Death in a Family Way by Gwendolyn Southin

door.
    He knocked loudly on the door. “Come on, Bradshaw, open up.” He tried the handle but the door wouldn’t budge. He banged again, to no avail. “I’m going to look around the back, Maggie.”
    She followed him around the side of the house, and the cat followed her.
    The detective stretched up to see through the window, but the dirty net curtains did their job well. “There seems to be a light on in there.” He tapped on the window. “Ernie?”
    Maggie tried the back door. “Here, Mr. Southby. It’s open.” She pushed it a bit wider and the cat slipped between her feet into the utility room. “Mr. Bradshaw,” she called. She turned to her boss. “Do you think he’s sick?”
    â€œWe’d better take a look.”
    Emily was sitting outside the closed kitchen door, waiting for someone to open it for her. Maggie scooped the cat up and turned the handle. The place was a shambles—table, chairs, crockery all smashed or overturned—and amidst the mess lay Ernie Bradshaw, face down.
    â€œMr. Southby,” she cried out in horror. “It’s Mr. Bradshaw!” Nat Southby pushed past her and knelt beside Ernie to feel for a pulse. “Is he . . . is he dead?”
    â€œAfraid so.” He stood up, pulling his frightened assistant toward him. “The skin’s cold. He’s been dead for some time.” One of the old man’s arms was stretched out above him, the stiff claw-like fingers seeming to be reaching for some unknown object. The back of his head was completely caved in, and although the wound was crusted with blood, the detective immediately noted that there was none on the floor. “Curious!” he muttered.
    Maggie made a small whimpering sound, and to her boss’ consternation, he felt her slipping out of his grasp. Putting his arm around her, he guided her to the small living room at the front of the house. “Sit here, Maggie. I’ll get you some water.” He was back within seconds, and holding her head tightly, he got her to sip from the glass.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said after a moment, leaning back against the chair. “Who could’ve done such a thing?”
    â€œI don’t know,” he replied grimly. “But we’ll do our best to find out.” He stood looking down at her. “Will you be okay while I phone the police?”
    The wait seemed interminable to her. Nat Southby spent the time prowling the rest of the house. He found two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. One bedroom, obviously Ernie’s, included an unmade bed, a dresser, its open drawers spilling clothes onto the floor, and a closet, where clothes had been roughly pulled offtheir hangers. The whole room looked as if it had been given a thorough going-over. The second bedroom, used for storage, contained a single bed, boxes of books, broken appliances, stacks of old newspapers and magazines, and a closet full of men’s and women’s clothes. Nat retraced his steps downstairs and stood in the doorway of the kitchen, looking over the mess. He felt Maggie come up beside him and place her hand on his arm. “Contrived!” he said. “That’s it. It’s just too damn contrived.”
    â€œWhat do you mean—contrived?”
    â€œTake a look. At first glance you’d think there’d been a fierce fight, but it’s only the
back
of Ernie’s head that’s bashed in.” He felt Maggie give a violent shiver, and he began guiding her back to the living room. “You see,” he continued, “if Ernie had been in a fight, he would have had other bruises and abrasions, but as far as I can tell without moving him, he hasn’t.” There was a sound of a siren in the distance, and he went over to the window. “Even the mess is too neat—if you can understand what I mean.”
    She nodded, though still somewhat unsure. “What’s it