Murder Passes the Buck by Deb Baker Page A

said to Mary after Grandma closed the bathroom door, “ I ’ m going to tell her off. ”
    “ You think I ’ m deaf, ” Grandma Johnson called. “ I can hear a cooked noodle hit the floor from across the house, and I heard that. ”
    Mary and I laughed, and I took a good look at her. She was plain, all right — nobody would ever call her pretty — but she had a rosy face, like she was happy all the time. She and Blaze were having some trouble with one of their daughters. I keep telling them she ’ s just young.
    I remember being young, and it ’ s a tough business. I wouldn ’ t go back there for all the Christmas trees in Tamarack County, although I wouldn ’ t mind shaving off a year or two. But being sixty-six has its advantages. You don ’ t let anyone tell you what ’ s what any more, and you don ’ t have to pay so much attention to laws and rules. Break one and everyone just chalks it up to hardening of the brain. I like that.
    At least I did until Blaze decided I really did have hardening of the brain.
    Before drifting off to sleep, I realized I ’ d forgotten to use my word for the day. I guess I was thrown off by Blaze ’ s disloyalty to his
     
    own mother.
    I have more on my mind these days than I used to.
     
    Four
    Word for the Day
    PICAYUNE (PIK uh YOON) adj. Trivial or petty; small or small-minded.
    Friday dawned cold and crisp, with a fresh blanket of snow on the ground. Little Donny was as good as new. He ate half a pound of bacon and three fried eggs, and was on his second cup of coffee when he remembered Carl ’ s station wagon. He scrambled up and ran outside, forgetting his coat. He stood there a while staring at the car, then came in, stomping his boots on the rug, and collapsed at the kitchen table cradling his head in his hands. “ What am I going to tell Carl? ” “ I called him last night and told him you ’ d bring his station wagon back today, ” I said. “ You can clean it up some. ”
    “ The whole thing ’ s a blur. ” Little Donny had a knot on his forehead the size of a
     
    baseball where he ’ d hit his head on the car window.
    “ That big old buck kicked you in the head, ” I lied. “ That ’ s why you can ’ t remember much. What do you remember? Anything at all? ”
    Little Donny didn ’ t answer. He groaned and went back to rocking his head. If Little Donny didn ’ t remember getting zapped, I was home free. George would never tell.
    “ It happens sometimes. Nothing to b e ashamed of. You fire at a deer ’ I explained, “ and you don ’ t know it, but the bullet just sort of grazes him, and then he plays possum or he ’ s just stunned. Could have happened to anyone. ”
    I instantly regretted saying stunned. It might trigger Little Donny ’ s memory.
    Little Donny looked at me through his fingers, then went back to rocking.
    “ Your Grandpa Barney lost one that way, ” I continued. “ A nice eight-pointer he shot out at the blind. He went to get the tractor to pull it out of the woods, and when he got back it was gone. Just up and ran off. ”
    Little Donny wasn ’ t taking in anything I said.
    I felt tired and stiff from cooking and entertaining company and tromping around on the investigation trail, and decided to
     
    head to my deer blind behind the house.
    I use the blind as a retreat rather than for hunting. When the kids were little, I ’ d pull my gun from the rack and trudge out there while Barney babysat. No one ever thought to ask me why I never shot anything, but I think Barney knew. Old habits die hard, and so I still spend time there whenever I feel a need to get away from the rest of the world.
    I needed to wind down and do some thinking about Chester ’ s murder and my approaching court date.
    George was working on the hole in the barn. His rattlesnake cowboy hat was all I could see as I shuffled by.
    “ Hey, George. ”
    He raised his head and tipped his hat.
    “ I ’ m going to take a shot at Big Buck, ” I said,