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“Still, haven’t you had enough of chasing after Mr. Booker? First you got shot at...”
“We’ve agreed those shots were fired by his crazy roommate.”
“Does Booker really have a roommate?” Drayton asked.
“Philip told me he did.”
“As I was saying... then Mignon’s brand spanking new shop was trashed.”
“We don’t know for a fact that Booker was responsible for that. It could have been Ginny Bell hating on Mignon. If you could have seen those two at the funeral luncheon this morning—talk about horrific cat fights.”
“Why are you so all-fired anxious to find Booker?” Drayton asked.
“I want to look him in the eye and ask him outright if he killed Osgood Claxton. Ask him if he trashed Mignon’s shop.”
“You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” Drayton said.
“Come on, Drayton, it’ll be an adventure.”
“I’d have to change. I certainly can’t slosh through mangroves and pluff mud in my good clothes.”
“When we get to your place you can change.”
“Nothing I say will dissuade you?”
“If you don’t want to go, I’ll go by myself. It’s no big deal.”
Drayton’s head spun in Theodosia’s direction. “Are you kidding? It is a big deal. Let you wander around in the dark and try to locate Booker all by yourself? Not on your life!”
Theodosia smiled to herself. “Is that a yes?”
Drayton sighed. “A reluctant yes.”
“Good. Thank you,” Theodosia said as she pulled to the curb outside Drayton’s house. “I mean that.”
“Even though we may be putting ourselves in harm’s way?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. And I kind of wish we had a gun. You know, just for protection purposes.”
Drayton was silent for a few moments, then he said, “I hate to admit this, but I have one.”
“What!” Theodosia could barely contain her surprise.
“Don’t look so shocked.”
“But I am. I always thought of you as a natural-born pacifist. Someone who abhors guns. That time we went bird shooting, you didn’t even want to handle the shotgun.”
“Because I didn’t want to kill innocent birds,” Drayton said.
“Still, you own a gun.” Theodosia couldn’t get over this strange revelation. Then again, Drayton continually astounded her.
Drayton shrugged. “It’s your basic hand-me-down pistol that I inherited a couple of years ago when my aunt Polly died. Her executor foisted a few cartons of books and hideous knickknacks on me, and lo and behold, there was the gun, beneath a dog-eared copy of Great Expectations. An old Belgian Velo-dog. I don’t even know if it works. If push came to shove, I don’t know that it would accurately fire a bullet.”
“Do you have ammo?”
Drayton looked suddenly uncomfortable. “Yes.” He drew out the word slowly. “A box of Remington .22’s came with it. But, again, you know how I feel about shooting.”
“Maybe you should think of your pistol as a defensive measure.”
