Red Rum: A Rosie Casket Mystery R.M. Wild (inspirational books .txt) 📖

drunk and Herrick took you upstairs and I better get here quick. I dropped what I was doing and came right over.”

“God,” I said. “How embarrassing.”

“We all have our moments,” Mettle said.

“I can’t believe you had to see me like this. I feel terrible.”

“Imagine how I feel,” Mettle said.

“Thanks.”

“I’m never drinking again.”

“I could have sworn you told me you don’t drink at all.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“You might have been drunk,” Mettle said. “It was the night after I finished doing your tiles.”

“I’m so embarrassed.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve seen worse,” Mettle said. “Trust me.”

“Crime scenes don’t count.”

Mettle crossed the room and handed me the glass of water. “Hydrate yourself and take a shower. When you’re decent, I’ll meet you downstairs.”

I followed his advice and took a long, hot shower. I let the water run down my shoulders and down my spine, not wanting to step out from behind the curtain, not ever. I couldn’t believe I had put myself in a position to let Captain Herrick take advantage of me, nor that I had let Mettle see me in such an ugly place—both outside and in.

Not only was I going to have to find a new captain, but I was going to have find a way to rescue my reputation, both as a business owner and as a woman.

Now, a strategic partnership with Peter Hardgrave (Daddy?) was my only chance to stay afloat.

If I could find him.

I turned to face the shower head and leaned against the wall in the classic movie-desperation pose, my forearms against the tiles, the water running down my face. Then I gagged and spat. It was really hard to breathe when you faced the shower head like that.

I turned around again and let the hot water follow the path of my spine. I stood there for a long time and savored the steam as if it were the last of the hot water.

If I couldn’t turn things around soon, it was going to be.

While dressing, there was a knock on the downstairs door. Hoping it was a guest, one who was willing to look past the negative comments online, I pulled a clean sweater over my head and quickly shuffled downstairs.

Matt Mettle had already opened the front door. “What’s up guys?”

Two uniformed state troopers were standing on my porch. They were both bald, thinner than Mettle, but about the same height. Other than the fact that one was black, the other white, they could have been twins.

“Matthew Orlando Mettle?” they said in unison.

I blinked, thinking my hangover had trapped me in some bizarro rendition of The Shining.

“That’s me,” Mettle said. “You guys are Ellsworth troop, right?”

“We need you to come down to the barracks with us. We’ve got a few questions.”

Mettle glanced back at me. “About what?”

“Assault.”

I put a hand over my mouth.

“Who pressed the charges? James Herrick?”

“Yes.”

Mettle shook his head. “Be real, guys. James Herrick is a mess of a human being. He’s got major priors. Sexual assault. Domestic abuse. And he’s a raging alcoholic.”

The left cop didn’t show a shred of emotion. “Herrick took a selfie immediately after the incident. The whole side of his face is swollen.”

“What was I supposed to do? He was on top of Rosie,” Mettle said. “He was trying to take advantage of her.”

The right cop pointed at me. “Are you Rosie?”

“Yes.”

“Did James Herrick hurt you, ma’am?”

I looked at Mettle.

“Go on. Tell them the truth,” Mettle said.

“No,” I said. “But I was pretty drunk. He might’ve intended to—I don’t know what was going to happen.”

The left cop took a pair of handcuffs off his belt. “Turn around, Matt.”

“You don’t need to cuff me,” Mettle said. “I’m going.”

The right cop took him by the arm and led him out the door. Without resistance, Mettle stepped outside, not bothering to look back at me.

“I’ll get you a good lawyer!” I said.

When they were gone, I hustled the rest of the way down the stairs and watched helplessly as they led Mettle to their cruiser and put a hand on his head to guide him into the backseat.

“I’m sorry,” I mouthed as the cruiser backed out of the driveway, the wheels spinning and pelting Mettle’s own cruiser with gravel.

12

I didn’t waste any time trying to look pretty, nor going to the bathroom, nor locking the doors, nor breathing. The moment that second cruiser disappeared around the bend, I hopped into my Honda and sped after it.

For the length of Beacon Street, the cruiser was right in front of me. Usually when I’m driving anywhere within visual distance of a cop, I keep one eye glued to the speedometer, making sure the needle twitches at the posted speed limit.

But this time, I didn’t monitor my speed. I stayed right behind the cruiser. If the cops were speeding, then I was speeding. If they stopped speeding to pull me over, like a silly game of Duck Duck Goose, my tongue was ready with a retort:

What fine examples you’re setting, Officers.

Mostly, I didn’t want to let Matt Mettle down. He had come to my aid and he had given Captain Herrick the punch that I had been wanting to deliver for a long time.

And yet Mettle was the one who was paying the price.

I had to help him. I couldn’t bear the thought of him sitting in a jail cell with the same lowlifes he had arrested over the years.

As I tailed the cruiser, I watched Mettle’s head bouncing in the backseat. As if his spine had turned into a wet noodle, his Chia Pet of ragged hair swayed back and forth with each curve in the road. He wasn’t bracing himself, but bouncing through the potholes.

Sitting in that same backseat where all the drunks had marked their territory was akin to me going back to school and sitting in one of the students’ desks while a teacher straight out of college tried to teach me how to read Dick and Jane.

Was there a worse form of relegation?

Not once, did