Free Angel With a Bullet by M. C. Grant

coffee table to set down a wooden tray. On the tray is a stoneware teapot, two large mugs, a bowl of sugar, a little container of milk, and a plate of chocolate-covered cookies.
    â€œRabbie?” I ask.
    â€œYou were just admiring him.” She indicates the porcelain bust. “Rabbie Burns. He’s a grand poet. Bit of a lad, they say, but better that than a poofter like most of the English lot.”
    I smile across at her, not sure what she is talking about, as she busily fusses with the teapot to make sure everything is just right. Her bony hands look frail, the skin paper thin, and yet she moves around without a hint of arthritic pain. I wonder what her secret is.
    She pours the tea.
    â€œBet you drive the lads wild with that hair of yours, don’t you?” She chuckles. “When I was a lass, my hair was nearly as bright, like the sun it was. Oh, the boys used to fight over me something rotten.” She giggles. “I was thinking I should dye it again. Redheads really shouldn’t go gray, should we?”
    I shake my head, which makes her smile.
    â€œRight, that’s settled. I’ll make an appointment and get it done before my son’s big do. Won’t he be shocked? Now, how do you take your tea?”
    â€œJust cream, thanks, Mrs. Stewart.”
    â€œOch, call me Millie.”
    I sip the tea, smile gratefully, and accept a chocolate cookie. I notice Millie doesn’t take one herself. I dunk the cookie into my tea, lick the melted chocolate off the crispy base, and then pop the whole thing into my mouth. Delicious.
    I accept another one.
    Millie smiles, sipping her own tea, as she watches me.
    After a few sips, she says, “Now, what do you want to ask me about?”
    â€œDiego Chino.”
    Her eyes turn sad. “Such a nice young man,” she says softly. “And talented too. He can’t have been much older than you, dear. Such a waste.”
    â€œDid you notice if he had any visitors last night?”
    â€œNo, I was watching ma shows on the TV. The Mystery channel has been showing some great reruns lately: Wire in the Blood with Robson Green, that scruffy Inspector Rebus, and Inspectors Morse and Frost, of course. Do you like them?”
    â€œI don’t watch much TV anymore. Had my fill when I was younger.”
    â€œOch, they say it’ll rot your brain, but I love a good mystery. Coronation Street , too, though it’s English. But it’s the North, so that’s OK. You watch Corrie ?”
    I shake my head.
    â€œIt’s very good,” she continues. “My son says I’m addicted, but that’s ridiculous. A week just wouldn’t be complete without ma shows.”
    â€œBut you heard the gunshot?” I ask in an attempt to get back on track.
    â€œAye, I did. There I was in front of the TV, feet up, wee cup of tea, enjoying myself, like you do, when I heard this awful clatter upstairs. It was as if the four horsemen had arrived and discovered no beer in the fridge. Well, I thought to myself that was odd since it’s normally very quiet here. And then,” she claps her hands together, “Bang! Well, I’ve watched enough police shows to know a gun when I hear one. I have that surround-sound thingy on my TV, you know? The woofs and tweets. My son set it up. He’s very clever that way, not like his father at all, rest his soul. If it wasn’t about trains, he wasn’t interested—”
    â€œYou called the police?” I say.
    â€œOh, yes. Talked to this nice woman, very efficient but already divorced, which surprised me because she was very pleasant and has a good job there. Anyways, I told her what I heard, and she said she would send somebody right over. Well, these two nice big policeboys arrived, looking very smart in their uniforms, and went about investigating. I keep keys for everyone since I don’t go out much, so I let them in. And oh my, I didn’t linger when I caught