Chapter Twelve

I really didn't expect my soft taps on Joe's back porch door to be answered. But the door slid open and I was looking up into doll-eyes.

"Joe has gone out of town," I was told in the same flat, emotionless tone I was growing accustomed to.

"Well where'd he go? And when's he coming back?"

An impatient release of breath came from her before her, "I really do not know."

The door was sliding shut, but it stopped on my sneaker I shoved inside.

"I think you do," I told her, holding my breath she wouldn't put pressure on the door. On my sore foot.

"If you don't believe me, perhaps you'd like to search the house again."

"Perhaps I would. But you know what, I think I'll leave that for the police."

When her eyes narrowed, I knew I had her worried. I also had a feeling she might be more willing to answer my questions now. "You want to tell me now where Joe is? Or will it be the police?"

"I can't tell what I do not know. But if you feel it necessary to bring the police, then that's what you should do."

I did not expect her cool response, and was still too stunned to react quickly enough before the door crashed into my foot. I have no idea what kept me from screaming out in pain.

When she pulled the door in, I yanked my foot back a split second before it took another smack when the door banged shut. There were stars in front of me. Or at least, little flecks of light before the black curtain started to come down. I vaguely remember latching onto the porch railing before I sank all the way down on my knees. Try as I might, my knees touched wood before I was able to pull myself back up. I was afraid to put pressure on my foot, but I was more fearful of having my back to the pair of eyes I sensed behind me.

With the help of the railing, I hopped off the porch. That's when I knew I was in trouble. I am the first to admit I was not born blessed with coordination. To try and hop several yards across the backyard to my car would be disastrous, which left me with the option of putting my foot down and dragging it along with me.

There was the other choice. But this old gal refused to drop down on all fours and crawl to my destination. I was back to driving with my body shifted to the right on my seat so I could use my left foot on the gas and brake pedals.

My sneaker was off and I had a clear view of the swelling around my ankle. As I brought the car to a stop at the end of Popular Avenue, I took a moment to debate where I should go. The most sensible thing to do was drive straight to the hospital emergency room so I could have the ugly looking foot X-rayed. Since I suffered breaks numerous times before, I was ninety-nine percent certain the diagnose would be a sprain. Stay off the foot and ice it down several times a day for the next several, is what the doctor on duty would tell me.

After Doctor Cunningham finished her own analysis, it came time to eliminate one of the other two places I considered going. I knew I should go home and rest the foot. And I may have, if my stomach hadn't started growling for food.

The local gossip corner is where I drove to. Quieting my stomach probably carried more weight in this decision than the need to satisfy the curiosity that had been gnawing away at me.

With a little luck though, one of the state troopers who frequent the restaurant would be taking his lunch break, and I'd use the opportunity to pick his brain about the murder investigation.