Chapter Eight

I left my car parked on Broadway and hiked up the steep hill to the rear of Joe's property. If Miss Angel was lurking about, I didn't want her to see me coming. I wanted to take her by surprise like she did me the day before.

Before checking out the house, I decided to have a look inside the garage. I found two empty parking stalls. But that was no guarantee Angel Adams wasn't inside the house. And just because I knew most of Joe's neighbors, didn't mean one of them wouldn't find delight in calling the police to report a peeping Tom if I started peering in the house windows.

I took my chances anyway. Or perhaps, in hopes someone would call the police. At least they might be able to get the aloof Angel to fess up to the whereabouts of Joe.

There was no movement inside the house from either of the two rear windows I looked through. While I was there, I thought I'd give the porch door a try. Locked. So were all the other doors I tried.

On the west side of the house, I noticed one of the windows had a screen in it. All I had to do was figure out how to climb up to it. I started looking around for something sturdy enough to stand on when I saw old man Mr. Anderson. He was pretending to be filling the bird-feeder in his front yard, but it was as plain as day he was watching me.

I surprised him, as intended, when I waved and called over a good morning. Then I proceeded in my search as if I had every right to be doing what I was doing.

The only thing I saw that looked tall enough for me to be able to reach the window, was a tin bucket I found on the back porch. Let's hope it can withstand the weight of me, crossed my mind as I positioned it under the window and stepped aboard. I managed to remove the screen without a hitch. It surprised and pleased me that I had enough upper body strength to pull myself up the wall of bricks and rest my fanny on the window ledge.

It was when I was maneuvering myself around so I could slip down inside that I felt it.

The backside of my jeans had caught on something. As I twisted around to try and free myself, the ripping sound was overshadowed by the bang of an upstairs door closing. A decision had to be made without delay. I got a quick glimpse of Mr. Anderson before he disappeared inside his house. I don't know if it was knowing he wouldn't see me running from the scene, or if the light footsteps on the stairs made up my mind to take a flying leap to the ground.

I missed the bucket all right, but my right foot landed in a chipmunk hole. I might have imagined the crunch I heard when my ankle turned sideways, but the excruciating pain I felt was real enough as I hobbled down the hill to my car.

You messed up things real good this time, old gal, I told myself as I attempted to drive home. I had my lower body shifted to the right on my seat so I could use my left foot on the gas and brake pedals. I was having trouble believing the stupid stunt I had just pulled. Now how was I going to deliver papers? How was I going to shed pounds sitting on my fanny? And how was I going to track down Joe and find Ethel's killer?

My mind kept repeating Mitch's name in answer to that last question. But I refused to listen. I'd find the answers without him. No sprained ankle was going to stand in the way of Fay Cunningham.