I raised my voice to repeat the information to Sheila, who was almost wailing by then.

“God damn it!” she ranted. “I knew something like this was going to happen—”

“Sheila,” I broke in, “is somebody with you? You shouldn’t drive when you’re this upset.”

Crowley nodded with somber approval.

Oh, yeah. I was on top of the vehicular safety issue.

Too bad I was also a person of interest in a case of criminal assault that might just turn into murder any minute.

“Russell!” Sheila cried. “What about Russell?”

“He’s with me,” I said. “He’s safe.”

Crowley strolled over to the coffeemaker, filled the carafe at the sink.

“Bert’s been hurt,” I heard Sheila say, apparently addressing a companion. “Mojo’s got Russell. She says he’ll be taken to either Scottsdale Healthcare or Paradise Valley—will you call and find out?”

There was a murmured reply, then Sheila addressed me again. “Ellie’s calling the hospitals,” she said. Ellie was her best friend; I’d met her at holiday gatherings in the bar. “She’ll drive me there as soon as we find out for sure where he is.”

I nodded, tried not to think about the way my T-shirt was clinging to my upper body, stiffening as it dried. I broke out in gooseflesh, and wished I could strip to the bare essentials, right there in the kitchen. Anything to escape the feel of that bloody fabric against my skin. “Okay,” I replied. “Let me know how Bert is when you get a chance, will you?”

Crowley found the coffee in the cupboard next to the sink, measured some into the basket and pushed the button. He wasn’t staring at me anymore, but I knew he was taking in everything I said, and how I said it.

“Sure,” Sheila answered moistly. “Thanks for keeping Russell.”

“No problem, Sheila. Try not to panic, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, without much hope of succeeding.

We disconnected.

“What’s your relationship to the victim?” Crowley asked, pulling back a chair for me at the table.

I collapsed into it.

“He’s my landlord,” I said. I looked down at Russell, lying in mournful silence at my feet. “And my friend.”

“And you knew there was trouble because—”

Because my dead husband told me.

“There was a lot of noise.”

“That’s unusual?” Crowley snooped through cupboards until he found the mugs, and set two on the counter, in front of the laboring coffeemaker. It was an ancient machine, and of roughly the same quality as my luggage.

“No,” I said. “There was just something—”

Crowley nodded encouragement, leaning against the counter now, arms folded. There were leather patches on the elbows of his lightweight tweed jacket.

“Weird,” I finished.

“No disputes over the rent, the air conditioning, anything like that?”