Double Shot

I blinked and steadied myself until I could see the red exit sign. Cursing under my breath, I lurched in the direction of Tom’s table.

“Goldy!” It was Tom’s calming voice. “Are you all right? What happened to your nose? There’s blood everywhere.” A rough paper napkin was pushed into my hand, and I pressed it to my nostrils. I gasped and begged Tom to take me out for air. Some tourists told the bartender to call a cab. He replied that there were no cab companies in Aspen Meadow.

With Tom holding me up, I finally, finally stumbled out the saloon doors. Behind us, Tex’s voice announced: “You know, she didn’t seem that drunk.”

9

My dear wife,” Tom said gently as he guided me through our front door. “You don’t look so hot.”

“No kidding.” I stepped carefully into the hallway. Assaulted by dizziness, I blinked at the sudden bright light. Tom’s strong hands reached out to grab me. “Something happened there, Tom. At the Grizzly. Back by the phone, I bumped into a man who said that Sandee Blue was his girlfriend, and I shouldn’t forget it.”

“Any idea who he was? Maybe your early-morning attacker?”

“I can’t say.” I grasped Tom’s hand.

“Well, what did he look like?”

“I don’t know. He turned me around, then pushed me down. By the time I got up, he was gone.”

Tom pulled me in for a hug and was silent.

I gently extracted myself and squinted at my husband’s handsome face. “Tom?”

“Goldy, do you go looking for trouble? Or does it just find you?”

“Thanks. No more calls using the Grizzly phone. Promise.”

“Did you ever get to talk to Marla?”

“Not really.” I closed my eyes and rubbed my aching forehead. How late was it? I had no clue. And where was Arch? How was he doing? I mumbled, “Arch?”

Tom pulled me back into a hug. “Father Pete’s car is still out front. I assume he’s in there with him.”

Upstairs, a quietly closing door was followed by shuffling. The stairs creaked as Father Pete Zoukaki’s immense bulk began to descend. I did not know how Father Pete had come to be an Anglican, because he looked like central casting’s idea of a priest from The Godfather. I held my breath as his small black shoes trundled into view, followed by short chopstick legs. These balanced slowly on each step, so that his black-swathed calzone of a body could lumber downward without toppling. At the landing, he turned slowly, like a jumbo jet moving into a gate.

“Arch is sleeping,” he announced. His voice was low pitched and warm, perfect for pastoring. He maneuvered down the last three steps, mopped his brow, and gave us a solemn nod. His ultradark hair and beard were intensely curly. His skin was the color of olive oil. His espresso-black eyes filled with concern as he reached out for me. “Goldy.” I let go of Tom and allowed Father Pete’s sausage arms to pat my back. “This will all be over soon.”

This will all be over soon? When was soon, exactly? When Father Pete had counseled Arch some more? When the sheriff’s department found the killer? When the Jerk was deep in Aspen Meadow Cemetery? I swallowed and tried to get hold of myself.

“Thank you for coming,” I said softly.

“No trouble,” Father Pete’s commanding voice assured me. He let go and assessed me with those dark eyes. “You don’t look well. You should try to get to bed.”

I clenched my teeth. “I’m aware that I don’t look well.” After an awkward moment, I asked, “What about the…uh…?” I cleared my throat and smoothed my face into an attempt at composure. Tom gently took my hand and flicked me a questioning glance. He wanted to bail me out, but had no idea what I was asking.

“It’s just that I’m worried about…” I tried again. Well, everything. Father Pete and Tom waited. My hit-with- the-restroom-door nose was throbbing. Father Pete pursed his thick lips, glanced at my bruised arms, and frowned.

“There’s the matter of”—I cleared my throat—“a service.”

Father Pete nodded. “Besides Arch, did Dr. Korman have next of kin?”

I shook my head.

“All right then,” Father Pete said in that deep, comforting voice. “I’ll call the coroner, see if they know who’s been designated to make arrangements.” When he furrowed his forehead, his bushy black eyebrows appeared truly ominous. “Someone from the church will call you with the details. It would be good for Arch—”

“We’ll bring him,” I said hastily.

Father Pete nodded again, gave Tom a grim take care of her look, and trundled out the front door.

“Would it be possible for you to put this whole rotten day out of your mind for a while?” Tom murmured in my ear.

“I wish.”

“Try.”

I tiptoed upstairs, peeled off my clothes, and took a long, hot shower. When I emerged, the mirror revealed my very red nose and two purple bruises on my lower arms. My back sported a bright pink sore spot. I closed my eyes and gingerly put on a terry robe.

I slipped between the cool sheets and reached out for Tom’s warm body. With a gentleness that brought tears to my eyes, he put his hands on my cheeks and whispered that I should tell him if anything hurt. I nodded. He wiped my tears away, pulled me closer, and gave me a long kiss. It was the kind of kiss that went on and on, passionate, insistent, tender beyond words. It was like drowning—and I wanted to drown. His large, muscled body enclosed mine. He touched me, gently sliding his large hands over my sore neck and bruised arms.

He said, “You are the most beautiful woman in the world. I love you now and forever and ever. I’m…sorry I haven’t been a very good husband lately.”

“Shh. You’ve been fine. The best.”

“Well, I’m going to kill the bastard who hurt you.”

“Great. When?”

“Now it’s your turn to hush.”

So. Afterward, Tom held me next to him, unwilling to let me go even in slumber. I listened to his soft snoring, to the beat of his heart inside his big chest. For the first time that day, I felt safe.

Courtney MacEwan had been right. People do have sex after funerals.

A thunderclap jolted me from a deep sleep. Fear gripped my chest as I sent the covers flying. My body’s numerous aches screamed in protest.

Tom reached out for me. “Rain, Goldy. It’s rain. I’ll make sure Arch is all right.” Tom slipped quietly away.

Arch was most emphatically not all right. He was sobbing loudly, uncontrollably. Tom was murmuring, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. I slipped on my robe, crept down the hall, and peered into the room.

“Arch? Honey?” I tried. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated Arch’s room. Julian’s old twin bed stood flat and empty. Arch, covered by the black-and-gold quilt, lay facedown on his own bed. He was screaming and writhing, yelling something about his fall, his fault…

I called to him again. He did not respond to me.

Perched beside Arch, Tom kept his voice soothing. “Arch. You’re going to be all right. This is the worst part. Arch, nothing was your fault.”

But Arch was having none of it.

“It is my fault,” my son’s voice hollered. He pounded his bed, making it shudder. I moved hesitantly into the room. “I never should have gone down to play hockey. If we