One Texas Cowboy Too Many (Burnt Boot, Texas #3)(96)

“Maybe they called off her class for tonight,” Trixie said.

“Cadillac police. Open this door right now, or I’m coming in shooting.”

Trixie groaned. “Agnes?”

Andy groaned and fell back on the pillows. “Dear God!”

And that’s when flashing red, white, and blue lights and the mixed wails of police cars, sirens, and an ambulance all screeched to a halt in front of Miss Clawdy’s.

Trixie grabbed her old blue chenille robe from the back of a rocking chair and belted it around her waist. “Agnes, is that you?”

“It’s the Cadillac police, I tell you, and I’ll come in there shooting if that man who’s molesting you doesn’t let you go right this minute.” Agnes tried to deepen her voice, but there was just so much a seventy-eight-year-old woman could do. She sounded like a prepubescent boy with laryngitis.

“I’m coming right out. Don’t shoot.”

She eased out the door, and sure enough, there was Agnes, standing in the hallway with a sawed-off shotgun trained on Trixie’s belly button.

The old girl had donned her late husband’s pleated trousers and a white shirt and smelled like a mothball factory. Her dyed red hair, worn in a ratted hairdo reminiscent of the sixties, was crammed up under a fedora.

Trixie shut her bedroom door behind her and blocked it as best she could. “There’s no one in my bedroom, Agnes. Let’s go downstairs and have a late-night snack. I think there are hot rolls left and half of a peach cobbler.”

“The hell there ain’t nobody in there! I saw the bastard. Stand to one side, and I’ll blow his ass to hell.” Agnes raised the shotgun.

“You were seeing me do my exercises before I went to bed.”

Agnes narrowed her eyes and shook her head. “He’s in there. I can smell him.” She sniffed the air. “Where is the sorry son of a bitch? I could see him in there throwing you on the bed and having his way with you. Sorry bastard, he won’t get away. Woman ain’t safe in her own house.”

Trixie moved closer to her. “Look at me, Agnes. I’m not hurt. It was just shadows, and what you smell is mothballs. Shit, woman, where’d you get that getup, anyway?”

Agnes shook her head. “He told you to say that or he’d kill you. He don’t scare me.” She raised the barrel of the gun and pulled the trigger. The kickback knocked her square on her butt on the floor, and the gun went scooting down the hallway.

“Next one is for you, buster,” she yelled as plaster, insulation, and paint chips rained down upon her and Trixie.

Trixie grabbed both ears. “God Almighty, Agnes!”

“Bet that showed him who is boss around here, and if you don’t quit usin’ them damn cussin’ words, takin’ God’s name in vain, I might aim the gun at you next time. And I don’t have to tell a smart-ass like you where I got my getup, but I was tryin’ to save your sorry ass so I dressed up like a detective,” Agnes said.

Trixie grabbed Agnes’s arm, pulled her up, and kept her moving toward the stairs. “Well, you look more like a homeless bum.”

Agnes pulled free and stood her ground, arms crossed over her chest, the smell of mothballs filling up the whole landing area.

“We’ve got to get out of here in a hurry,” Trixie tried to whisper, but it came out more like a squeal.

“He said he’d kill you, didn’t he?” Agnes finally let herself be led away. “I knew it, but I betcha I scared the shit out of him. He’ll be crawling out the window and the police will catch him.”

They met four policemen, guns drawn, serious expressions etched into their faces, in the kitchen. Every gun shot up and pointed straight at Agnes and Trixie.

Trixie threw up her hands, but Agnes just glared at them.

“Jack, it’s me and Agnes. This is just a big misunderstanding.”

Living right next door to the Andrewses’ house his whole life, Jack Landry had tagged along with Trixie, Marty, and Cathy their whole growing-up years. He lowered his gun and raised an eyebrow.

“Nothing going on upstairs, I assure you,” Trixie said, and she wasn’t lying. Agnes had put a stop to what was about to happen for damn sure.

Trixie hoped the old girl had an asthma attack from the mothballs as payment for ruining her Wednesday night.

“We heard a gunshot,” Jack said.

“That would be my shotgun. It’s up there on the floor. Knocked me right on my ass. I forgot that it had a kick. Loud sumbitch messed up my hearing,” Agnes hollered and reached up to touch her kinky red hair. “I lost my hat when I fell down. I’ve got to go get it.”

Trixie saw the hat come floating down the stairs and tackled it on the bottom step. “Here it is. You dropped it while we were running away.”

Agnes screamed at her. “You lied! You said we had to get away from him before he killed us, and I ran down the stairs, and I’m liable to have a heart attack, and it’s your fault. I told Cathy and Marty not to bring the likes of you in this house. It’s an abomination, I tell you. Divorced woman like you hasn’t got no business in the house with a couple of maiden ladies.”

“Miz Agnes, one of my officers will help you across the street.” Jack pushed a button on his radio and said, “False alarm at Miss Clawdy’s.”