One Grave Too Many

had never asked anyone at the hospital about the long-term prognosis for Frank’s injuries. How he would be when he recovered. She’d been concerned only that he recover. But she thought of it now. Would he have any paralysis? A heart condition? She was afraid to ask. She started to get in her car, but stopped.
    “How is he? I mean, when he recovers, will he be OK?”
    “I don’t know. They repaired all the damage, and he has feeling in his arms and legs. The bullet didn’t get near the spine and apparently didn’t nick any of the nerves. He’ll be weak for a while. Go home and get some rest and try not to worry.”
    She got in her car and he closed the door for her. She rolled down her window to say good-bye and he handed her a card. “This has my cell phone number on it. Give me a call if you need anything.”
    She drove home and parked in front of her building. She was getting to feel like she was running a gauntlet in getting from her car to her apartment door, and she was tired of living like this. She hurried to the door, flew up the stairs and opened her apartment door. She flipped on the lights. She expected to feel safe, but didn’t. She felt scared.
    She stood in the hallway and listened for any sound—creaking, breathing, anything. This is silly, get a grip, she told herself. It was a small apartment with very few places to hide. In fact, under her bed and in her closet were it. She quickly checked both places, feeling foolish when she finished. What if she’d found someone? She didn’t have a weapon. This was really stupid. She walked back into the living room and was about to turn on the television when she saw a form in the draperies behind her living room chair. Her heart jumped in her chest. She was almost paralyzed in place.
    As casually as she could, she moved to the hall and into the kitchen to look for a weapon. What kind of weapon? Her mind raced, trying to think. A knife. Maybe, but how would she fare in a knife fight with some intruder? She could run but would she make it before he caught her? The best course of action would be to call for help. But her cell phone was in the bedroom, and whoever it was would hear her talking. She could grab the cell phone and lock herself in the bathroom. And then what—hope help arrived before he broke down the door? She heard a rustle and creaking of the floor. No time.
    She spotted her cast-iron skillet sitting on the stove, picked it up and stepped out into the hallway. She edged forward until she was almost to the living room. Maybe she could catch the intruder by surprise and knock him out. She raised it over her head as she saw a shadow cast by her lamp. One more second. Now she swung the pan, but at the last moment swerved and hit the wall with a crash, accompanied by a piercing scream.
    “Mrs. Odell, what are you doing in my apartment? Do you know I could have knocked your skull in?”
    Mrs. Odell, dressed in a pink chenille robe, was holding her chest and breathing hard. Diane led her to the sofa.
    “Are you all right? What are you doing in here?”
    “Looking.” She wheezed. “Looking for the cat.”
    “Mrs. Odell.” She was interrupted by a pounding on the door.
    “That’d be Marvin.” She was still breathing hard.
    Diane went to the door. A man, possibly in his seventies, a little shorter than Diane, was standing at the door with a concerned look on his horselike face.
    “Veda, Veda, was that you? Are you OK? What did you do to Veda?”
    “I almost knocked her out with an iron skillet. Mr. Odell, I don’t have a cat, I’ve never had a cat here, the landlady doesn’t allow cats.”
    “Veda was sure you did.”
    “What? She knocked her out with a frying pan?” A voice from the hallway said. The other tenants along with the landlady were murmuring outside her door.
    “Is something wrong?” asked the landlady. “Oh, dear.”
    “Mrs. Odell was hiding behind the draperies in my apartment. I almost crowned her with a skillet until I saw who it was,” explained Diane. The last thing she wanted was the neighbors to believe she was beating up little old ladies.
    The landlady entered with a justifiably contrite look on her face. “Oh, dear,” she clucked at Veda Odell.
    “How did you get in?” asked Diane.
    Veda cast her husband a guilty glance. “We, uh, well, we just borrowed . . .”
    “My key?” said the landlady. “Did you take my key?”
    “We borrowed it. Marvin has been having fits with his