Free Murder on the Horizon by M.L. Rowland

walked back across the yard to the truck, and practically threw him into the passenger’s seat, slamming the door. Then he walked around to the driver’s seat and climbed inside.
    The engine revved. Wheels spun. Dirt and gravel sprayed. Tires screeched on pavement. The truck sped off and disappeared around the corner.
    Gracie sat in the dirt, head hanging. Blood dripped from her nose, bright red flowers in the fawn-colored dirt.
    The sound of Baxter crying drew her eyes up and across the yard to where Sharon was on her knees beside the boy, arms around his body, voice soft, comforting.
    A Steller’s jay squawked a ruckus from a pine branch somewhere above her head.
    Gracie looked back down at her blood puddling in the dirt. “What the hell just happened?”

CHAPTER
    8
    G RACIE stood in front of the mirror in the Gatehouse bathroom, glumly inspecting her face by the dim light of its single wall sconce. The right side of her nose was plum-purple with a twist of Taco Bell napkin protruding from the nostril. Her upper lip was as puffed out as if a cotton ball had been stuffed beneath. Dried blood was smeared across her cheek. “Lovely,” she said to her reflection. “Simply lovely.”
    â€œShould have sidestepped that Mack truck, doodlebug.”
    Gracie’s eyes slid over to Allen leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed and displaying to their full glory solid fields of tattooed peacock feathers and solar systems. “Hardy har,” she said. “Ow.”
    â€œGot ice?” Allen asked.
    â€œFreezer trays were empty.”
    The man disappeared from the doorway.
    The front foyer door slammed, setting the little bell hanging above the door to tinkling. Outside in the parking lot, Allen’s old Bronco roared to life and drove away.
    Gracie withdrew the blood-soaked piece of napkin fromher nostril. “Ow, ow, ow.” A line of blood trickled down her upper lip. She dabbed at it with the napkin. “All ready for the prom.”
    She leaned on the sink, staring into the mirror, contemplating her lame loser looks, which then progressed to an analysis of her life and how maybe it was time for a change, although what change, she had no idea. “Something,” she said to her nose. “Anything.”
    The front office door slammed again and the little bell did its thing. Quick, heavy footsteps on carpet and Allen reappeared in the doorway. He held out a sandwich bag full of frozen peas and two white capsules. “Tylenol.”
    â€œThanks.” Gracie washed down the painkillers with a swig of water from the faucet. She used her thumbs to shape the peas into a concave bowl and placed the bag on the side of her face. “Owowowow!” She blew out a long, slow breath. “I need to sit.”
    Allen stepped aside to let her pass, then followed her down the carpeted hallway to the Camp Manager’s office in the back.
    With a groan, Gracie eased herself down into the chair behind the desk. “I feel as if I aged fifty years in the past hour.” She bent forward to peer at a little pile of pink squares in the middle of the blotter. “What are these?”
    Allen placed a pile of purchase orders beside the pink squares, then dropped into a metal folding chair on the opposite side of the desk. “Telephone messages. People freaked out that Timber Creek is burning down.”
    â€œThe fire’s down the hill,” Gracie said, aware that her tone sounded suspiciously like a whine. “On the other side of the mountain.” She leaned back in the chair, closed her eyes, and rocked. “All right. Thanks. I’ll call ’em all back. Give them a reassuring talking-to.”
    â€œSo, you gonna tell me what the heck happened?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œSuit yourself.”
    Seconds passed.
    â€œSome creep was whaling on his boy. Or trying to until the grandmother got in the way and got whaled on instead. I got in the middle.