Sleight of Hand by Robin Hathaway

nearby. “Nice dress,” I said.
    She blushed and ran her hand down the front of her skirt.
    â€œHow’s your dad?”
    â€œGood. He wants to see you.”
    I followed her into the house and was surprised when she headed toward the parlor instead of the stairs. “Didn’t he sleep in his bed?”
    She turned and spoke in a whisper, “Yes, but he came down early. He doesn’t like it up there.”
    I lowered my voice. “Why not?”
    â€œEver since Mommy’s been gone, he doesn’t like to sleep upstairs.”
    â€œI see. Where does he sleep?”
    â€œIn the den.”
    â€œWhere’s that?”
    She pointed down the hall. “That’s where the TV is.”
    â€œWhy doesn’t he stay in there, then—instead of that musty old parlor?”
    â€œHe doesn’t want you to see it.”
    â€œWhy not?” I was exasperated.
    â€œâ€™Cause it’s a mess. And he won’t let me clean it.” She shook her head disapprovingly.
    â€œWell, maybe this is your chance to clean it, while I’m examining him. If you work fast.” I winked.
    She grinned, happy to be part of a conspiracy, and lumbered off.
    While I examined my patient, I heard the clank of bucket and mop. Max heard it, too.
    â€œThat girl’s always cleaning,” he grumbled.
    â€œThat’s good, isn’t it?” I said quickly. “It helps you and gives her something to do.”
    He didn’t answer.
    I put my stethoscope and other equipment away and changed gears. “Now, about this print job …”
    â€œThere’s nothing to it. The plates are already burned. All you have to do is put them on the press, ink up, and run the job. The paper’s already cut in the cabinet. Do you want me to—”
    â€œNo way!” I shuddered. All I needed was to have some ink or ink solvent find its way under his dressing. “If I have any questions, I’ll come ask you,” I said.

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    I found the plates easily. Just two—one for the outside cover, one for the inside. Like he’d said, it was a simple job. I was hooking the first plate onto the drum when I saw the top roller—still loose and bloodstained. The horror of the past twenty-four hours rushed back to me. Was that all it had been?
    I scrubbed the roller clean with solvent and replaced the three screws I’d removed the day before. I had trouble finding the ink can, but I finally discovered it in a cabinet in a dark corner of the barn. I inked up the press and ran a few test sheets on scrap paper. They looked okay, but to be on the safe side, I decided to take one in to Max for his approval.
    I was whistling as I came in the door. Lolly was nowhere to be seen. I glanced in the parlor. The sofa was empty. The pillow and afghan had fallen to the floor. I went back to the hall and stood listening. I could hear the murmur of voices at the other end of the hall. TV voices. I followed the sound and came to a door that was half-open. I knocked. “Max?”
    The TV went dead.
    â€œMay I come in?”
    He grunted.
    I stepped into a comfortable space with a sofa, a soft chair, and a TV console at one end, a desk with a computer at the other. The room was immaculate. Lolly had done her work well. Max was lying on the sofa.
    â€œI wanted you to check this out.” I handed him the sheet I’d just printed.
    He studied it carefully under the lamp. “A little too light here.” He pointed to a line of type at the bottom.
    It was a little too light, but for a school program, I would have let it go. Max was a perfectionist. “I’ll take care of it. What were you watching?”

    â€œThe Morning Show.”
    â€œAny news?”
    â€œNot a thing.”
    â€œWhere’s Lolly?”
    â€œI sent her to her room.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œShe disobeyed me. She had no business cleaning this room.”
    â€œOh …