Free Murder Shoots the Bull by Anne George Page B

Phizer. Or vice versa.”
    “The rescue squad’s not there. If one of them had had an accident or a heart attack or killed each other the rescue squad would be there.” Mary Alice sneezed again. “Damn.”
    “I’ll go call,” I said. I went into the kitchen and dialed Mitzi’s number. The line was busy. I waited a couple of minutes and tried again. No luck.
    “It’s busy,” I told the three in the dining room.
    “The last group’s leaving,” Fred announced. “They sure didn’t stay long.” The two women, I noticed, had pulled dining room chairs over and settled down for some serious snooping. Fred, while not going quite that far, had his eye glued to the opening in the drapery.
    “I’m going to go over and see what’s wrong,” I said. “Mitzi won’t think I’m butting in.”
    Might as well have been talking to the wall for all the attention I got.
    “There comes the second group leaving, too,” Sister said. “What do you think the tall one has in his hand, Fred? A gun?”
    “It’s a cell phone.”
    Un huh. And this was the man I’ve heard make snide remarks about the telescope in Sister’s sunroom. The sunroom that just happens to overlook all of Birmingham. As does Sister.
    I let myself out of the kitchen door. Woofer, asleep in his igloo, didn’t know anything was going on, bless his heart. The other dogs in the neighborhood knew, though. As did the other neighbors. Several front porch lights were on, and the Tripps, across the street, were standing on their steps, probably wondering whether or not they should be doing something to help.
    I was caught in the headlights of the patrol car as the policemen pulled into the driveway to turn around. Okay. So all the neighbors now knew I had an old pink seersucker robe that had been washed to the point of transparency. Behind me, someone (I suspected it was Sister, though it may have been Fred) rapped on the dining room window. Spotlighted, I resisted the urge to lift my middle finger in a salute. Instead, I clutched the robe around me and ran up Mitzi’s steps, wishing I’d taken the time to throw on some jeans and a shirt.
    The door was opened by a nice-looking young policeman who said, “Hi, come on in.” Beyond him, I could see Mitzi, Arthur, and another uniformed man sitting on the sofa. By the looks of the cups and plates on the coffee table, they were having a party.
    “I just want to see Mrs. Phizer a minute,” I said. No way I was going to join a party in this bathrobe. Not even an unusual party such as this one.
    Mitzi heard me. “Come in, Patricia Anne,” she called.
    “You come out here.” I stepped away from the lighted door.
    “What’s going on?” she asked, joining me on the porch.
    “What do you mean what’s going on? There were three police cars here. We didn’t know what had happened. I tried to call you, but your line was busy.”
    “I think one of the policemen was making a phone call.”She pointed toward her porch swing. “You want to sit down a minute?”
    “I want to know why three police cars were here.” We sat down and the swing creaked. “I was scared something had happened.” I pointed vaguely down the block, toward the Tripps on their steps, toward the lights, toward my dining room window. “We all were.”
    “Well, my goodness. I didn’t think of that.” Mitzi stood up and called to the Tripps. “Everything’s fine. Thank you.”
    They waved, turned, and went inside. Porch lights down the street were turned off. Even most of the dogs quit barking. I suspected that in my dining room the chairs were being put back under the table.
    “Isn’t this the nicest place in the world to live?” Mitzi asked.
    Well, of course it is if you’re as sweet as Mitzi Phizer and assume the neighbors are just concerned for your well-being.
    She sat back down, and the two of us began to swing slightly. These porch swings on a warm September night are one of the things that make this the nicest place in the