He Done Her Wrong: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Eight) (Toby Peters Mysteries) Read Free Page B

under my soaking jacket, leaped for him and slipped, just managing to grab his stockinged ankle before he reached the purse. He went off-balance, fell on his back, and kicked at me with a spiked heel. The heel caught me on top of the head and his voice, this time as Cary Grant, said, “That will be just about enough of that Mr. Peters, if you please.”
    He kicked me again, but I held on as he tried to back away by sliding in the grass on his behind.
    “I’m taking you in,” I said, receiving another kick that caught my neck.
    “We are definitely not friends,” he said, continuing Cary Grant.
    I punched at him as he backed away and hit his kneecap, causing as much damage to my knuckles as his knees. We both groaned.
    I thought I had him. Getting to my feet, I stood over him and reached down to grab his wrist as he arched his back and threw another kick. The kick missed but I slipped, backing away, and tumbled into the pool. When I came to the surface, he, she, or it was there to take a swipe at me with the high-heeled shoe. The swipe caught me over the ear, and I went down, gathering what was left of my strength to get out. I made it in about a thousand strokes with the rain trying to push me under. A soaked wool suit didn’t make it easier.
    As I touched the rim of the pool, something stung my hand. He had circled the pool and was pounding my hand with the shoe.
    In addition to my face, health, and reputation, I was about to lose my life. I let go and pushed back into the pool. Through the water I could see the figure, dripping, holding the shoe and drumming it into his palm, waiting for me to make my next try. Half drowned, I let myself drift back to the other side, knowing what would be waiting for me but having no choice. I managed to kick my own shoes off and drop my gun, which gave me a little hope for the far shore.
    I had always wanted to go out by way of a bullet, a beating, or, at worst, a free flight from the top of a medium-size building. This bad joke, however, seemed somewhat right for me. I waited for the next blow, but it never came.
    Instead I felt myself being lifted out of the water. Either I had died going across the pool, or the only person I knew in the world who was strong enough to lift a fully clothed, 160-pound soaking wet, dead weight out of a pool had turned up.
    “Toby, are you alive?” came the voice of Jeremy Butler in my ear. I had stationed the former pro wrestler and present poet at the front drive of the West house to keep the thief from getting away, but something had brought him to my rescue.
    “Alive,” I gasped. I opened my eyes and looked into his craggy face, enjoying the popping of raindrops off his bald head. “Purse. Money.”
    “I’ve got it,” he said.
    I looked toward the other side of the pool. The thief who had tried to kill me was still there.
    “I’m one of the engineer’s thumbs,” the thief shouted.
    Right, I thought. You’re an engineer’s thumb with a few screws loose in the locomotive.
    “Get him,” I said.
    Jeremy set me down gently, handed me the purse, and ran for the far end of the pool. I slumped down and watched, trying for air. By the time he had reached the corner, the voice of Lionel Barrymore had warned me that “you are on the list now, Peters. On the list.”
    He was gone into the rain and trees before Jeremy could get to him, but Jeremy followed him into the darkness. I lay there, letting the rain hit my face.
    From in front of the house the sound of a starting car engine crashed through the storm. I clutched the purse to my chest and turned my head. A half-dozen dripping Mae Wests were walking toward me. The thief, I thought, had multiplied and returned to finish me off. Then I saw Jeremy break through the sextet.
    “Got away,” he said.
    “I’ve got an itch that tells me I’d better find him or he’ll find me,” I gasped. Then I passed out, still clutching the white purse to my chest.
    The party was over when I woke up.