Otto; Claire and Liz, with Megan and Brandon appearing later. And, wonder of wonders, Lorna McDavid. Eighteen of us couldn’t fit inside comfortably, so we took turns ordering and had a picnic on the sidewalk. Several cafes on Magnolia have sidewalk eating, and Mona promised to consider it. There was space next to the building for maybe four tables.

****

By the time of this party, Lorna McDavid had twice been to Sunday dinners at our house and, to my surprise, seemed to enjoy herself—well, as much as she’d let anyone see. Yes, she was still imperious, but she did change her usual kimono for tailored khaki pants and a patterned shirt, which was vaguely Oriental. Somehow she still managed to sweep into the room, as if taking command—with Keisha trailing behind her. The idea of Keisha trailing behind anyone made me laugh.

Keisha was not as amused as she unloaded a small bag containing a bottle of single-malt Scotch, a shot glass, a highball glass that was clearly of fine quality, and a small pillow. When I asked about the pillow, she said, “Her Highness likes to put it at her back when she sits. You’d think I was the Queens’ damned hand maiden or whatever they called them.” But her eyes were laughing, and I could see she was glad to have “the Queen” join us.

Ms. Lorna, as we all decided to call her, settled on the couch with her glass of single malt Scotch—neat, thank you—and let Keisha bring her dinner. One night it was big, juicy hamburgers, which she cut into dainty fourths and ate with a knife and fork. Lorna McDavid took a shine to my girls. Of course, I think they’re irresistible, but I hardly expected her to find them that way. They were polite but wary until she asked if they wanted to hear tales of Hollywood. Shyly at first and then with more enthusiasm, they accepted. She spun tales of stars they’d never heard of—Clark Gable, Gregory Peck, all the leading men of her day. But she also managed to paint a picture of a wonderful world of stage sets and beautiful costumes and old-style western shoot-outs and daring stunt men and damsels in distress. And when she began to talk about The Wizard of Oz, the girls were enthralled. They’d seen the original on TV, of course.

After that first night, Maggie said, “I don’t think she’s crazy. She’s sort of cool. She’s got cool stories,” and Em echoed, “Well, maybe she’s still a bit peculiar, but I like her.”

****

So there we were on the sidewalk in front of Bun Appetit with Lorna McDavid ensconced in a lawn chair, pillow behind her back, staring tentatively at a German hot dog. “Sauerkraut? Is it like a bratwurst?” she asked.

“Somewhat,” I said. “If you don’t like it, we can get you another version.” There was certainly an array to pick from. Mona had expanded her offerings to include an Asian dog with spicy red kimchi and fresh cilantro, another with coleslaw and hot peppers, and in addition to the Coney Island traditional dog, she’d added one with red or green New Mexico chili—a far different dish than our TexMex chili. The muffaletta stayed on the menu, but with my aversion to olives, I avoided it. The southern-style featured black-eyed peas, corn, and pickled jalapeño. I chose the French dog with ham, brie, and béarnaise sauce, with its flavors of chervil, tarragon, vinegar, and peppercorns—and decided the hot dog was superfluous, though I never would have told Mona that.

“That was quite good,” Ms. Lorna said, wiping her hands on a napkin and brushing the crumbs off her pants. “I believe I’d like to try that Asian one now. Reminds me of Peking, you know.” And without batting an eye, she downed a hot dog so spicy it would have flattened me and asked if there was any Oriental beer. She had to settle for Mexican.

We finished the evening by all crowding into the restaurant and raising a rousing toast to the success of Bun Appetit. For just a moment there, Mona Wilson looked truly beautiful, and Jenny was the happiest child on earth.

Whatever had happened, it was all worth it to get to this point—and maybe my nightmares would go away.

THE END

ABOUT JUDY ALTER

An award-winning novelist, Judy Alter is the author of three earlier books in the Kelly O’Connell Mysteries series:
Skeleton in a Dead Space, No Neighborhood for Old Women,
and
Trouble in a Big Box.
With
Murder at the Blue Plate Café,
she moved from inner city Fort Worth to small-town East Texas to create a new set of characters in a setting modeled after a restaurant that was for years one of her family’s favorites. But
Danger Comes Home
finds her back with Kelly O’Connell in Fort Worth’s Historic Fairmont District.

Before turning her attention to mystery, Judy wrote fiction and nonfiction, mostly about women of the American West, for adults and young-adult readers. Her work has been recognized with awards from the Western Writers of America, the Texas Institute of Letters, and the National Cowboy Museum and Hall of Fame. She has been honored with the Owen Wister Award for Lifetime Achievement by WWA and inducted into the Texas Literary Hall of Fame at the Fort Worth Public Library.

Judy is retired after almost 30 years with TCU Press, 20 of them as director. She holds a Ph.D. in English from TCU and is the mother of four grown children and the grandmother of seven.

Follow Judy at
www.judyalter.com
or her two blogs at
http://www.judys-stew.blogspot.com
or
potluckwithjudy.blogspot.com
.

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Danger Comes Home,

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