Page 93 of The Body in the Backyard

“I got a vacuum cleaner up the butt in there,” the woman complained.

“I’ll take you to a proctologist if we can get out of here alive,” Riley said, yanking Mr. Willicott out from behind the tapestry.

She pulled both of them into the foyer and out the front door.

It slammed behind them, but judging from the noise level inside, no one would have heard.

“Come on,” she said to her coconspirators. “Let’s go this way.” They’d just pretend they’d been looking on this side of the house for Burt, she decided. Totally innocent. Definitely not breaking or entering.

They jogged off the front porch and around the side of the house, sticking to the grass this time. Mrs. Penny was huffing and puffing and falling behind. Mr. Willicott gave up and slowed to a walk.

Riley had just cleared Ingram’s office patio when Burt bolted past with what looked like the roast clutched in his jaws. The two tiny yappers raced after him. Josie, Jasmine, the chef, and the disgruntled housekeeper appeared, looking slack-jawed.

“Is that your dog?” the housekeeper demanded as Burt zigged, then zagged into the neighbor’s yard.

“Uh, no,” Riley said wisely. “Pork Rind is smaller and doesn’t break and enter.”

Ingram appeared behind her on the patio of his office with one of the long rifles clutched in his hands. “I’m gonna shoot those dogs and all you intruders, and then I’m firing everyone else,” he shouted.

“Here we go again,” the chef muttered, plugging his ears.

Ingram shouldered the gun and took aim.

The housekeeper covered her eyes.

“Noooo!” Riley, Josie, and Jasmine screamed. They were all in motion with Riley leading the way in a dead sprint toward the man with the gun.

Burt ducked into a copse of trees on the property line a split second before the rifle fired. Ingram was already crumpling to the ground when Riley reached him.

Mrs. Penny appeared behind him, holding the club she’d stolen off the wall. “Told you this would come in handy,” she said, tapping it against her palm.

The housekeeper nudged Ingram with her foot.

“Shit. Is he dead?” the chef asked, lighting a cigarette and looking remarkably not concerned enough given the situation.

“Nope. Knocked out,” the housekeeper reported.

Movement from the trees had Riley sagging with relief. Burt pranced unscathed out of the shadows and spit the roast on the grass. The little dogs joyfully pounced on the meat.

“Oh, thank God. He didn’t shoot them,” Riley breathed.

“He can’t. We replaced all his ammo with blanks after he got drunk and shot out the windshield of the Pritchetts’ golf cart this summer,” the chef said, hooking the unconscious Ingram under the armpits.

The housekeeper grabbed his ankles.

“How can you two stand working for him?” Jasmine asked, looking aghast.

“He’s a drunk. Last year, he told us he was cutting our pay. Turns out he was wasted and accidentally added a zero to both our salaries. The guy’s so rich he never even noticed,” the chef said as they carried Ingram to one of the chairs on the patio.

The housekeeper shrugged and wiped her hands on her apron. “For half a million dollars each, we don’t mind cleaning up after the drunk asshole. At least not for a few more months when I can afford to retire to Italy and Chef here can open his own place at the beach.” The chef held up a hand, and the housekeeper high-fived him. She turned back to Riley and her crew. “Now I’m assuming it would be better for all of you if Mr. Theodoric didn’t remember you when he wakes up.”

Riley bit her lip. “Um, maybe?”

“Yeah, I thought so. Game recognizes game,” the housekeeper prompted.

The chef ducked into Theodoric’s office.

“Okay, yes,” Riley admitted. “It would be great if no one ever mentioned we’d been here.”