Crazy Like a Fox (Lil & Boris #3) (Lil & Boris Mysteries) Read Online Free PDF Page B

in a load of towels after lunch. I mentally reviewed my yoga routine. Mat work. Standing poses. And the world fuzzed out. Or had it?
    I thought hard on that after the guys were gone. The doctor came in and told me I was making excellent progress and could go home the next day, with no permanent damage to hands or feet, although they’d be tender and painful for several more days. Then I was left alone, thinking. How the hell had those two guys gotten me down? I knew the doctors had looked for head trauma, and generally if you get knocked out, there’s a mark or a trace or something a doctor can find. So what had they done?
    I had been in down dog and…‌I heard the bowl break….There had to be something in between. Had to be.
    The memory bobbed up and smacked me.
    I’d heard something on the stairs into the cellar. I’d turned. Boris had woken with a growl. And then there’d been a lot of nothing but a zappy sort of pain, an inability to move…‌then more zap.
    I growled. I had been tazered. But not the single little five-second burst that usually is enough to make someone sit quietly in the back of a cruiser. They’d kept hitting me until I passed out. I wasn’t sure how many hits that would take. Hollywood to the contrary, stun guns don’t render you instantly unconscious. But if you get hit more than once? At once? Let’s just say I have my doubts‌—‌and I’m pretty dang sure getting hit by many thousands of volts would explain the gaps in my memory between yoga, the broken bowl, and waking up in that trunk.
    I exhaled slowly. Then I got the phone and dialed Tom’s number. Bad enough I’d been tazered and tossed in a trunk, but now I had to do the smart thing, and let someone else investigate it.

4.
    I got home to find that little elves had been at work. I could name them, too. Aunt Marge was behind the new art deco bowl on the coffee table for me to toss keys and mail in. Bobbi had left the cinnamon rolls, and I bet she was the one who’d done the laundry. I could practically smell Tom at work on the brand new shiny double deadbolt on my door, and the new, improved, supplementary locks on my windows. And only Kim‌—‌bless her heart, as we say‌—‌would have put vanilla-scented candles all over the place.
    I settled in on my couch to rest, after I’d downed the super-healthy vegetarian soup Aunt Marge left in the refrigerator. I’d been raised a vegetarian, with no regrets, but Aunt Marge forbade all foods ending in –os , along with all other processed foods, and did not recognize pizza as a legitimate means of obtaining nourishment. I had my own views on that, and I called Old Mill, the town’s sole restaurant, and just lately its new source for pizza. Seth Campbell, the owner, was a distant cousin via an Eller infidelity, but he was a decent guy, and he made the kind of food you couldn’t get tired of. And that’s despite the fact his menu had a grand total of twelve items, half of which involved homemade french fries on the side.
    While Boris prowled the house angrily mrrowling at the changes, I ordered the triple-cheese, with spinach as a sop to my conscience, and sighed. I was on much weaker pain meds, which meant I could think clearly, but I let my brain take the day off. I was just glad to be home.
    There was one other sign that little elves had been here. Someone‌—‌by name of Punk Sims, I was betting‌—‌had left me an activity summary of what had gone on during my absence. I yawned and kicked back and read up on which mice had played while the cat was away. Josie Shifflett had gotten another warning about her catalytic converter. Eddie Brady spent a night in our tiny jail for public intoxication, more for his own safety than anything else. Kyra Fulton over on Spottswood Lane had gotten a ticket for not having her Yorkie on a leash, said Yorkie having come to Punk’s attention when the Rivers family next door called about the fact it had defecated all over the