Hemingway.â
I appreciated that literary-themed theory, but shook my head, trying to get Laura to focus. âNah . . . Mr. Killdare was sitting on a lawn tractor with
his skull caved in.
â I made an awkward motion with the flashlight, miming hitting the back of my head. âI donât think so.â
âYeah, I guess youâre right.â Laura seemed crestfallen. âBut I do think there might be something to all the medical billsâor appointment reminders . . . Whateverâs in these envelopes. They strike me as sort of strange.â
She was right, and I felt bad for wishing I hadnât brought her along. Laura Bugbee mightâve been a goody two-shoes who didnât like creeping through windows orâI glanced down at Chumleyâthe planetâs most incredible dog, but she was also insightful. âIf you really think these might be valuable, Iâll check them out,â I said, swiping some letters and stuffing them into the back pocket of my
suitable-for-a-crime
dark-wash jeans. âLater. At home.â
âWhat?â Laura grabbed my wrist. âYou canât take stuff. That wasnât part of the deal!â
âNobodyâs collecting on Mr. Killdareâs medical bills or expecting him to keep an appointment,â I reminded her. âHeâs dead. And dead men donât pay billsâor go to doctors.â
Actually, I wasnât sure about the payment part. But Mr. Killdare definitely couldnât get in trouble for falling behind on some debts. What would they do? Put him in prison?
âThe police probably want everything left just the way it was,â Laura said, pointing out something I hadnât thought about. âThis might all be evidence.â
Well, it was disturbed evidence at that point, and I couldnât undisturb it. Besides, the police had probably come and gone already.
But they wouldnât clean up piles of dog poop, even if theyâd found that. Meanwhile, somebody was collecting Mr. Killdareâs mail
before
most of us even knew he was dead, because there was never anything on his porch. So whoâs been taking care of the place? A housekeeperâor someone else?
I was about to mention that something about the mail situation and Chumleyâs 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, âYou donât think Mr. Killdare
had a friend,
do you?â
Chapter 15
It was just a postcardâa flimsy piece of cardboard with a foreign stamp and a pretty picture of a town called Lucerne, in Switzerlandâbut it was almost heartbreaking to find it among all the other impersonal mail on Coach Killdareâs kitchen table.
âThis makes him seem almost . . . human,â Laura said softly. âSomebody actually thought about him while they were on vacation.â
âYeah, really . . .â 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 wasnât just a mean, loud ogre. Somebody cared about him.
Then again, Iâd heard that most murders were committed by people who supposedly loved one another, and given that the pool of individuals whoâd 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: âHaving a great time but missing you. Love, BeeBee.â I glanced at Laura, not sure why Iâd hesitated. âNot very original, huh?â
But my co-investigator had her
Philipp Frank
Nancy Krulik
Linda Green
Christopher Jory
Monica Alexander
Carolyn Williford
Eve Langlais
William Horwood
Sharon Butala
Suz deMello