While Rae pondered her rack intently, a text came in from Dougal.

ARE YOU OK?

Like he ever cared before.

FNE. SHKN & FW CTS

Unlike Redfern, Dougal understood my texts perfectly.

GOOD. THEN GET YOUR ASS OVER TO MY HOUSE

I tossed my phone on the couch. Telling Dougal to fuck off would be a waste of time. He considered it a term of endearment.

Rae nibbled her lip and scrunched up her nose. She had overrun her sixty-second time limit, but Bernie seemed in no hurry to point this out to her, so I headed for the kitchen. It was noon; time for some refreshment. The cheese puffs were long gone, as were the potato chips, and blue tortilla chips. If I was going to be held hostage much longer, somebody was going to have to bring in provisions.

I came back with a can of ginger ale, two wine glasses, and a bottle of red. I tossed a bag of baby carrots at Rae so she could stop chewing her own lip. Bernie eyed the wine with his big, sad eyes, but I handed him the pop. I didn’t want his aim thrown off by alcohol if another attempt was made on my life. I could probably shoot straighter than him, but he had the gun and was paid to protect me.

My phone beeped. Another text from Dougal:

WHAT ABOUT RAE? I NEED SOMEBODY!!!

I called him. “What is your problem?”

“I need either you or Rae to come to my house.”

“Why?”

His voice was so low I could barely make out his words. “It’s complicated.”

“I’m going to hang up.”

“No, don’t! Okay. It’s Glory. She came over with Pan and is telling me personal things about her and Pinato.”

“Really? You mean, like really personal? As in what they do in bed?”

Bernie and Rae stopped contemplating the board and stared at me. I walked over to the window. The broken part was covered with cardboard and a cold wind rattled through the cracks.

Dougal breathed heavily into his phone. “No, that I could stand. Barely. She wants to talk about feelings. Apparently it’s my fault she couldn’t open up during our marriage, and she wants me to understand how different things are with the Italian stallion. He’s making a new woman of her.”

“What’s wrong with that? You were a crashing failure of a husband, everyone knows that. Why’s she bringing all that up now?”

“I’m not interested in her reasons. I have a deadline coming up and can’t listen to her yammer any more. One of you needs to get over here and take her away.”

“Glory speaks fluent French, doesn’t she? Maybe she can come up with phrases for your new novel. No. Wait, I know. Write a sex scene and ask her to transcribe it into French. That should keep her mind off her feelings.”

There was silence for a few seconds, and I took the opportunity to pour myself another glass of wine. Then, he found his voice. “Does that mean you’re not coming over? What about Rae?”

I hung up on him. If I parted with Rae, I’d have to feed Bernie. That would mean cooking. I glanced out the unbroken section of the window. Bernie looked up from the board and drawled, “Step away from the window.”

“There’s a truck in the driveway. Moffitt Glass.”

A knock on the door threw Bernie into guard-dog mode. Gun in hand, he peered through the peephole. Satisfied last night’s gunman hadn’t returned to finish me off, he let in two young men. According to the name tags on their coats, one was Brad, and the other was Ivan.

With dubious glances at Bernie’s gun and dishevelled uniform, and the food scraps from our long morning’s Scrabble games, Brad and Ivan set to work measuring the broken panes.

While they busied themselves, I set my glass aside, and closed my eyes. I must have dozed off. When I opened them again, the front window was intact, Brad and Ivan were gone, and Thea sat in Bernie’s place. I smelled cheese.

Thea got up and pulled the drapes across the window to close off the darkening afternoon. I picked up my cell to check my phone messages. Twelve messages, two from Dougal, begging for help. Glory had already consumed one full bottle of his best Riesling and was hinting about a second. Pan had made himself coffee and broken out the potato chips. It looked like they were going to make an evening of it. Worse, Glory had stopped referring to him as “the worm” and showed signs of nostalgia, dredging up horrible (according to him) memories of their honeymoon. Pan sat in a chair behind Glory and rolled his eyes at every intimate detail. Would somebody help him?

Not me. The other ten messages were in response to an email blitz I had launched earlier in the day requesting information on the latest shooting victim. They confirmed that Kelly Quantz was the unlucky winner.

And then there were five — me, Chico, Fang, the Weasel, and Mr. Archman. Six if you counted Mrs. Brickle. When my head stopped spinning from the possibilities, I was left with the usual impasse. I didn’t for a second consider Mrs. Brickle a suspect. Fang and Chico were out of the question, too. And it couldn’t be the Weasel, for all his weasely qualities. I had been married to him for eight years. I would have known if he was capable of homicide. And Mr. Archman? Three hundred pounds of gasping, lumbering sarcasm, waving a gun in one hand and an inhaler in the other, running through the streets, evading police? I couldn’t fathom it.

That left me. There was no other possibility. I was the killer.

The hell with it. I vowed to leave the whole investigative mess for Redfern and Tony to figure out. Rae brought in plates of homemade macaroni and cheese, with mushrooms, spinach, and red peppers mixed in. I poured another glass of wine, ignoring Thea’s frown of disapproval. What? People in the witness protection program weren’t allowed alcohol?

“So, why are you on guard duty?” I asked her. “Weren’t you working the crime scene this morning?”

“I was. The evidence is on its way to Toronto, and my report is done. There was nobody else available, and the Chief is worried about you. So, here I am.” She looked exhausted and not thrilled with her present lot in life.

“Did you find a .32 calibre shell casing at the scene?”

“You know I can’t tell you anything about that, Moonbeam. You’ll find out the same time the details are released to the public.”

“Right you are, Constable. Who’s going to be on night duty?” If it was Dwayne, I’d just save everyone a heap of trouble and shoot myself.

“The Chief. After the emergency Police Services Board meeting tonight, he’s going to swing by his cabin and pick up some clothes, then bunk in here with you till we find the killer …”

“Uh?”

“… so I suggest you lay off the wine and take a bubble bath. You look like you’ve been on a three-day bender. Maybe you could brush your hair for a start.”

“Did you say there was a Police Services Board meeting? Tonight? It’s Saturday.”

“I said it was an emergency meeting. And don’t bother to ask what it’s about. I don’t know. The mayor called it. Sergeant Pinato is attending, too.”

Oh boy. While I was in confessing mode with Redfern, I should have told him I went to the Weasel’s law office yesterday and really pissed him and the missus off. I picked at the Band-Aids on my hands and thought furiously. Was Redfern being called on the carpet? If so, it was my fault. Well, not totally my fault. I had been under the influence of outdated cold medication. That was the truth. But it wasn’t enough. I was a selfish bitch, and my actions could cost Redfern his job.

I poured more wine into my glass. Thea reached over and took the bottle away. Ha. The joke was on her. The bottle was empty. There was something Glory said, about a contract. Yeah, they couldn’t get rid of Redfern until his contract was up. Then, they could choose not to renew it. I wasn’t going to let that happen. The solution was obvious. Somehow I had to get rid of the Weasel before he could get rid of Redfern.