Read Online Sight Shot (Imogene Museum Mystery #3) by Jerusha Jones - Free Book Online
Authors: Jerusha Jones
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else time had flown by while I was in the Garman house. A zillion stars winked overhead.
I drove slowly, my mind wandering over the sadness evident at the Garmans ’ — the way one visitor and a dog had brightened Mrs. Garman’s day. How much did I really know about my neighbors, about their heartache and needs? Why are people so determined to appear stalwart and sufficient? I do it — all the time. It’s my habit to brush off offers of assistance.
What would happen if I said ‘yes’ and ‘thank you’ more often? And just how nosy would my neighbors let me be if I wanted to find out what their true needs are?
Tuppence sat up straight and alert, her ears swaying as her head swiveled back and forth. I ’d have to lock her in the trailer tonight since the booming fireworks would be audible for miles around. Tuppence isn’t trained as a hunting dog — she does her hound scenting thing quite naturally, if unpredictably — but that also means she’s not desensitized to gunfire and other loud, scary and distracting noises. So her pillow bed and a gigantic rawhide treat were in her near future.
I came to the intersection with Highway 14, turned west and picked up speed. Red taillights bumped and blinked ahead of me. I squinted through the windshield and took my foot off the gas.
Sure enough. Somebody’d been celebrating already. The beat-up pickup swerved from the shoulder to the center line and back again. The muffler dragged on the pavement, sending out random sparks when it flinted against a rough patch. Either the driver had already run over something or didn’t care that his vehicle was coming apart around him.
I nudged my truck over to the shoulder, put it in park and pulled my phone out of my purse. Tuppence whined. “Yeah, I know. He’s going to hit somebody.”
The drunk driver continued on, but haltingly. We were on a straight stretch, and he ’d be in sight for a while at that pace. I dialed Sheriff Marge.
“ Yep,” she hollered.
“ DUI westbound on 14 between Cork Creek and Platts Landing,” I said.
Sheriff Marge muttered something unintelligible. Her tires squealed in the background, and there were crunching noises.
“You okay?” I shouted.
“ Course I am. Just turning around. Describe the vehicle.”
“ Brown F-150, very old and dented, dragging a muffler.” I flinched as the pickup made an abrupt right-hand turn and skidded nose first into the drainage ditch. “He’s in the ditch now. We might need an ambulance.”
“ That’s Amos Stanley’s truck,” Sheriff Marge said. “Not much of a drinker. Might be a medical problem. Are you close enough to check on him?”
“ Yep. I’m going.” I hung up and threw my truck into gear.
I pulled around Amos ’s truck and hit the brakes. “You stay here,” I needlessly told Tuppence as I slammed the door. I only knew Amos as the old guy who hawks loogies on the sidewalk in town, preferably when there’s a lady around to see it. I don’t know why he does this. I just give him a wide berth — normally.
I slid down the four-foot embankment and yanked on the driver ’s side handle. The door fell open with gravity pulling it, and I had to jump out of the way. The bottom corner of the door sliced into the mud and stuck fast. I landed a couple inches deep in mud too. Amos was face first into the steering wheel.
I patted his shoulder. “Amos!”
He moaned. Good sign. But was he having a heart attack?
“Amos!” I yelled again.
“ Go ‘way,” he mumbled, still implanted in the steering wheel. “Takin’ a nap.”
“ Oh no. You have to wake up.” I shook him gently.
No response.
I pinched him — hard.
“ Yow!” Amos tried to sit up, but the angle was against him and he slumped over the wheel again. A trickle of blood ran from a gash across the bridge of his nose. “Leave me ‘lone, woman.”
“ Nope. You have to talk to me. Do you feel numb? Is your speech always this slurred?”
“ Jes’ like a woman.
I drove slowly, my mind wandering over the sadness evident at the Garmans ’ — the way one visitor and a dog had brightened Mrs. Garman’s day. How much did I really know about my neighbors, about their heartache and needs? Why are people so determined to appear stalwart and sufficient? I do it — all the time. It’s my habit to brush off offers of assistance.
What would happen if I said ‘yes’ and ‘thank you’ more often? And just how nosy would my neighbors let me be if I wanted to find out what their true needs are?
Tuppence sat up straight and alert, her ears swaying as her head swiveled back and forth. I ’d have to lock her in the trailer tonight since the booming fireworks would be audible for miles around. Tuppence isn’t trained as a hunting dog — she does her hound scenting thing quite naturally, if unpredictably — but that also means she’s not desensitized to gunfire and other loud, scary and distracting noises. So her pillow bed and a gigantic rawhide treat were in her near future.
I came to the intersection with Highway 14, turned west and picked up speed. Red taillights bumped and blinked ahead of me. I squinted through the windshield and took my foot off the gas.
Sure enough. Somebody’d been celebrating already. The beat-up pickup swerved from the shoulder to the center line and back again. The muffler dragged on the pavement, sending out random sparks when it flinted against a rough patch. Either the driver had already run over something or didn’t care that his vehicle was coming apart around him.
I nudged my truck over to the shoulder, put it in park and pulled my phone out of my purse. Tuppence whined. “Yeah, I know. He’s going to hit somebody.”
The drunk driver continued on, but haltingly. We were on a straight stretch, and he ’d be in sight for a while at that pace. I dialed Sheriff Marge.
“ Yep,” she hollered.
“ DUI westbound on 14 between Cork Creek and Platts Landing,” I said.
Sheriff Marge muttered something unintelligible. Her tires squealed in the background, and there were crunching noises.
“You okay?” I shouted.
“ Course I am. Just turning around. Describe the vehicle.”
“ Brown F-150, very old and dented, dragging a muffler.” I flinched as the pickup made an abrupt right-hand turn and skidded nose first into the drainage ditch. “He’s in the ditch now. We might need an ambulance.”
“ That’s Amos Stanley’s truck,” Sheriff Marge said. “Not much of a drinker. Might be a medical problem. Are you close enough to check on him?”
“ Yep. I’m going.” I hung up and threw my truck into gear.
I pulled around Amos ’s truck and hit the brakes. “You stay here,” I needlessly told Tuppence as I slammed the door. I only knew Amos as the old guy who hawks loogies on the sidewalk in town, preferably when there’s a lady around to see it. I don’t know why he does this. I just give him a wide berth — normally.
I slid down the four-foot embankment and yanked on the driver ’s side handle. The door fell open with gravity pulling it, and I had to jump out of the way. The bottom corner of the door sliced into the mud and stuck fast. I landed a couple inches deep in mud too. Amos was face first into the steering wheel.
I patted his shoulder. “Amos!”
He moaned. Good sign. But was he having a heart attack?
“Amos!” I yelled again.
“ Go ‘way,” he mumbled, still implanted in the steering wheel. “Takin’ a nap.”
“ Oh no. You have to wake up.” I shook him gently.
No response.
I pinched him — hard.
“ Yow!” Amos tried to sit up, but the angle was against him and he slumped over the wheel again. A trickle of blood ran from a gash across the bridge of his nose. “Leave me ‘lone, woman.”
“ Nope. You have to talk to me. Do you feel numb? Is your speech always this slurred?”
“ Jes’ like a woman.
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