Buzz Kill by Beth Fantaskey Page B

Hemingway.”
    I appreciated that literary-themed theory, but shook my head, trying to get Laura to focus. “Nah . . . Mr. Killdare was sitting on a lawn tractor with
his skull caved in.
” I made an awkward motion with the flashlight, miming hitting the back of my head. “I don’t think so.”
    â€œYeah, I guess you’re right.” Laura seemed crestfallen. “But I do think there might be something to all the medical bills—or appointment reminders . . . Whatever’s in these envelopes. They strike me as sort of strange.”
    She was right, and I felt bad for wishing I hadn’t brought her along. Laura Bugbee might’ve been a goody two-shoes who didn’t like creeping through windows or—I glanced down at Chumley—the planet’s most incredible dog, but she was also insightful. “If you really think these might be valuable, I’ll check them out,” I said, swiping some letters and stuffing them into the back pocket of my
suitable-for-a-crime
dark-wash jeans. “Later. At home.”
    â€œWhat?” Laura grabbed my wrist. “You can’t take stuff. That wasn’t part of the deal!”
    â€œNobody’s collecting on Mr. Killdare’s medical bills or expecting him to keep an appointment,” I reminded her. “He’s dead. And dead men don’t pay bills—or go to doctors.”
    Actually, I wasn’t sure about the payment part. But Mr. Killdare definitely couldn’t get in trouble for falling behind on some debts. What would they do? Put him in prison?
    â€œThe police probably want everything left just the way it was,” Laura said, pointing out something I hadn’t thought about. “This might all be evidence.”
    Well, it was disturbed evidence at that point, and I couldn’t undisturb it. Besides, the police had probably come and gone already.
But they wouldn’t clean up piles of dog poop, even if they’d found that. Meanwhile, somebody was collecting Mr. Killdare’s mail
before
most of us even knew he was dead, because there was never anything on his porch. So who’s been taking care of the place? A housekeeper—or someone else?
    I was about to mention that something about the mail situation and Chumley’s being fat, happy, and relatively clean seemed weird to me when I realized that Laura was staring at the table.
    Following her gaze, I saw it, too.
    Then Laura and I looked at each other and said, simultaneously and with no small measure of surprise, “You don’t think Mr. Killdare
had a friend,
do you?”

Chapter 15
    It was just a postcard—a flimsy piece of cardboard with a foreign stamp and a pretty picture of a town called Lucerne, in Switzerland—but it was almost heartbreaking to find it among all the other impersonal mail on Coach Killdare’s kitchen table.
    â€œThis makes him seem almost . . . human,” Laura said softly. “Somebody actually thought about him while they were on vacation.”
    â€œYeah, really . . .” I kept turning the card back and forth, not sure whether I should read the message. Breaking and entering was invasive. And stealing mail, like I was doing, might technically be a federal offense. But something about reading a very personal, if small, note was finally making me feel surprisingly squeamish and guilty.
    Mr. Killdare wasn’t just a mean, loud ogre. Somebody cared about him.
    Then again, I’d heard that most murders were committed by people who supposedly loved one another, and given that the pool of individuals who’d been fond of Mr. Killdare was pretty small, it seemed foolish to overlook what might be genuinely important information.
    Making my decision, I read out loud: “Having a great time but missing you. Love, BeeBee.” I glanced at Laura, not sure why I’d hesitated. “Not very original, huh?”
    But my co-investigator had her