The story so far:
After the night exciting night I had, I drove home well under the speed limit. Our family home was far out to the east, near the highway. My great Grandfather had opened a general stone and a gas station in 1919 with his pension money after he came home with a stiff leg. At seventy two my Grandma still lives and runs the place, we sell a little diesel from time to time but most of her income is from the rent. We converted the general store and have three art deals using the space to sell art. Artiest liked it. The rustic historical style of our place attracted them like bees to honey.
Our home was on the second floor. I think someone had offered to buy the place but Grandma said no. She was born here at the house and she would die here at the house.
I parked and climb the stairs trying not to make a sound. It was late. One in the morning late, so I hated to wake Grandma. I passed the hall and tried to sneak in. My problem was the first door on the right was open. Honey Lloyds, my Grandma was sitting in her armchair facing the door, her eyes were close and she was holding a shot gun that belonged to her father. She was dress for bed in a long pink dressing gown.
“Sorry, I’m late but I got the groceries,” I said guiltily.
My Grandma is very old, but I can’t pull anything over her. She has good eyes, good ears and a great nose that smells trouble a mile away. Her white hair was cut short in the style that was popular in the late twenties. She thinks it makes her look younger.
“Why did you bring out the big guns?”
“Oh, I got a visit.” My Grandma takes great pleasures in turning people who want to buy out place away. “Mr. Digger offered me half a million for this place and the land. I said no twice and he still wouldn’t leave.”
“I thought you knew about sheriff Russo,” I said, working to keep my face blank. “I found him injured. His wife was screaming bloody murder at me.”
“Ooh, did she say she was sorry?”
It was cute. My Grandma was sweetest person I knew, if life handed her lemons she would make sweet lemonade. I nodded. Not wanting to go into the details so if she wasn’t asking for them I prefer to stay quiet until she asked me in the morning because that is how fast word travel in a small town.
“Was it an accident?”
“No, Grandma. He was attack and his attacker got away in a car. I was at the station giving my statement.” I said solemnly, giving bad news had never been my thing, “He’s in the hospital fighting for his life.”
“Was it red?”
“Yes, why are you asking?”
“Nothing,” Grandma said, thinking for a moment. Then she knocks me over by saying, “This morning Mr. Digger had two big friends with him, they had a red car. My gun didn’t scare them off. So I had to call Sheriff Russo.”
Now that was kind of an interesting story, wasn’t it?
This was not what I wanted to come home to hear. Things like two red cars with tugs could be a coincident. Not that I believe it could be. I mulled it over for a long while.
“We should report it tomorrow.” I said cautiously.
“I like that love,” she said getting up, “Goodnight, so I better go to sleep now. I was waiting for you to come home before I turned out my light.”
I walked her to her room, bent over to give Grandma a kiss, and said, “Good Night.”