Shots in the Dark Read Free Page B

tears flooded my eyes. I glanced around to see if anyone was in earshot, and then leaned in closer. “Gary died because I didn’t get here in time to get that letter. I need to get to the bottom of this. Please, help me, Trudy.”
    A standoff ensued as Trudy eyed me with indecision. “You swear you’re not working with the cops?” she said after several long seconds.
    â€œI swear.” I held up one hand to affirm my words. Then I positioned both hands so that it looked like I was praying, feeling a glimmer of hope. “Please,” I begged.
    She sighed, looked around the same way I had a moment ago, and then in a low voice she said, “I did get something. A large envelope was propped up against my door when I went to leave for work last Sunday.” The taste of her voice at this point was smooth and mellow, like a light-roast coffee. I felt certain she was being honest with me now.
    â€œYou mean at your home?”
    She nodded.
    â€œWhat did it look like?”
    â€œIt was a plain manila envelope with my name written on it in big block letters. No address or anything. Inside the outer envelope was a note and another, smaller envelope, one of those number ten business-size things. The second envelope didn’t have anything written on it.”
    â€œThe note was instructions to you, yes?”
    She nodded, and something about her expression told me she was holding something back. I took a stab at what it might be.
    â€œThere was money in the envelope, too, right? Money for you?”
    She hesitated a second or two before nodding.
    â€œThat’s fine,” I said, smiling. “I have no interest in the money.”
    Her shoulders relaxed.
    â€œWhat were your instructions?”
    â€œThe note said I was supposed to hand the envelope over to a woman named Mackenzie Dalton if she came asking for it. If you didn’t show by eight o’clock Wednesday night, I was supposed to take the envelope home and burn it in my fireplace without opening it.”
    â€œAnd did you do that?” I asked, praying she hadn’t.
    To my chagrin, she nodded. “I was curious about it,” she admitted. “I thought maybe it was some kind of secret note between lovers involved in a tryst or something.” She scoffed and shook her head. “I’m a hopeless romantic at times. But then I started thinking it might be something darker, like drugs, or even a poison of some sort. What a perfect way to murder someone, right?” she said with a half grin. Then she seemed to realize how inappropriate that comment might be, and she winced. “Sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”
    â€œIt’s okay,” I said with a little smile. I reached over and patted her arm as extra reassurance. “Can you tell me anything else about the outer envelope? Or the handwriting? Was there anything distinctive about any of it?”
    She thought a moment but shook her head. “The envelopes were the same kind you can buy at any grocery or office supply store. And the writing was block printing . . . with a felt-tipped marker, I think. My name was on the outer envelope, and the instructions in the note were written out in the same block letters.”
    â€œDid it have both your first and last name on it?”
    She nodded, looking a little worried. I assumed she was just now realizing the implications this had. Someone was dead because of that letter, and whoever had written it and sent it knew her full name and address.
    â€œAnything else?” I asked.
    She shook her head, still looking concerned. Her gaze cast anxiously about, as if she thought someone might be lurking nearby, ready to kill us both. When she finally looked back at me, she said, “I’m sorry about your friend.” Her voice tasted sincere.
    â€œThank you.”
    Then she finally voiced her fears. “Am I in any kind of trouble or danger with this thing?”
    I didn’t know if she was