The restaurant was part of a block of small, quaint stores shaded by charming green awnings. Huge pots of trimmed rosemary bordered the sidewalk, lending a spicy, herbal fragrance to the warm air.  Madeleine felt an immediate liking for the area, if for no other reason than the color of the green awning was only two shades off from the curtains that caused Carol Duncan such distress earlier.  It seemed so apropos, especially after Carol fired Madeleine for suggesting forest green.

Although, Madeleine reflected as she parked her car in the small lot, her dismissal might have owed more to her off-hand comment that she was the interior decorator and not Carol.  The existing color scheme of unrelenting beige made that lamentably obvious and Madeleine had politely, but firmly, pointed that out.

And then Carol had politely, but firmly, pointed out the door.

All of which left Madeleine free for the afternoon and very hungry.

She climbed out of her car and strolled the short distance to sidewalk, determined to enjoy her freedom.  The restaurant was not overly crowded and Madeleine was pleased to have a quiet table in the corner. The Italian food was hot, spicy and filled with warm comfort and in less than forty minutes, Madeleine was presented with the bill. 

After all the tensions of the day, her full stomach and the calm environment made her sleepy.  She did not bother to scan the parking lot for potential muggers—it was too nice a day to worry.  Bad guys had to take occasional breaks and eat, too, she told herself as she stepped into the brilliant sunshine.  And how would anyone know she had stopped here to eat?  Her choice had been entirely random.

Besides, who would want to kill an interior decorator?

Even the police told her not to worry.  People who sent threatening letters rarely followed through.  In fact, most people rarely followed through with anything, including the most innocuous and mundane actions.

Outside, she paused near the doorway and blinked in the golden, late afternoon sunshine, enjoying her first few minutes of leisure in several days.  A rope dangling down the wall next to her, fastened to a small peg.  Distracted, her eyes followed the rope up to a window washer suspended on a narrow platform just over the door. 

He was scrubbing a row of dark windows that ran around what appeared to be a false second story above the Italian restaurant.  Fascinated with the sight of the man’s sneaker-clad feet, she did not watch where she was going, and she tripped on the top step. 

Her hands flailed, clutching at the air.  She threw herself back, hoping to grab the door’s handle.  Her fingers brushed the rope and she grabbed it.  The window washer’s anchoring cable held her up briefly.  She stood poised on the edge of the step, gripping the rope and for one second, thought she had regained her balance.

Then the cable came loose in her hand. Her weight yanked it away from its peg and she pulled on it, hoping to stop her fall.

As she flailed, rope still clutched in her hand, she heard a popping sound.  A warm whoosh of air passed by her left ear.  Her shoulder hit the pavement, forcing the air out of her chest.  She released the rope, which wasn’t doing her any good anyway, and flung her arms out to protect her face as she rolled with the momentum of her fall.

As she came to a stop, her hands braced on the cement, a few strands of her hair landed softly on her hand.  Madeleine stared at the long, curling hair as she lay sprawled on the pavement.  She realized what the popping sound was.

Someone had shot at her and missed by a hair.  Or rather, the bullet had managed, somehow, to snatch a few hairs off while it thankfully missed her head.  She flinched belatedly and tucked her legs up when the horrendous sounds of metal clanging, glass breaking, and people screaming assaulted her ears. 

She glanced up, peering around the crook of her arm toward the door.

There was a straight corridor through the restaurant from the front door to the back door, with the dining room to the right and the kitchen to the left.  The hallway was strangely empty at that precise moment.

The rope she pulled had come untied or else something critical had broken.  The cable holding up the platform on which the window cleaner perched swayed. 

She eyed the door, knowing what was coming and scrambling backward.  The bullet had made a small, perfectly round hole in center of the plate glass.  What were the odds…

The platform, suddenly suspended by only one rope, swung down sharply.  The bucket resting on the platform sailed off and hit the plate glass door in approximately the same location where the bullet had drilled its neat, clean hole.  The hole and the door dissolved into a shower of fragments.

All evidence of the gunshot disappeared, along with the glass.

The window washer, finding his firm seat tilting, pushed his feet against the wall.  He threw himself with surprising grace over to the right where the lovely green awning broke his fall. 

He rolled over the awning to the edge, caught it and miraculously landed on his feet a mere six inches from where Madeleine lay clutching her knees.  Two seconds later, the metal rails holding the awning, stressed by the man’s weight, snapped.  The entire structure slowly came down over the restaurant’s wide front window.

The customers seated at the front window heard the crash as the front door disintegrated and there were a few isolated gasps of surprise.  Their unease transformed into hysterical screaming, however, when the sunlight streaming in from the window next to them was slowly extinguished.  The awning settled over the glass like a curtain, leaving them in the deep, sultry gloom of a jungle night.

The bullet, traveling in a straight line, passed entirely through the restaurant’s hallway and out the back door.  The chef’s assistant stood at the back door, holding it open to feed week-old meatballs to a starving cat in the alley.  The tabby was nearly five pounds overweight from similar dining opportunities, but it continued to believe it was dying from hunger and refused to pass up a free meal. 

The cat glanced up in surprise when the bullet whizzed over its head. 

The assistant, unaware of the danger, bent over and shook the pan to recapture the cat’s attention.  The man never felt the warm breeze or noticed the strange noises, even when the bullet hit the far wall above the trash bin and fell with a clink into the day’s refuse.

The tabby cat, startled by the mellow ‘ting’ of the bullet, let out a yowl.  The sound reverberated through the hallway, perfectly complementing the sudden descent into tropical forest gloom within the restaurant.  The panic in the dining room rose higher.  Some of the customers screamed, convinced that a hungry lion had gotten loose from the zoo and was attacking the restaurant. 

Through the mounting hysteria, Madeleine heard a few shouts in Italian.  It sounded like the owner trying to convince everyone that they were not being fattened up to serve as a big cat’s dinner.

He sounded very annoyed.

When all but the screaming stopped, Madeleine got up and checked her knees.  Her stockings were shredded as was most of the skin on her palms.  She had a strong urge to cry.  But at least she was still alive.  Whoever had tried to kill her had missed.  Again.

She glanced over to the window washer who was also dusting himself off.  “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine.  What about you?”

“I’m fine.”  She eyed the shattered door.  “Perhaps you should leave?”

“Leave?” he repeated with a dazed expression on his face.

She gestured towards the restaurant.  “Before they come out.  The owner may be a little...angry.”

“Oh, yeah.”  He studied the remains of his platform and ropes.  “I thought I tied that thing off.”

Madeleine blushed.  She didn’t feel up to explaining that she grabbed his rope trying to break her fall at the same moment someone had apparently tried to shoot her.

She’d sound insane if she admitted it now, anyway.

Glancing around nervously, she repeated her suggestion that he might want to make good his escape before anyone found their way outside.  The search for a responsible party would commence soon.  She, personally, had no desire to face a hostile crowd. 

And someone with a gun and poor aim might still be lurking nearby.

After checking each other over again, she parted with the window washer and wished him well on his next career endeavor.  She, for one, had no illusions about his current prospects if he continued to stand around with his mouth hanging open and his bucket lying inside the shattered door.

He seemed a little slow at grasping the obvious.

The window washer was still standing, hands on his hips, staring at the sole remaining rope when Madeleine climbed into her car and squealed out of the parking lot.