So …?
Best not to take any chances. These days, you couldn’t be too careful. Just last week a local man had been murdered. At least, that’s what Mavis had read. In two separate articles in the paper, written by Charlene Gillette’s snippy little reporter of a daughter. Even though she didn’t know the man who had been killed; he lived outside the city. Still within several miles. Close enough to be worrisome.
One had to be aware. And cautious. And armed. She walked to her bedside stand and opened the drawer. There, nestled on its matching pillow was her pink pocket pistol. Cute. Compact. But deadly.
And loaded.
Always.
She swept it up and clicked off the safety, then moved stealthily from the bedroom to the wide landing at the top of the staircase.
She squinted down the curved steps.
Nothing moved.
But did she feel a draft?
Had a window or a door been left open?
Every muscle in her body tensed. Every nerve ending came alive.
She glanced across the landing to the opposite wing of the house. Archer’s domain. But the double doors to his suite were closed tight.
And then something clattered to the marble floor below.
She didn’t hesitate, but started down the stairs.
The marble was imported. From a quarry in Italy. Rare. Gorgeous. Beyond expensive. If anyone was marring it, they would pay for it, and—
Wait!
Was that a shadow on the landing just above her?
But how—?
She spun quickly, pistol raised, and saw him.
A looming figure.
She gasped!
No!
He lunged.
Pushed her, big hands on her shoulders.
Her feet went out from under her.
She fired.
Just as the gun flew from her hand.
The shot went wild.
Tumbling backward, she saw the chandelier, with its dimmed lights, swirling above her, then she hit the stairs. Hard. Something cracked. She mewed in pain as she tried to catch herself, but momentum kept her rolling, over and over. Slamming into each step.
Her shoulder.
