By the time we recovered from our panicky . . . excuse me, our shrewd defensive maneuvers, there was nothing to see except the vague shape of someone with huge wings disappearing out the front door.
“This one’s all yours, dear,” Drahcir said firmly, his posture erect and unmoved despite the sudden activity.
“Come on, honey,” his wife pleaded. “You’re so much better at explaining things. You’re supposed to help me out when it comes to talking to people.”
“It’s a skill I polished at those personal appearances you’re so critical of,” he retorted stiffly.
“Would somebody tell me what’s going on?” I said in tones much louder than I usually use when I’m a guest in someone’s home.
Before I could get an answer, the door burst open again utterly destroying what little was left of my nervous system.
“Hey, Boss! Did you s-se-Wha-wa….”
“Outside, Guido!” I ordered, glad to have someone I could shout at without feeling guilty. “Blow your nose … and I’m fine, thanks! Nice of you to ask!”
By the time my bodyguard had staggered back outside, his face half buried in a handkerchief, I had managed to regain most of my composure.
“Sorry for the interruption,” I said as nonchalantly as I could, “but my colleague does raise an interesting question! What was that?”
“Scary?” Massha suggested.
Apparently she had recovered her composure a little better than I had. I closed my eyes and reflected again on the relative value of cheeky apprentices.
“That,” Drahcir said loftily, barely in time to keep me from my assistant’s throat, “was Vic . . . one of my wife’s weird artist friends who dropped in unannounced for a prolonged stay and, unless I miss my guess, the criminal you’re looking for who framed your partner.”