52 Steps to Murder by Steve Demaree Page A

Lou?”
    “I got some words, if that’s what you mean.”
    “Well, go on. Spit it out,” I commanded impatiently.
    “Twist and shout.”
    “Come again?” I replied quizzically.
    “I said ‘twist and shout.’”
    “That’s what I thought you said. Is that our message?”
    “I guess so.”
    I burst out laughing, turned the radio to the oldies station, and started singing as I twisted in my seat. It didn’t matter that Elvis’s rendition of Love Me Tender blared from the radio .
    Lou returned the quizzical look that I had given him just a few moments earlier. He hoped his neighbors were not watching, but, if they were, he hoped they would remember him in their prayers. The sergeant shook his head at my teen-like actions, and commented, “Cy, I’ve warned you to buy underwear that’s big enough for you. When you grow, your underwear needs to grow with you.”
    I paid no attention to his remark and continued to twist as best my seat belt and aching bones allowed, while Lou merely grinned and shook his head some more. When I regained my senses, at least to the point where they were before Lou got me started, I turned to my partner.
    “What’s it mean, Lou?”
    “I’m not sure, but I think it means you need to have his medication checked.”
    “No, not my gyrations. What’s the message mean?”
    “It means we’re to be patient until we find out.”
    “I’m no doctor. I don’t do patients.”
    I hadn’t revealed anything my friend did not already know.
     
    +++
     
    Lou and I pulled up to the speaker and menu board at one of only a handful of fast-food restaurants in town. I couldn’t decide between a sausage biscuit or a ham biscuit, so I did what I usually did when I had trouble making up my mind on what to order. I ordered both, plus two orders of hash browns, so neither biscuit would be jealous of the other. Following my lead, Lou ordered a steak biscuit, a pork chop biscuit, and two orders of hash browns. The order would keep us from starving until the mailman arrived at Hilltop Place.
    We wolfed down our food in transit. All that remained was a little coffee and an inch of a soft drink with some ice. We planned to stake out Hilltop Place until Mr. Hartley arrived. I turned the corner onto Hilltop Place and spotted a US Postal Service vehicle parked in front of the first house.
    “Our guy Hartley doesn’t waste any time, does he, Lou?”
    “I think if I had to do this route I’d want to get it over with the first thing each morning, too,” Lou replied.
    “Do you see him yet?”
    No sooner had I asked the question than both of us spotted the mailman quickly descending the steps from the third house on the right. We marveled at his speed.
    “Yeah, but let’s see how quickly he goes up the steps,” I uttered, holding out that the mailman would exhibit the same huffing snail’s pace that had become our trademark for climbing those same steps. Lou and I thought we were going to be sick after we saw the mailman quickly mount the steps of the next house.
    “What’s with this guy, anyway? He’s got to be somewhere around our age.”
    “Yeah, but our belts would go around him twice. He can’t have more than a thirty-two inch waist. It’s criminal for a man to be so thin.”
    I nodded in agreement. I knew that surely this mailman deprived himself of the good food Lou and I needed to get through each day. I had nothing against bread and water, as long as a lot of fine foods came with them. Even yogurt was okay. Well, maybe that’s going a little too far. And I wasn’t even going to ask what tofu was. I just knew it wasn’t for me. It sounds like some kind of martial arts, but some people claim they eat the stuff. Better them than me. I think yogurt and tofu are for people who go to classes to learn how to wrap their feet behind their heads. I have no intention of signing up for a pretzel class. If I did, I could just see the guys in the department. They would turn out in force to see Lou and