Free Sprayed Stiff by Laura Bradley

impatiens along the back wall. I didn’t think anything of her having visitors. It happens often. The cars were gone when I came on up to the house about nine. I rang the bell. No one answered. Mrs. Barrister was expecting me, and the door was unlocked, so I came on in.”
    “She was expecting you at nine in the evening?” Oh, no, not another matron having an affair with a gardener. I’d been through this not long ago with the other murder investigation I’d bumbled my way into. Just as I was about to form a husbands-whose-spouses-left-them-for-the-gardener support group, he chimed in, “It’s not what you think. Mrs. Barrister was helping me get my GED so I could go to college.”
    Wilma, a hands-on (figuratively, that is) philanthropist? Well, go figure.
    “But when I saw she was…so weird-looking and dead, I panicked. I had some trouble with the police a couple of years ago—not this kind of trouble, though. I ran in here. I don’t know how long I stayed in here, wondering what to do, when I heard Alexandra’s voice, and then yours. Please don’t turn me in.”
    So he had an even lamer story than I did. I should’ve been thrilled there was some dumb schmuck to take some of the pressure off me, but instead I felt sorry for him.
    The Shadow stepped out of the bathroom, and I felt even sorrier for him. His dark brown hair was months from its last cut; probably meant to hang one length at his chin, it now sat on his shoulders. He was a slim-built twentysomething, about five-foot-two and probably a hundred pounds soaking wet. I wondered if he could handle pulling a patch of crabgrass, much less give cops any real run for their revolvers. “What kind of police trouble are we talking about? Running red lights? A plethora of parking tickets?”
    “Not exactly.”
    “What…” I paused to fortify my patience. “…exactly?”
    He cleared his throat. “An assault charge. Assault with a deadly weapon.”
    Oops. I tried not to laugh because it seemed so preposterous. But then, three-year-old kids had been known to pull a trigger. Sobering up, I scanned for the bulge of a concealed gun butt under his Hanes tee. “Not a revolver, by chance?”
    “No.” He held up his hands. They were disproportionately large on his sticklike arms. “These. I broke an arm, a nose, and five fingers. Someone was after my girl.”
    I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing out loud this time. I wondered how surprised the Lothario had been when someone built like a midget scarecrow pummeled him good. “You know, your crime was one of spontaneous defense. The one against Wilma is definitely one of psychotic premeditation. Two different MOs entirely. The cops will question you and let you go. If I were you, I’d go turn myself in—be honest, tell them what you saw, and be done with it.”
    He hung his head. “You’re going to turn me in, aren’t you?”
    I cocked my head back toward my shackled hands. “Look, you and I are on the same side here. I don’t want to see you get in trouble, but, hey, what if I’m not the only one who knows you were here? The cops are going to come after you to question you because you work here. Having no alibi and a…history with the police won’t help you a bit. I say tell the truth now and you’ll be better off. And maybe you saw something important you don’t realize. Maybe your information will be what catches the killer.”
    “You’re right, I guess.” He sighed, rubbing those giant hands together.
    “Get your hands up!”
    The Shadow swung his head to the door, his small brown eyes filled with terror, and his hands flew into the air. I couldn’t see past the suit of armor to see who’d arrived, a logistic that Scythe doubtless planned when he put me down here. But if I didn’t recognize the voice, I’d recognize the breath anywhere.
    “Officer Manning,” I called past the metal elbow going up my nose, “this gentleman was about to turn himself in. I don’t think you need to