Double Shot by Diane Mott Davidson Page A

hairline, gray hair combed straight back, and one of those thin-skinned, skeletal faces, wanted to talk to me. I caught my breath and looked out the windshield. He’d left the door to the Chevy sedan open.
“Mrs. Korman?” he called.
I lowered the window. “Excuse me?”
“Dad!” Arch was calling. “Dad! Open the door!”
“Mrs. Korman, do you have my money?” the man demanded. He wore a plaid cotton shirt, brown polyester pants, and worn, mud-colored leather shoes. Definitely not a country-club type.
“I’m sorry, I —“ I began.
“Please tell me you have my money, Mrs. Korman,” the man pleaded. “I was here when I was supposed to be.”
The van’s side door slid open. The clubs clanked ferociously as Arch threw them in the back. He banged the door closed, then opened the passenger door and hopped back into the front seat.
“Dad left without me! Let’s go!”
“Look,” I said to the man, “who are you? What money? Why do you think I’m supposed to give you money?”
But Skeleton Face had had enough. He was trotting back to the sedan.
“Colorado GPG 521, blue Chevy Nova,” I said under my breath. Then I dug into my purse, nabbed a ballpoint and an index card, and wrote it down. Had John Richard gotten himself into debt? Was this guy a creditor?
“Mom, he’s not here. I knocked and knocked. Come on, let’s split.”
I squinted up at the Tudor. I reached for the cell and punched in the numbers for Dr. Hiding-in-the-House. No response, but I didn’t expect there to be, since my caller ID came up as restricted. I left a message, saying that if John Richard wanted to see his son, he’d better get his butt out here. Nothing happened.
As a breeze swirled the dust in the street, I wondered what to do. Go home, and risk an angry call from the Jerks’ lawyer? Or bang on the door myself and run the hazard of a very unpleasant encounter, possibly as bad as, or worse than, the attack that morning?
I glanced at the glove compartment, but just as quickly dismissed the idea of brandishing a firearm. What if he startled me and the thirty-eight again went off accidentally?
I said, “Get your clubs, Arch. Let’s try one more time.”
As Arch trudged around to get his golf bag. I reached under the van seat and took out the Swiss Army knife I kept under there. I opened it, slipped it into the pocket of the caterer’s apron I was still wearing, and climbed up the front steps with Arch. We knocked and yelled for John Richard. I didn’t doubt that he was watching to see if his creditor was truly gone, and not returning.
“Wait here,” I said. “I’ll check the garage and see if the Audi’s inside.” I gripped the knife and hobbled back down the steps. John Richard’s geraniums and delphiniums were lush and full, I noted, no doubt from illegal watering. Still limping slightly, I rounded the house to the three-car garage.
Two bays were closed; the third, nearest to the back door, was partially open. Still holding the knife handle, I ducked down to peer into the open space. I saw myself staring at my reflection in the TT’s chrome. So he was home, the bastard.
My aching back and legs made it difficult to tuck myself underneath the garage door. Plus, I had to come up with a plan. My cell phone was in my other apron pocket, in case I needed it.
The garage smelled of grease, exhaust, and something else . . . .What? My footsteps gritted over the concrete as I eased around the back of the Audi. As soon as I got to the inside of the door to the house, I vowed, I’d call Marla. I wouldn’t go in, but I’d tell her I did need her to meet me over here and force the Jerk to open up, just in case he decided to —
I stopped and stared in disbelief. I couldn’t move, couldn’t process what I was seeing. And yet there it was. There he was. John Richard, with his head skewed at a crazy angle, his body sprawled across the front seat of his car. His chest was covered with blood. He was a mess. And he was dead.

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