An Air That Kills by Margaret Millar Page B

What happened then?”
    â€œThe car went on. Laddie was lying by the side of the road. I picked him up and I could tell right away he was dead. So I buried him myself, in the back yard.”
    â€œAnd kept the wallet.”
    â€œWhy shouldn’t I?”
    Mabel shook her head. “It just don’t sound right to me. It sounds sneaky, if you want the truth.”
    â€œThe money’s mine. It was given me fair and square, in just payment for my dog. Laddie was a very valuable dog.”
    â€œHe was a half-blind, ten-year-old mongrel and you know it.”
    â€œEven so.”
    â€œMom, last night when it happened, why didn’t you call me?”
    â€œWhy didn’t I? This is why, all this questioning.”
    â€œI’m only trying to get things straightened out so we can decide what to do.”
    â€œI’ve already decided. I’ll get rid of the wallet so nosy people won’t see it and ask nosy questions. And I’ll keep the money because it’s mine, given me fair and square.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    Celia pursed her lips. “How do I know what?”
    â€œThe man driving the car, he might have thrown the money out on purpose to keep you quiet, so you wouldn’t tell anyone you saw him.”
    â€œWhy should he do that?”
    â€œMaybe he was a criminal escaping from the scene of a crime.”
    Celia was shaken but refused to admit it. “Oh, nonsense.”
    â€œHe hit Laddie and didn’t stop to leave his name or to see if he could help. That’s hit-and-run driving, right there. That’s a crime in itself.” Mabel’s imagination was like her car. Once it started to move, it moved all over, in every joint and with a great deal of noise. “How do you know he wasn’t a bank robber escaping with his loot?”
    â€œThe banks,” Celia pointed out, “are closed on Saturdays.”
    â€œOr a murderer. How do you know he won’t come back?”
    â€œWhy would he come back?”
    â€œTo make sure your lips are sealed.”
    â€œOh, my goodness.” Celia sat down abruptly in a wicker chair and began fanning herself with a handkerchief. “I’m not well. I feel—I feel faint.”
    â€œI’ll fetch you a glass of water, wait there.”
    The water was administered, and with it, since nothing else was readily available, a chunk of Mabel’s horehound. Mabel sang soprano in the choir and used horehound as a ladder to some of the higher notes.
    â€œAre you feeling better, Mom?”
    â€œNo thanks to you I’m not dead,” Celia said bitterly. “Giving me a fright like that, at my age.”
    â€œI was only trying to make you see reason.”
    â€œReason, is it, to throw away nearly a hundred dollars? If that’s reason, I want to be crazy, thank you.”
    â€œAll I’m asking you to do is to tell someone about what happened.”
    â€œSuch as who?”
    â€œThe Reverend Wilton might know what to do.”
    â€œOver my dead body,” Celia said. “He and I don’t see eye to eye on too many things as it is.”
    â€œThe constable, then, Mr. Leachman.”
    â€œMr. Leachman has fits.”
    â€œNow what has that got . . .”
    â€œHis own sister told me. He has fits. He even,” Celia added with an air of triumph, “foams at the mouth.”
    Mabel’s face was so red it seemed ready to burst its skin like an overripe tomato. “Will you stop changing the sub­ject?”
    â€œI didn’t change the subject. You brought up Mr. Leachman and I merely pointed out that he has fits. Bad ones.”
    â€œThat’s simple gossip.”
    â€œGossip, is it? How is it that when you find out something interesting about a person you get information, I merely get gossip.”
    â€œPut your coat on, Mom. We’ll be late for church.”
    â€œI don’t feel like going to church.”
    â€œMaybe you