“Mr. Quattermain?” I said, whirling around. “You okay?”

Darius Quattermain, deacon of Antioch Holiness Church, began to sing “She’ll Be Comin‘ Round the Mountain” in a manic bellow. He also kept up with his task, with one big difference. Instead of stacking the wood neatly under the stairs, Darius pitched split pieces of oak in all directions.

“Whoa!” I said loudly. Even to my own ears, I sounded panicky instead of authoritative. When the next piece of firewood missed my shoulder by only a foot or so, I retreated into the house, locking the door behind me. After a minute, I risked a peek out the window. Darius showed no signs of calming down, and there was still a lot of wood on the back of his pickup. I was thinking of it as ammunition now, instead of fuel.

I dialed the sheriff’s department, since our house is outside the city limits.

“SPACOLEC,” said Doris Post. “SPACOLEC” stands for Sparling County Law Enforcement Complex. It sounded like Doris was chewing a mouthful of gum. I figured she must be trying to quit smoking again.

“Doris, this is Aurora Teagarden.”

“Oh, hi, hon. How you doing?”

“Just fine, thank you, hope you’re well. Ah-I have a situation here.”

“Is that right? What’s happening?”

“You know Darius Quattermain?”

“The black man who delivers wood? Got six kids? Wife works at Food Fantastic?”

“Right.” I peered out the window, hoping that somehow the situation would have changed for the normal. Nope. “He’s gone crazy.”

“Whereabouts?”

“In my side yard. He seemed just fine when he got here, but all of a sudden he started singing and chunking wood.”