A Lonely Way to Die: A Utah O'Brien Mystery Novel (Minnesota Mysteries Series Book 2) by Jonni Good

to the aromatic bread on the kitchen counter and facing Josie and the couch. I put my steaming mug of coffee on the table and pulled the folded flier out of my pocket. I unfolded it and tried to smooth it out. It was badly wrinkled, but you could still read the words. I pushed it across the table to Mort.
    “Huh,” he said. “Where did this come from?”
    “John Meecham left a whole stack of them at the diner. Pete Hansen says it was Laura Rey’s idea, and John Meecham has been spending a lot of time with her lately. He’s even going to church with her.”
    He shook his head, then turned in his chair so he could hand the paper to Josie. She took a look at it, shook her head, and handed it back. “Laura Rey never was all that bright,” she said.
    Mort put the flier on table, dismissing it as unimportant, and gave the inside of his ear a good rub. Then he reached down to give Jocko an ear rub, too, and a bite of his sandwich. Molly ambled over for her share, and she got a bite, too.
    “The sheriff called while you were out yakking with Sam,” he said. “The coroner won’t do a full workup on the body until Monday, at the earliest, but he did a blood test and found opiates in the woman’s system. Prescription painkillers—and there was a lot of it. Not quite enough to kill her, but almost. Those things are supposed to be slow-release, to make them safe. I guess addicts can get around that by smashing the pills instead of taking them whole.”
    I reached for the flier, folded it back up, and put it in my sweatshirt pocket. “Gabe said his mom didn’t use drugs.”
    “The boy is only twelve years old, Utah.”
    “Almost thirteen. He lives in the city. His dad is in the music industry. He watches TV. He knows more about drugs than we do.”
    “Fair enough. Get me another cup of coffee, will you?”
    I stood up and reached for the pot and refilled his mug. Josie still didn’t want any. I sat back down and waited for him to get around to telling us about the rest of Wally’s phone call. He sipped his coffee slowly, dragging out the wait, just for fun.
    To fill in the time, I said, thinking out loud, “If Sonje was full of opiates, there’s really no point in trying to figure out why she died out by the river. How much does it take to OD on painkillers if the pills are smashed instead of taken whole?”
    He didn’t answer me. He was concentrating on his coffee, probably waiting for me to shut up so he could get back to his own story.
    I tried to picture how it could have happened, based on a lecture one of the volunteer firemen gave at our last community meeting. Heroin and prescription opiate overdose was a growing problem in the county. They start with the painkillers, and when they run out of money they turn to heroin, because it’s cheaper.
    “Here’s how it could have happened,” I said. “The bad guy slips her the smashed pills in something he gives her to eat or drink. The opiates start to kick in after she gets back in her car. When she starts to feel weird, she stops at the diner for help, but it’s closed. Then more of the opiates reach her bloodstream, she’s disoriented, and she can’t find her way back to her car. When she falls down, she can’t get back up.”
    “Maybe she took them on purpose. We have to keep an open mind.”
    “Then why would she try to get into the diner?”
    He shrugged. “Maybe she changed her mind.” He didn’t say it like he believed it, though. “The sheriff said they didn’t find her cell phone, and it wasn’t in the coat Molly found. The coroner did a test on that flask. It was nothing but whiskey.”
    “So the husband didn’t do it,” I said. “I thought he might have figured out a way to get the drugs in that flask before she left the city. I had this whole scenario worked up, with the husband pretending to be in Europe when he was really home yesterday morning, spiking her whiskey. Or him in cahoots with the housekeeper. But I guess we have to