As the door slowly swung inwards, a dark shadow started moving towards him. It was much brighter outside the room and the door opening brightened the room, and the sudden burst of bright light hurt his eyes.
He blinked once, then again, hardly believing his eyes.
The proverbial beguiling blonde.
Early twenties, slim, in a one-piece red dress that looked like it cost more than his annual salary, with matching shoes and nails. Holding a gun pointed directly at his head.
The door hitting the stopper broke his reverie.
If he was going to die, this was one of the preferred methods.
Lavender, her perfume was lavender.
The gun never left his head. It would be his luck she was an expert marksman, the local gun club champion.
"Make it quick," he said voice hoarse.
"Make what quick?"
Even in the pale light, her perplexed look was obvious. She stopped several feet short of where he was now sitting. High heels made her look taller than she was.
There was no mistaking the look of annoyance on her face.
Why? Because of Al? Who was she?
"If you're going to shoot me..."
"I'm not. Well, not yet." She glanced at the body. "Your work?"
"No. I don't carry a gun."
"Perhaps you should."
He noticed her gun hand had acquired the shakes. "Don't you think you should aim it elsewhere? I'm just a little nervous..."
"...it might accidentally go off? You're safe. Whoever shot him did the world a favor. I take it you were not his friend."
"He was my client. I'm a private detective."
After Harry said it, he thought it sounded stupid. He certainly felt stupid, tied up.
"Apparently not a very good one. What are you doing here?"
"Got hit on the head, and didn’t have a choice. Who are you?"
"I‘m his daughter, Cathy."
© Charles Heath 2016-2018