Page 43 of Concerted Chaos

“Nobody thinks so. The wife called the FBI because she’s terrified. Unfortunately, she doesn’t know who it was or how they contacted her husband. But at least the FBI has a lead to follow now.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” It’s an uncharitable thing to say, but Powell does seem rather excited. He immediately switches into his serious interview face, the one he uses when he’s talking about charity work or celebrity tragedies.

“No, Deedee, of course not. Somebody is dead. But isn’t it starting to sound like a mystery? We can solve it. We’ll call ourselves the Corbitt Siblings Detective Agency, and we’ll buy a hypo-allergenic dog and matching hats.”

“Yes, brilliant idea. And what happens when we’re inevitably captured by your enemies? This is real life, Powell. They’ll kill you. It’s not like the movies where the bad guys take twenty minutes to give every detail of their evil plan and the good guys save the day at the last minute. Mike’s not going to jump in front of a bullet for you.”

“He’d better. That’s what I pay him for.”

“No, you pay him to keep you from getting anywhere near the bullets in the first place.”

“True.” Powell sighs and then helps himself to some of my pasta. Gross, I don’t need his unwashed hands reaching into a meal I’m suddenly suspicious of anyway. I’m no longer entirely sure it contains mushrooms.

“You finish this.” I shove the plate at him, but he only picks at the food, though thankfully with a fork. Something must be wrong. “How are you holding up?” I finally ask.

“I’m scared,” he admits. “Someone killed my friend, and they may still be trying to kill me. I have no idea who they are, and I don’t know how to protect myself or even if another attack is going to happen. Mike wants me to stay inside all the time.”

“Our windows are bullet proof, right?” He’d paid a lot of money to re-do all the windows when we moved into this house. Back then he was worried about stalkers, because one of his movie star friends had been shot. That case ended up being a hoax; the movie star had been irresponsibly playing with a gun and made up the stalker story, but there was still a rush on sales of bullet proof glass among the rich and famous crowd.

“Yeah, but not bomb proof.”

“I think they’d try a different method next time. If there is a next time.” I don’t know why I’m giving false reassurances to him like this; I have no idea how mad bombers think. Also, they’ll try another way to kill you probably isn’t as comforting as I’d intended.

“I’m sure the investigation will turn something up. We’ll be fine.” Powell’s always been an optimist. That’s why he needs me around. Someone has to be a realist and occasionally remind him that everything doesn’t always work out in the end.

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