Dead In The Water (Rebecca Schwartz Mystery #4) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

in a barrel, puffers aren’t that big, and Esperanza missed the first time. Warren slapped me a couple of times to improve her aim.
    The second time, by placing the point of the spear nearly on her fish, she got one, and it nearly broke my heart that he wouldn’t let me gather her up when she sat down and cried in the middle of the bathroom floor.
    But there was a bright side. Warren was so annoyed at the damage caused by the spear, he let her net the second.
    I was encouraged by the yawn. When I retied Esperanza, I not only didn’t tie her tightly, I barely tied her at all. He didn’t check the knots.
    “I need more coffee.”
    Delighted to oblige. I slipped in the third cap.
    He sipped and watched me contentedly while I put together a perfectly splendid fish stew.
    I filleted the fish, finding the prized liver and guts, then chopped onions, garlic, and tomatoes, just as he predicted, biding my time. He was big and he’d eaten a lot. It would take time, but three caps of the stuff would work eventually. I kept telling myself that. Over and over.
    The stew was simmering in a pot, the skillet I’d used for sautéeing still on the stove, Warren sitting on the counter when he began to yawn and blink steadily.
    Julio said, “You’ll never get away with it, Warren. What the hell do you plan to do with four bodies?”
    “Why, nothing.” He showed us his tonsils, didn’t even stifle the yawn. “You and Rebecca simply made puffer bouillabaisse, and poisoned yourselves and two kids. The reason will never be known.” He shrugged, smiling. He rubbed an eye with his gun hand. The bastard was having the time of his life.
    Never even turning my head, taking aim out of the comer of my eye, I picked up the skillet with both hands and bashed the hand holding the gun, still at his face. I swung the hot pan like a baseball bat, swung my whole body with it, hoping to injure both hand and face. The gun flew out of his hand, over the counter, dropping on the other side in the living room.
    He could have gone for me, subdued me, and then retrieved the gun, but he was too woozy, perhaps, and I still had the frying pan. Instead, he went for the gun, swinging his legs around and over the counter, dropping off the other side.
    It was a smart move. I either had to climb up and drop down to follow him, or go around the counter and into the living room through the door. I chose that way, and by the time I got there, he was picking himself up, now holding the gun, but he hadn’t yet had the time to wheel around.
    “Warren, look out!” Esperanza’s voice was desperate.
    He stared at her, and caught a hagfish in the face. Slime hung on him like cobwebs. “Aaaarrrh!”
    Automatically his hand rose to wipe off the loathsome mess, and Esperanza threw another. He threw up the other hand to defend himself. And I crowned him with the skillet.
    He fell forward. I hit him again, and then a third time, prostrating him. When he was lying on his nose, I hit him again.
    “Rebecca?” Esperanza’s voice was small. “Do you want the gun?”
    She was holding it with two hands the way she’d seen the good guys do it on television.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
     
    “It’s easy to catch a hagfish. They can’t see you coming because they don’t have eyes.”
    “Gross.” But Keil was jealous, I could tell.
    “Okay,” said Libby. “If it’s so easy, let’s see you do it again. Bet you five dollars you won’t do it again.”
    Esperanza’s golden face lit up. “Bet I will.”
    Marty said, “Do we have to? At the dinner table? Couldn’t we talk about something else?”
    Libby and Esperanza spoke as one, outraged. “But we have to! It’s our therapy.”
    “Just not hagfish, okay? The frying pan, sure; shooting the puffer, no big deal, just no hagfish. Please?”
    Keil stuffed turkey and dressing into his mouth, but Marty took a break, held her napkin over her mouth for quite a while, finally swallowed, and resumed eating. Slowly.
    It was Thanksgiving, and we were all together—all the Whiteheads, even Don; both the Sotos; me, of course; and Ricky. It was our reunion, for all of us who’d been through it, except Ava.
    The kids had been rushed into therapy, and from the way Marty was behaving, I thought maybe she’d enrolled herself as well. From her refusal to invite Ava, for one thing. “I’m sick and tired of being a victim. I don’t care if she cries all day and all night. She makes the kids miserable, she makes me miserable, and if