I wanted to laugh at her “dear boy” comment and Lightfoot’s expression of embarrassment. I contented myself with a grin.
“Mrs. Gold?”
“Yes, dear?” She took a tissue from her clutch purse, delicately wiped her nose, returned the tissue to her bag, and snapped it closed.
“How would someone go about deliberately electrocuting someone with an extension cord?”
Lightfoot’s eyes narrowed. “That’s enough excitement for one day.” He took her arm and led her slowly to the front door. “Why don’t you head on home while we dust for prints and take some photos.”
She halted in the open doorway. “It’s easier to shock someone with a faulty wire at the base of an old lamp. We repair lamps for that reason time and time again.”
“Yes, but if you wanted to do it with an extension cord, how would you go about it?”
A smile spread across her wrinkled face. “Oh, I see. You’re tagging along today because you’re a crime writer like Castle.”
Lightfoot chuckled. It was a running joke between us, the fact that he watched Castle and had previously refused to let me tag along on his investigations.
She clapped her hands. “Oh, I’m right, aren’t I?”
“No, but I write for the Bugle.”
Shaking a finger at me, her smile turned sly. “Are you sure? I won’t tell anyone. Promise.”
I felt a flush of pride. “Well, I do cover violent crimes from time to time.”
Lightfoot pushed his cowboy hat back with a thumb. “That’s putting it mildly.” Once again, he led her towards her sedan.
I shot him a look. “Mrs. Gold, I need your expert opinion. Have you ever heard of anyone ever being electrocuted by an extension cord?”
“Oh, young lady, I have heard of far worse. Stories that would curl your hair.”
“How does it work? Is water usually involved?”
“Now, I’m not the CEO of General Electric, mind you. But in my humble opinion, any liquid helps.” She shrugged. “And, yes, water is a part of most incidents.” Lightfoot opened the door to her car and helped her into the front seat.
It was hard to determine if she was as wise as she made out. “If you plugged an electrical device into an extension cord, and the cord became wet somehow, wouldn’t that shock the snot out of you?” I asked.
“Yes, and no.” Her eyes widened with excitement. “It’s not like some story about some poor schmuck who grabs an electric fence while standing in a puddle of water. A person would have to grab onto a frayed cord with exposed live wires and not let go.” She wavered and drew a shaky breath.
“That’s enough, Nancy Drew,” Lightfoot said under his breath.
“I forgot.” Mrs. Gold put a hand to her throat. “I did hear a story years ago about an electrician who was electrocuted when he grabbed a metal doorknob.”
“Yes?” I stepped closer.
“He was holding a large reel of extension cord by the metal handle. The extension cord was plugged in at the other end. When he grabbed the door handle it completed the circuit.” Her laugh was deep and throaty. “The story goes, he was stuck to that doorknob for fifteen seconds.”
“Did he die?”
She shook her head and stuck her keys in the ignition. “Nope. Someone found him in a heap, but he recovered.” With a sigh, she reached for the door handle.
“Why don’t I drive you home, Mrs. Gold?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” She worried her bottom lip, her gaze flitting back and forth between Lightfoot’s face and my own.
“Detective Lightfoot will follow behind.”
She drew a deep breath and flung back her shoulders. “If you think it best.”
• • •
After seeing Mrs. Gold safely inside her sprawling ranch-style home, we headed toward Main Street. Traffic was such a fright on the way back, I strongly considered lighting my hair on fire so we could drive down the shoulder, sirens wailing, with good reason.
The problem was the tourists in front of us. They kept pulling onto the shoulder to take photos of the desert in bloom, dramatic claret cups and bright firewheel blanketflowers, with the rugged Chisos Mountains in the background.
“Can’t you turn your lights on, or something?”
“Nah. We’ll be there soon enough.” He waved out the window to a little cowboy riding in an extended-cab F250 in the next lane. “Thanks for helping Mrs. Gold.”
“I’m a real Girl Scout.” My mind was on the dance floor. Would Ryan still be there when we returned? And would I really care if had lost my chance to exercise my newfound confidence?
“Woolgathering, my mother used to call it.”
“Sorry. Thanks for letting me tag along.”
He checked his rearview mirror. “Extension cords. Spill it.”
“I tripped over a pile of them in Lucky’s tent. A pacemaker interruption, for whatever reason, and a surplus of extension cords, are connected by the fact they both are . . . electrical in some way. Excuse the pun.”
“That’s quite a stretch there, girl detective.” He pulled to a stop in front of Milagro. In the distance near the gazebo, couples still scooted and swayed. From our position, I couldn’t tell if Ryan was still around.
“Watch it or I might have to start calling you Shaggy. Or would you prefer Scooby?”
After my attempt at humor, there was a moment of silence. I could see him mentally preparing his response. “After I have that talk with Barnes, I can make time for a talk with you as well. Is that what’s needed, Miss Callahan?”
“No,” I answered without cracking a smile. Inside, I was chortling with surprise. For a split second, a person like me might think a person like him was flirting.
“You have more dancing planned for this afternoon?” He cast a quick glance at my dress before studying the crowd at the gazebo.
I shrugged and checked the time. Three thirty. “Maybe. Though I should go home and work on my stories for tomorrow’s deadline.”
“Sounds like a practical idea. How long will that take?”
“Let’s see.” I began to count off on my fingers. “Pinyon Pawn burglary, break-in at Gold
