to know who shot Alistair Long in the head?”
“Not the head,” he said automatically.
“What was that?”
He bitterly regretted not having drawn a line in the sand the way Chief Whitehouse had told him. “Never discuss your work with anyone, Virgil,” the chief had said. “Once you start, you don’t know where it ends. Just make it clear from the get-go that they won’t get zip from you. Not even your own sweet mother.”
Instead, he’d made it a habit to discuss police business at the dinner table. And that was all fine and dandy as long as it concerned minor traffic violations. But murder? That was a whole other beast altogether.
“He wasn’t shot in the head, mom.”
“Well? Where was he shot then? Don’t make me drag it out of you, son. I’m your mother, remember? I fed you, I raised you, I put you through police academy. And you know my lips are sealed. I won’t breathe this to a living soul!”
At least that much was true. Mom was discretion personified. Maybe she would tell one or two friends, but that was as far as it went. He sighed. “I’ll tell you all about it tonight, all right? But now I gotta go. I’ve got work to do.”
“I expect a full report.” And with those words she promptly hung up.
He cursed silently under his breath. Just at that moment his boss appeared. The police chief, a stocky man with a gray buzz cut and perpetual scowl on his jowly face, didn’t look happy. “Who was that on the phone?”
“My mother,” he admitted, his cheeks reddening.
The chief grunted. “You didn’t tell her about the investigation, did you?”
“No, of course not. I would never—”
“Because you know she’ll blab. All mothers blab.”
“Not Mom,” he assured the chief.
“ Especially your mother. She’s in that group—that vigilante thing—”
“The watch committee?”
“A bunch of gossipmongers led by my own flesh and blood. You talk to your mother, she’ll tell her vigilante friends, and before you know it, it’s splattered all over the front page of the Happy Bays Gazette. Mark my words.”
He marked the chief’s words, though he resented this slur on his mother’s character. “She wouldn’t do that,” he insisted.
“Oh? Remember the case of the neutered squirrel?”
He remembered. Peter North, Happy Bays’s resident vet, had been brought a pet squirrel to be neutered, and had allowed the rodent to bite him in the nose. He’d filed a report against its owner and before long the whole story had appeared in the Gazette, turning Dr. North into the town’s laughing stock.
“That wasn’t Mom.”
“You told her, didn’t you?” barked the chief.
“I did,” he confessed.
“Well then?”
Since Virgil had a sneaking suspicion Dr. North had spilled the beans himself while nursing his injured nose and pride over a beer at Jack’s Joint he felt it incumbent upon him to defend his mother’s honor. “I’m sure Mom would never blab.”
“I told you, all mothers blab. Anyway. Mind that you don’t.”
The chief poured himself a cup of coffee, and Virgil took this occasion to make a suggestion to his superior officer. “Chief?”
He interpreted the grumble emanating from the portly officer as permission to speak.
“Don’t you think we should accept the mayor’s suggestion and bring in some help on this case?” He had the distinct impression that the chief wasn’t up for the job. He knew that he himself certainly wasn’t.
“We can handle this,” the chief assured him sourly. “Just do as I say and we’ll solve this case in no time. Where are you in setting up the interviews?”
“They’re all coming in tomorrow, chief,” he assured his fearless leader. He’d arranged for all the usual suspects to drop by the station house first thing in the morning, though he didn’t have the first inkling what to do with them. He would have felt a lot better if the chief had accepted the mayor’s suggestion to bring in detectives from the East
“Not the head,” he said automatically.
“What was that?”
He bitterly regretted not having drawn a line in the sand the way Chief Whitehouse had told him. “Never discuss your work with anyone, Virgil,” the chief had said. “Once you start, you don’t know where it ends. Just make it clear from the get-go that they won’t get zip from you. Not even your own sweet mother.”
Instead, he’d made it a habit to discuss police business at the dinner table. And that was all fine and dandy as long as it concerned minor traffic violations. But murder? That was a whole other beast altogether.
“He wasn’t shot in the head, mom.”
“Well? Where was he shot then? Don’t make me drag it out of you, son. I’m your mother, remember? I fed you, I raised you, I put you through police academy. And you know my lips are sealed. I won’t breathe this to a living soul!”
At least that much was true. Mom was discretion personified. Maybe she would tell one or two friends, but that was as far as it went. He sighed. “I’ll tell you all about it tonight, all right? But now I gotta go. I’ve got work to do.”
“I expect a full report.” And with those words she promptly hung up.
He cursed silently under his breath. Just at that moment his boss appeared. The police chief, a stocky man with a gray buzz cut and perpetual scowl on his jowly face, didn’t look happy. “Who was that on the phone?”
“My mother,” he admitted, his cheeks reddening.
The chief grunted. “You didn’t tell her about the investigation, did you?”
“No, of course not. I would never—”
“Because you know she’ll blab. All mothers blab.”
“Not Mom,” he assured the chief.
“ Especially your mother. She’s in that group—that vigilante thing—”
“The watch committee?”
“A bunch of gossipmongers led by my own flesh and blood. You talk to your mother, she’ll tell her vigilante friends, and before you know it, it’s splattered all over the front page of the Happy Bays Gazette. Mark my words.”
He marked the chief’s words, though he resented this slur on his mother’s character. “She wouldn’t do that,” he insisted.
“Oh? Remember the case of the neutered squirrel?”
He remembered. Peter North, Happy Bays’s resident vet, had been brought a pet squirrel to be neutered, and had allowed the rodent to bite him in the nose. He’d filed a report against its owner and before long the whole story had appeared in the Gazette, turning Dr. North into the town’s laughing stock.
“That wasn’t Mom.”
“You told her, didn’t you?” barked the chief.
“I did,” he confessed.
“Well then?”
Since Virgil had a sneaking suspicion Dr. North had spilled the beans himself while nursing his injured nose and pride over a beer at Jack’s Joint he felt it incumbent upon him to defend his mother’s honor. “I’m sure Mom would never blab.”
“I told you, all mothers blab. Anyway. Mind that you don’t.”
The chief poured himself a cup of coffee, and Virgil took this occasion to make a suggestion to his superior officer. “Chief?”
He interpreted the grumble emanating from the portly officer as permission to speak.
“Don’t you think we should accept the mayor’s suggestion and bring in some help on this case?” He had the distinct impression that the chief wasn’t up for the job. He knew that he himself certainly wasn’t.
“We can handle this,” the chief assured him sourly. “Just do as I say and we’ll solve this case in no time. Where are you in setting up the interviews?”
“They’re all coming in tomorrow, chief,” he assured his fearless leader. He’d arranged for all the usual suspects to drop by the station house first thing in the morning, though he didn’t have the first inkling what to do with them. He would have felt a lot better if the chief had accepted the mayor’s suggestion to bring in detectives from the East
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