That night, I allowed Donna to sleep on the bed and I took the couch. There were two reasons: first, my foot felt much better propped up on the arm of the comfortable sofa. Second, she had a flight to catch and would need to use the shower before dawn. While she got ready, I hoped to keep sleeping.
My wishes were quickly dashed the next morning when I heard her moaning and groaning about a headache. Mrs. Wilson, Donna and I had finished off the bottle Donna had brought over. After coming home, she’d also drunk the one she and I had opened earlier in the day.
“I'm never drinking again,” she said as she stumbled out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. “I'm sorry to wake you, but I need coffee.”
“No worries. I was up.” And I also knew she'd be partying once she arrived at her final flight destination.
She rummaged around the cabinets until she found the aspirin, then downed the pills with a gulp of coffee. “Do you want some coffee?”
“Sure. Thank you.”
I sat up as she brought me a cup. “Where are you off to today?”
“To Boston, and on to Florida. I'll be gone a couple of days.”
“I'll probably miss you,” I said. “I'm hoping to be back at work by then.”
We sat in silence as we drank our coffee and the sun rose, casting shadows in the kitchen. Raindrops began to hit the window, and Donna sighed. “I hope my hair doesn't frizz.”
“I'm sure it'll be fine once you get in the air.” Before then, I wasn't so sure because she did have a bit of natural curl in the blonde locks, and they did tend to kink in the San Francisco rain. Which meant she had the frizzies quite a bit.
“Ugh. I better get moving and finish packing,” Donna said, checking the clock. “Could you please call me a cab?”
I gave her a thumbs up and when she walked back into the bedroom, I reached for the phone to make the call for her.
“Ten minutes!” I yelled when I hung up.
“Thanks!”
My thoughts had turned to the murder numerous times throughout the night, and I just didn't believe a woman could kill a man like that. Possibly, if pushed hard enough, women were capable of committing murder. But a knife in the stomach? It seemed so... barbaric to me.
But who had killed before and probably had experience with hand-to-hand combat? Wayne. If Charles owed him money and he'd been a little out of his mind from smoking marijuana, perhaps he'd used the skills he'd learned while serving in Vietnam.
It was something to consider.
“Okie-dokie!” Donna said as she emerged from the bedroom carrying a small suitcase. Her navy-blue uniform hugged all her curves. “Are the bags under my eyes too bad?”
I lied and shook my head. Whoever did the stew inspections would let her know the truth. “You look great. Have a fun flight.”
“Always!” she sang as she sashayed out the door.
Standing, I put a little weight on my foot and was thrilled when I didn't have the shooting pain, but I grabbed my crutches anyway. No sense in overdoing it. I poured myself some more coffee, then sat down and watched The Morning News with Mike Wallace. When the show ended, I wished I'd never turned it on. The state of affairs was depressing.
With a sigh, I decided what to do with my day. Maybe read a book? Perhaps I could convince Mrs. Wilson to play some cards.
Promptly at nine, a knock sounded on my door. I teetered over to the door on my crutches.
The tapping came again. “Just a minute, please!” I yelled, then muttered, “so impatient.”
I opened the door and my breath caught in my throat. The man grinned as I brought my hand to my mouth. It took a second
d for me to put a name with the handsome face, but then I blurted, “Mr. Coffee?”
Chapter 8
His smiled faded as his brow pinched in confusion. “I'm sorry?”
Dang it! He'd told me his name on the plane when he'd looked at my ankle, and of course, I couldn't recall it. “You're the person who helped me up when I tripped over that man’s foot on the plane,” I said. “You drank a lot of coffee.”
His face lit up in recognition. “Of course. I thought I recognized you. Patty was your name.”
“Yes!”
Once we'd recovered from the shock of the coincidence, I wondered why in the world Mr. Coffee was standing in the hallway outside my apartment. Running a hand over my hair, I wish I had been better prepared for his visit. I hadn't even brushed my teeth.
“You're Patricia Byrne?” he asked.
I noted he carried a green file folder. “Y-yes. What can I do to help you?”
What was his name? All I remembered was Mr. Coffee.
“Well, my name's Bill Hart,” he said, pulling a badge from his jacket pocket.” I'm a special agent with the FBI.”
I stared at him a moment, wobbling on my crutches, almost falling to the floor. The FBI? What was the FBI doing darkening my doorstep?
“You look a little pale,” Mr. Coffee said. “Are you okay?”
As I struggled to remember his name—darn it! He’d just told me!—I nodded absently, not feeling okay in the least bit. “What... why... why are you here?”
Did it have something to do with the airlines? The FBI dealt in national affairs, right? Had I done something illegal? I tried to think of my more recent flights, and nothing stuck out to me.
“May I come in, Ms. Byrne?”
I glanced from his badge back to him, a sinking feeling settling in my stomach. “What's this about?”
“Your neighbor's death. Unfortunately, I have to ask you a few questions since you were the one who found him.”
My shoulders slumped in relief that it wasn't me in his crosshairs, but then guilt washed through me. I shouldn't be pleased about Charles' death.
