Murder on the Horizon by M.L. Rowland

knuckles, she threw the smaller woman off to the side, rolled up onto her knees, and straddled her, pinning her to the ground, hand on her wrists. Enraged, the woman roared even more loudly, kicking Gracie from behind with her knees and trying to buck her off.
    Its siren winding down, a Sheriff’s Department unit rolled to a stop a few feet from Gracie’s head, with a second unit right behind. She looked up as Deputy Montoya, whom Gracie used to refer to as the Cute Deputy because she could never remember his name, emerged from behind the wheel and rounded the front of his unit.
    â€œI can’t . . . let her go,” Gracie yelled up to him, out of breath. “She’s trying . . . to kill me!”

CHAPTER
    10
    G RACIE grabbed a can of beer from the refrigerator, popped it open, threw two Extra Strength Tylenols into her mouth, and swallowed them down with half the beer while standing in the open doorway. She wanted—needed—something stronger, a
lot
stronger. “A triple, no, a quadruple vodka martini. Extra, extra dry. With two of those big, fat olives. Five big, fat olives.” But since she had no vodka, no dry vermouth, and no olives, a Coors Light would have to do. She held the ice-cold can to the grape-sized bump above her eyebrow. Then to her nose. Then her upper lip. “Ow,” she whispered.
    It had taken three burly deputies fifteen minutes to fully subdue Mrs. Lucas and secure her, handcuffed and screeching verbal abuses, behind the cage in Montoya’s unit. Timber Creek’s big story for the week.
    â€œYes,” Gracie had told Deputy Montoya. “I’m refusing medical attention.”
    â€œYou sure? You look a little . . .”
    â€œRough?”
    Montoya smiled, showing a row of straight, very white teeth below the black mustache. “Roughed
up
. You sure you don’t want to press charges?”
    â€œNo. Yes, I’m sure. No, I don’t.” Gracie had looked over to where Mrs. Lucas was using both feet to try to kick out the side window of the Sheriff’s unit. “She needs rehab, not a jail cell.”
    Gracie closed the door of the refrigerator and leaned against the kitchen counter. “Damn, what a sucky day. And it’s only . . .” She looked up at the clock. “Nine fifteen? That’s all?” She looked at the beer in her hand. “Oh, what the heck. It’s five o’clock in . . . Nairobi.” She downed the rest of the beer, rinsed out the can, and threw it in the recycling container next to the back door.
    She grabbed a year-old bag of frozen corn from the freezer and placed it along the right side of her face. Looking over with one eye, she noticed the little red light on the answering machine blinking, and punched Play. “Grace Louise.” Her mother’s voice filled the room. “I bought you a ticket.”
    â€œNooo!”
    â€œFirst class.”
    â€œReally? First class? She must want me there bad.”
    â€œOut of Ontario. That’s the right airport, isn’t it? Early Wednesday. Arriving Detroit Metro about ten o’clock. Returning the next afternoon.
    â€œFast trip.”
    â€œI have your e-mail address somewhere. I’ll have them e-mail you the itinerary.” There was a long pause. “Thank you.”
    â€œNot much choice, have I? You already bought the ticket.”
    â€œThis means a lot to . . . well, to me.”
    Setting the corn aside, Gracie drew her laptop out of her day pack sitting on the kitchen chair, set it up on the table, and checked her calendar. “Move stuff around a little. Get Allen to cover. Again. But I guess that’ll work.”
    While she was on the laptop, she opened her e-mail and wrote a cursory note to Rob:
Congratulations on yourupcoming nuptials.
Typed in,
Love, Gracie.
Backspaced over that and typed instead,
Really. I’m happy for you.
Signed off with