Free Dead Certain by Mariah Stewart Page A

her voice to a stage whisper—“since the head Neanderthal just seated himself a few minutes ago four tables behind you.”
    He swiveled his head around, then wide-eyed, turned back to Amanda.
    “Is that him there with the tattooed lady?”
    Amanda nodded.
    “Oh, where are the fashion police when you need them?” He rolled his eyes. “Gorgeous eyes and hair to dye for—get it, hair to dye for?—but those tattoos . . . those clothes.” He groaned. “Everything about her just screams biker chick.”
    Amanda giggled and sipped her iced tea. “Enough, Clark . . .”
    “Oh, not by a long shot. I haven’t had this much fun in days.”
    “Forget it. She’s with the chief of police and she’s—”
    “He should charge her with assault on the sensibilities. Dressing with intent to offend.”
    “Enough. You are wicked.” She laughed.
    “Derek was wickeder. He’d be unmerciful if he were here.” His smile faded as he picked up the check the waitress had left on the table. He barely glanced at it. “Ready?”
    “Yes, I’m ready.” They stood in unison. Clark took her arm as they walked to the cash register by the door.
    “Did you want to stop by and say hey to the chief?” he asked as he paid the bill.
    “No.” She shook her head and opened the door, held it for him while he put his wallet away. “I have the feeling I’ll be seeing him soon enough as it is.”
    She couldn’t have imagined just how soon that would be.
             
    The sun was out in full when she arrived home. Feeling sluggish from having eaten an unusually full meal in the middle of the day, Amanda decided the best remedy would be physical activity. She’d left the backyard half-mowed the previous evening when she’d turned off the mower and gone into the house for a bottle of water and stopped to check the answering machine. The two hang-up calls had spooked her. While she was debating what to do about them, she’d gotten a call from Iona, and spent the best part of an hour sitting on the back porch, chatting on the phone. By the time they’d hung up, it was dark, and the last thing she wanted was to be outside in the dark, alone, armed with nothing more than an old lawn mower.
    On her way home from the shop tomorrow, she’d stop at the gun club and head out to the firing range for some practice. It had been two weeks since she’d dug out her .38 and shot off a few rounds. She liked to keep in practice, needed to feel sharp when it came to her handgun. She needed to know that if she had to use it, she could hit her mark. She hadn’t come this far to do anything but.
    Thinking about the gun club seemed to nag at her. . . .
    She rolled up the sleeves of her cotton shirt and started the lawn mower. By the time she finished the back section of grass she was in a serious sweat. She shed the shirt and tossed it onto the stone bench, then set out to finish the job in her tank top.
    The feeling that she was being watched began to creep over her as she started on the strip of grass on the side of the house that linked the front and back yards, and the sensation grew stronger as she returned to the back and turned off the mower. The slamming of a car door out near the street drew her attention and she walked to the end of the drive in time to see Chief Mercer standing near the mailbox and studying the house.
    Never one to wait for trouble, she walked down to meet him. She wondered how he’d managed to slip the tattooed wonder as quickly as he had.
    “Hi,” he called when he saw her.
    “I’m not supposed to talk to you.” She stopped at the sidewalk and folded her arms over her chest.
    “That the advice of your lawyer, or your brother?”
    “My brother.” She didn’t have a lawyer yet, but he didn’t need to know that.
    He appeared to be debating with himself. Finally, he asked her, “Do you own a gun, Ms. Crosby?”
    “Yes.” She nodded. It was no secret. Half the people in town knew she had taken lessons at the firing