Once we were seated in the
restaurant, and had ordered lunch, I think what happened finally hit Ricky. He shivered,
saying in a shaky voice, "Not an auspicious start to my moving in."
I reached over to grip his
hand. "Look at it this way. It could have happened if you'd only come by
to visit and we'd decided to go to lunch, which we often do."
"True, I suppose,"
he didn't look convinced. "Do you think I'm right? That it had something
to do with the murder?"
"A fairly logical
conclusion. I'm not involved in any case that someone might want to scare me
away from. And last I heard, clients don't shoot their accountants."
Ricky chuckled. A sign he
was a bit less afraid. "Only in their dreams." Or not. He took a deep
breath, letting it out slowly. "Thank God they missed us."
"That or they didn't
intend to hit us in the first place. It could have been a warning. Probably was
since it's the middle of the day. They waited until there wasn't anyone close
by, and my suspicion is they were driving, not walking. Pulling out a gun in
broad daylight would be fairly obvious."
"So would a couple of
dead bodies," Ricky muttered. "Whoever it was, were they trying to
warn you off of having anything more to do with the Engel case?"
"That would be my
guess."
"Then how about we take
a long vacation to the Bahamas
until Detective Sharp finds her killer?"
"The Bahamas?" I said, playing
along to help him calm down, if that was possible.
"First place that came
to mind." He smiled weakly. "Hell, I'd settle for Alaska."
"Not me, thanks."
Our food arrived just then.
Ricky looked at his sandwich as if it was the last thing in the world he wanted,
but began to eat when I suggested we needed energy if we were going to get the
truck unloaded before midnight. He chuckled at that, pointing out it was barely
past one so we'd better be done well before then.
We actually finished getting
his things into the house by five. I'll admit that every time a car drove by I
flinched, waiting for another gunshot. Ricky was just as tense, spending as
much time looking around when we were outside as he did paying attention to
what he was getting from the truck.
By the time we finished, he
was a total bundle of nerves again, so I broke out a bottle of Scotch I'd been
saving for a special occasion. That seemed to help—for both of us actually. We
got his clothes put away and found a spot in my study—as I pretentiously called
it—for the antique desk that had belonged to his grandfather. The boxes of
books ended up on the floor in front of the bookcases in the living room since
neither of us had the energy, or the desire, to deal with them at the moment. Hell,
we barely had the energy to return the truck. But we did.
"Pizza?" I asked when
we got home, figuring it was time to eat again, given that it was going on
eight.
"Does it go with
Scotch?" he inquired, finding his empty glass that he'd left on the
kitchen counter.
"Babe, pizza goes with
anything, and so does Scotch, so that would be a yes."
"Then an extra large
with everything."
"You got it. I think
I'll have the same."
"Uh-huh. Even you
couldn't eat a whole one by yourself."
"Bet me?"
"Umm. No?" He
poured himself another drink while I ordered pizza. Just one despite our
kidding around.
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