Murder Passes the Buck by Deb Baker

eat, ” I called to Little Donny. “ Won ’ t be anything left if you don ’ t hurry up.
    “ Noth righth now, ” Little Donny said.
    “ I ’ ll make you a plate for later. ”
    “ Place is going to pot, ” Grandma Johnson said, swinging her head around like that possessed girl in the Exorcist. “ I bet Barney
     
    is turning in his grave over the looks of this place. Did you see the hole in the side of the barn, Blaze? ”
    Blaze doesn ’ t like to be interrupted while he ’ s eating, but Grandma Johnson ’ s hard to ignore when she ’ s right in your face. His mouth was stuffed with red potatoes.
    I briefly thought about confronting Blaze about the court papers right at the dinner table, right in front of the entire family. But I wasn ’ t sure they ’ d side with me, especially Grandma Johnson.
    “ First thing tomorrow I want you to fix that hole for your ma, ” she continued.
    “ Yes, Grandma, ” Blaze said through his mouthful, glancing at me. I gave him a cold smile.
    “ I hear you ’ re helping on one of the cases, ” Mary said to me.
    “ Not anymore, ” Blaze said.
    “ This apple pie is pretty good, considerin ’ how bad your baking usually is, ” Grandma Johnson said. “ I used to feel so sorry for Barney, havin ’ to eat what you baked. ”
    A piece of apple pie with whipped cream topping called to me from the table. I wanted to smear it in Grandma Johnson ’ s face. Picking up the plate, the urge became stronger and stronger, but Mary must have read my mind because she softly called my
     
    name. When I looked over, our eyes met, and she shook her head. Okay. When Grandma Johnson leaves maybe I ’ ll zap her with the stun gun instead. I set the plate down.
    “ I love the pie, ” Mary said. “ The crust is just right. ” She took another bite and hummed. Humming during a meal is a family tradition. If a meal is just right, the whole family takes turns humming. Except of course Grandma Johnson, who never hummed a note in her whole life. “ Blaze said he had the rifle shell you found out at Chester ’ s hunting shack tested. Isn ’ t that right, Honey? ”
    Blaze leaned back in his chair and glared at his wife. Apparently he didn ’ t want me to know how the case was progressing.
    “ Well? ” I asked.
    “ Well nothing. There weren ’ t any prints on the shell. ”
    “ The next step is to figure out what gun it was fired from. ” Though I was disappointed, I was still trying to be helpful in case Blaze didn ’ t know the next step.
    “ Already did that. It was fired from Chester ’ s own rifle, Ma. Nothing suspicious about it at all. Chester was probably target practicing before hunting season. That shell could have been laying there for awhile. ”
     
    “ How do you explain away the footprints coming from the creek, Einstein? ”
    “ Chester ’ s. ”
    “ What rifle was it fired from? ” I asked.
    “ Top one in the gun rack. ”
    “ Didn ’ t I tell you someone put a weapon in there after Chester died? ”
    “ I only had the shell tested to prove you wrong, ” my son said. “ And you ’ re wrong. Nobody put a rifle back. You ’ re wrong. ”
    “ Building evidence against me? ”
    “ I don ’ t need to, you built it against yourself. ”
    Blaze and I were having a stare-down. We used to have stare-downs when he was a kid, but those were for fun. This was different. Blaze ’ s stare was telling me I was old and feeble-minded and a pain in the backside. My stare was saying he sure wasn ’ t Clint Eastwood or Mel Gibson. More like Don Knotts in Mayberry RFD. And a lousy son to boot.
    He looked away first.
    It was snowing hard outside by the time the table was cleared and the dishes washed and put away. Star roared away on her ATV, and Grandma Johnson headed for the bathroom. Little Donny slept like a baby on the couch, and Blaze sat in a chair, a pained expression on his face like he ’ d eaten one
     
    piece of pie too much.
    “ One of these days, ” I