Beverly Connor - One Grave Too Many

“Jay never confided in you about who he liked to hang around with?” prodded Frank.

“I wasn’t around much lately to confide in. He liked to hunt and go camping. That kind of thing. Maybe his friends will talk to you.”

“If you think of anything, let me know,” said Frank.

A disembodied voice announced the end of visiting hours. Frank kissed Star on the cheek, and he and Diane left.

“You didn’t mention before about the height of the perp,” said Frank.

“It just dawned on me. I guess I’m slipping. I remember seeing the trajectory information on the autopsy report, and the lay of the land around the body suddenly dawned on me. Neither Star nor Dean is tall enough to have fired the shot that killed Jay.”

They left the hospital and Frank drove Diane back to her car at the museum. As she moved to open the door to get out, Frank leaned over and kissed her. “Let me take you to dinner tomorrow evening. They’ll be taking Star back to the jail. And, well, both of us need a break.”

“That sounds good. Let’s wait and see how things go at the pit tomorrow. Maybe we can order in a pizza and watch TV or something.”

He kissed her again. “That sounds good too-maybe better.”

Diane got in her car and drove to her apartment and pulled into a parking space in front of the entrance. She got out, feeling like she’d left something undone at the museum and wondering how she was going to explain to the board about this current museum project. Community relations, perhaps. The thought made her smile. As she approached the steps and took out her key, she was hit hard in the stomach.

Diane fell to the ground, gasping for air. She tried to rise to her hands and knees and simultaneously catch her breath. A blur of motion carrying a heavy shoe with it kicked her hard in the side. Lightning pain shot through her body and the force knocked her backward off the sidewalk. She fell helplessly into a roll down the grassy slope into the dark. She couldn’t stop the momentum of her fall, tumbling until she crashed into bushes. Pushing herself to her feet, she tried to yell out. Her voice wouldn’t come out of her throat. Desperation and fear rushed over her as the sound of muffled footfalls ran toward her in the dark. She was consumed by the overwhelmingly urgent need to get away, to run-anywhere.

Two steps, she stumbled and rolled farther down the hill. Footsteps coming faster toward her. She pulled herself to her feet again and started running, looking for a weapon, anything, but it was too dark to see. Running, trying to go faster; something caught her clothes from behind, jerked her backward. Her legs collapsed under her. A strong arm slipped around her throat. She pushed up, kicked the legs behind her and grabbed at the arm around her neck, pulling at thick gloved fingers, prying them loose. She heard a muffled cry of pain close to her ear as she pulled a finger back hard. She tried clawing at eyes, but got only a handful of wool. She held on to it, hoping to blind him. She kicked and stomped at the legs behind her, twisting and turning, trying to free herself. She hit her mark half a dozen times and heard suppressed yelps. She bit down hard on the arm and got punched in the back.

A car door slammed-twice. Witnesses. Help. She tried to scream for help but was pushed to the ground, her face held hard in the grass for five seconds. . ten. . Then he was off her after one last knee in her ribs, and running away.

She staggered to her feet, almost blinded by pain, but ran after him, watching him run past parked cars, down the street, and turn up another street before she could resist the pain no more.

Help. She needed to find help. She stayed in the light and made her way, stumbling, holding her arms tightly folded across her stomach, back to her apartment building.

She made it to the door. Climbing the stairs, trying to get to her apartment, she realized her keys were in her purse and it was gone. Damn that son of a bitch. Her cell phone was gone with it. She stepped, half stumbling, back down the stairs to the first floor and banged on the landlady’s door.

“I’m coming, I’m coming. Keep your pants on,” came a muffled voice inside. The door opened tentatively. “Oh, it’s you, Ms. Fallon. My, what happened?”

“Someone mugged me outside the building. My purse is gone, and my keys. I have an extra set. Would you let me in my apartment, please?”

“Why, sure.” She went away for a moment and came back with a master key. As she closed the door, Diane thought she saw the tail of a cat swishing. At least she solved one mystery.

“Someone attacked you here?” said the landlady. “I don’t like that one bit. I’ve asked the police to drive by once in a while, but do they listen to me? No, they get on the television and talk about what a good police department the mayor is putting together. Well, I don’t see it.” Diane followed her upstairs. “I’ve been afraid something like this would happen. I was telling Dorothy-she’s a friend at the beauty shop-I was telling her that it’s just a matter of time, with all the growing Rosewood’s been doing the past few years and all the young people moving in from Atlanta, that we’ll start having crime. I supported the mayor in the beginning when he was talking about us having a professional police force, but I haven’t seen it. I see the talk, and they sure take out the taxes. Do you want me to call the police?”

“I’ll call them from the hospital. I just need to get in my apartment and get my keys.”

“The hospital? You are hurt, aren’t you? Well, this just won’t do.” She opened Diane’s door and followed her in. “Do you want me to drive you? I can do that, or I can call my nephew.”

Diane found her keys and started back out the door. “No. But thank you. I can drive myself. I just need to make sure I don’t have any broken ribs.”

As she closed the door she heard movement in the apartment across from hers. She hurried down the stairs as quickly as the pain would allow. The last thing she wanted was to get into a conversation with Mrs. Odell about Marvin and his allergies. The landlady followed, streams of conversation still flowing from her. Diane thanked her again when she was able to get a word in. She made it to her car, got inside, locked the door and sat in the driver’s seat, trying to breathe normally. After a moment she put the key in the ignition. She knew she was hurt more than she wanted to believe.

As Diane drove the distance to the hospital, she wondered several times if she should have let the landlady drive her. But after what seemed like too long, the lights of the hospital finally came into sight. She left her car in the emergency room parking and made it to the intake desk. In gasps, she told the nurse what had happened. After giving her name, address and insurance carrier, Diane sat in the waiting room. She wanted to call Frank, but he had too much on him already. She didn’t want to bring him more worry.

She watched the other people waiting. A man with a bloody rag around his hand, a child with a cough, a woman with an ice pack on her ankle, others she couldn’t tell what was wrong. Some watched her too, and she wondered what she looked like. If she looked like she felt, she looked awful. Her back was killing her. She had some serious throbbing pains in her stomach and ribs.

Who attacked her? she wondered. A mugger? Or did it have to do with the bones she was excavating? She lay her head back against the wall.

She jerked awake and noticed some of the people had switched out with newcomers. The child was gone, and so was the man with the bleeding hand. She jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Diane Fallon? Come with me, please. Can you walk, or do you need a wheelchair?”