Fall Guy by Carol Lea Benjamin Page A

me, and I’d get a free pie, regular, nothing extra on it. I was sure I’d qualified for several already.
    When we got back inside, I put three slices on a plate to cool for Dashiell and pushed O’Fallon’s papers aside to keep them clean. Dash watched me eat, a bit disappointed. Maybe even resentful. He usually ate a souped-up diet of raw meat and grated raw vegetables, except when I ate pizza. But he never seemed to remember that each time he had to wait for his slices to cool.
    After I had finished two slices, I walked out into the garden, putting Dashiell’s plate down on the ground. No sense having to clean up the living room floor when he’d be just as happy eating out-of-doors.
    There was a slight breeze. I could smell the lavender growing near the path, the basil from the herb garden. I sat on the steps and thought about what I had to do, hoping again that I could get the attorney to do most of the paperwork. I’d call her first thing in the morning. I wondered if Maggie would want to come into the city and help me sort things. According to the will, only the money andcertain named valuables were going to her. The rest of O’Fallon’s possessions had been left to the executor, me, to dispose of as I saw fit. I thought this was done when there was no family to pick and choose what they wanted to keep. Perhaps O’Fallon knew better. Perhaps he knew, or thought, that Maggie wouldn’t want most of his things. Still, it seemed strange for me to be doing this when he had at least two living blood relatives.
    I went inside to look at the photo album, those same kids again, the pictures faded, some even a pale brown, the images on their way to disappearing altogether. I was only on the third page when the phone rang.
    â€œIs this Rachel Alexander?” she asked.
    â€œYes. Is it Maggie?”
    â€œYes, it is. I only have a moment. I’m on my break. But your voice sounded urgent and I was wondering what it is you called about. I hope I haven’t made a mistake. I hope this isn’t one of those calls to ask me to switch to A T and T.”
    â€œNo, it isn’t. I wish it were.”
    â€œOh,” she said. “Then what?”
    I took a breath. “It’s about your brother,” I said.
    â€œDennis?”
    â€œNo, it’s about Tim. There’s been an accident, Maggie. I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you this. Tim is dead.”
    I heard her inhale sharply.
    â€œHe was cleaning his service revolver,” I said. “On Sunday morning. I’m sorry this has taken so long, but I didn’t hear about it right away.”
    â€œHe’s dead? He shot himself? Mother of God. This is all my fault.”
    â€œNo, no,” I said. “It was an accident.”
    Mary Margaret was silent.
    I wished I could comfort her, but there was nothing comforting to say. I could have told her that her brother went quickly, that he didn’t suffer long, or said that at least there was no wife left behind, no young children orphaned, things people say in situations like this. But to what avail? She’d lost her mother last week and her brother this week. There wasn’t anything I could say that would erode even the smallest bit of her grief. I’m sorry for your loss, I thought. That’s what people said, because what else was there to say?
    â€œMaggie,” I said. Then: “I’m so sorry.”
    I could hear what sounded like a bell ringing, again and again.
    â€œWho are you?” she asked. “Are you with the Department?”
    â€œNo, I’m—”
    â€œThen why are you the one calling me?”
    â€œThat’s the weird thing,” I said. I’d walked outside with the phone and was sitting on the steps outside the cottage. There was a three-quarter moon and the sky was cloudless, a kind of inky blue with more stars than you usually see in the city. “I barely knew your brother, but he