Free Hot Enough to Kill by Paula Boyd

anything. If there's a dollar to be made, he'll make two."
    I sipped on my second soda. "Mayor Bennett never struck me as sharp enough to figure something like this out. That's a semi-complicated scheme."
    "He wasn't a complete idiot, Jolene," Lucille said, not exactly offended, just commanding. "But no, I never thought any of it was his idea in the first place."
    "So whose was it?" I asked, the small-town intrigue digging a little deeper into my resolve not to be interested.
    Lucille shook her head. "I have no idea. He didn't really have any friends. Acquaintances yes, but no real friends. Have you talked to the mayor pro tem?" she asked, nodding at Jerry. "BigJohn appointed him, but they never did get along. I think Giff wanted to be mayor himself." She paused. "I guess he is mayor now. Hmmm."
    Jerry flipped through his notes. "That would be Gifford Geller. Yes, he would be acting as mayor now. I haven't spoken with him yet, but Deputy Harper did yesterday."
    I marveled at Jerry's tact. He didn't even glance at Lucille when he spoke of the deputy, who we all knew was the first one who Lucille had accosted.
    "Well, Miz Jackson," Jerry said. "You've been very helpful today."
    Lucille had the good grace to blush, but not enough to apologize for her behavior yesterday--or explain her generous cooperation today. "I'm just glad to have been able to help. Now, if you've nothing further, I'd like to be excused so I can powder my nose." She pushed back from the table and stood.
    Crash, chink, clatter, scream, thump.
    Everything seemed to happen at once. The bay window behind Lucille exploded, spraying glass across the kitchen. She shrieked, grabbed her arm and fell forward against the table. I jumped up and jerked her down behind the kitchen cabinets. Hot air gushed in from the broken window.
    I heard another thump and looked back to where Jerry had been sitting at the far end of the table. He wasn't there, and neither was the chair. Below the edge of the tablecloth, I could see the overturned chair and Jerry's legs. He wasn't moving. "Jerry?" I said, scrambling toward him. "Oh, God, no."
    He was lying on his side on the floor. Dark stains spread across his chest and trickled down onto the linoleum in rhythmic bursts.
    "Jerry? Are you okay? Jerry?"
    Oh, God, was he still alive, he had to be, had to be okay. Panic clawed at my chest, but I refused to let it take over. I leaned toward Jerry and tried to focus on the basics of first aid. The first rule was to stay calm and I was trying, God was I trying. Okay, do the ABCs--airway, breathing, circulation.
    I touched Jerry's chin, ready to check for airway obstructions and he moaned a little. "Jerry?"
    His eyelids fluttered but didn't open. "Jo?" he said, his voice fading in a wheeze.
    Okay, he could breath, but the airway didn't sound too good, and circulation was going downhill rapidly. The pulsing blood meant arterial damage. He needed help fast. "Jerry, listen to me. You're going to be all right. I'm here and I'm going to help you. Jerry, can you hear me?"
He didn't answer. A very bad sign.
"Stop the bleeding," I muttered. "Need something...."
Glass covered the floor so I stood into a crouch and hurried to the cabinets.
    Lucille was sitting on the floor where I'd left her, still staring blankly. She was in shock, and her arm was covered in blood. I scrambled to the drawer that held the dish towels and grabbed them all. She had a gouge in her arm that looked to be about three or four inches long and deep enough to need stitches--a lot of them. I quickly wrapped a towel over the wound and tied it as best I could. "Mother, listen to me. We've got to help Jerry. Go call nine-one-one."
    She didn't answer, and from the paleness of her face and the glaze in her eyes, I doubted she could stand much less anything else. "Okay, Mother, listen, we need to move over by Jerry," I said, shoving as much glass out of the way as I could with my hand.
    She blinked a few times and took a few ragged