Free Shooting Gallery by Hailey Lind

said as he deposited several large canvas tote bags on the scuffed linoleum. His eyes darted suspicious glances up and down the empty hallway, and his broad, freckled hands twitched at his sides. Pete stumbled out of the elevator, bumped into Tom, and nodded solemnly at me.
    The air was suddenly full of free-floating testosterone. Mary and Sherri seemed to relish the display of machismo, but somewhere around my thirtieth birthday I had developed immunity. Now it just annoyed me.
    â€œThis isn’t an armed invasion, guys,” I protested. “He’s a sculptor, for heaven’s sake. Just a little old sculptor who—” I halted midsentence, distracted by the aromas wafting from the wicker picnic basket in Pete’s arms. “What smells so good?”
    â€œFor you, my dear, I went all out,” Tom replied, beaming.
    Two years ago a motorcycle accident had landed Tom in a La-Z-Boy for six weeks with five broken ribs, a punctured lung, and nothing to do but pop pain pills and watch cable television. The combination had turned him into a devoted Martha Stewart fan. He and Sherri had recently bought a home in nearby Pleasant Hill, and Tom spent his spare time transforming the bland tract house into a shrine to gracious living. He had also become a wickedly good chef.
    Tom spread a freshly laundered blue-checked tablecloth across the floor, knelt, and started unwrapping foil packets.
    â€œToday’s luncheon selection includes watercress salad with Italian mountain gorgonzola, organic walnuts, and balsamic vinaigrette—that’s for you, my sweet,” he said, winking at his wife. “There is also a warm casserole of boneless chicken breasts stuffed with sweet onion confit and topped with a wild mushroom glaze—I know that’s your favorite, Annie,” he said with a nod toward me.
    Mary looked at him expectantly. “For the nuts-and-granola set, we have marinated baked tofu and curried brown rice. And for Pete, a loaf of rosemary sourdough bread, truffled mousse pâté, and three kinds of imported cheeses. Enjoy them, my friend.”
    â€œThank you,” Pete said gravely. “I am a man of the cheese.”
    â€œYou had all of this food lying around the kitchen?” I asked, trying not to drool as I helped myself to generous portions of everything except the tofu. At my house, unexpected visitors were lucky to get canned tuna on stale saltines.
    â€œHe’s been trying out new recipes,” Sherri said, biting into a wedge of peppered brie. “We can’t fit anything else in the fridge.”
    Tom was pouring the wine when my cell phone rang.
    â€œOh, Annie ,” Bryan sniffed loudly. “What am I gonna do ?”
    â€œBryan, you’ve got to hang in there. What did the police say?”
    â€œI’m a ‘person of interest.’ Can you believe that? They told me not to leave town. Can you come over? Ron’s at work and . . . I don’t want to be alone.”
    â€œOh, Bryan, I can’t,” I said. “I’m on a stakeout—”
    â€œOoo!” he squealed, his voice taking on its usual upbeat tone. “Can I join you, honey pie? I’ve never been on a stakeout!”
    Having the flamboyant Bryan Boissevain on a stakeout was tantamount to inviting the proverbial bull into the china shop, but how could I say no? Besides, it seemed increasingly unlikely that Pascal would show his face, so I gave Bryan directions. I was about to sign off when Sherri grabbed the phone and asked him to bring a CD player and music, some pillows, and more wine. When I protested she tossed the phone to Mary, who pitched it to Tom, and by the time I wrestled it away from Pete, Bryan was no longer home.
    â€œThis isn’t a social gathering, guys,” I said sternly as Pete giggled. “This is business. Serious business.”
    â€œYeah, we can tell,” Sherri snorted. “You always conduct serious business like