Death Takes Priority by Jean Flowers Page B

the kids had hosed the place and the TP was soaking wet.” Ben shook his head as if he was still trying to figure out what would make anybody think that was funny.
    â€œAnd Quinn helped you clean up?”
    â€œYup. A lot of other good citizens walked on by and said ‘Tsk tsk,’ you know, but Quinn rolled up his sleeves and dug in. Didn’t even ask. Then, this year, he suggested we take some seats and a bowl of candy out there and stay as long as we could without freezing to death. It worked, too. We gave out some candy, and then when it got late and we had to go in, Quinn took turns with me driving by once in a while until we figured the little monsters were all in bed.”
    â€œI’m glad to hear that.”
    I had no trouble picturing Quinn as a good neighbor, pitching in where he could help, making an effort to fit in without being ostentatious.
    And I imagined Ben would be very grateful. On the whole, Ben was easy to please and things were pretty simple for him. I had to remember that the next time he irked me.
    While Ben and I were bonding during this little break, I took the opportunity to broach a subject I’d been thinking about since I heard the newscast in the coffee shop. The cameras had caught the police department flag waving in the breeze, always a great photo op. The shot jogged my memory: Postmasters had the authority to fly the flag at half-mast to commemorate the death of a local citizen. I remembered a time when I was in the third grade and another teacher, not my own, died after three decades of service in the school district. I couldn’t remember details liketime of day or why I happened to see it, but I know I was moved by the special gesture of lowering the flag in her memory.
    â€œI think we should wait a bit,” Ben said, when I brought it up now, suggesting we might honor the late Wendell Graham that way. I had the feeling he’d have rushed to say yes for Quinn Martindale.
    â€œYou’re not sure?”
    Ben twisted his wide mouth, awakening the surrounding wrinkles. “We should just wait, is all.”
    â€œBecause of the way Wendell died? Because it was obviously a crime?” I asked, not one to back down easily. Or because he didn’t offer to repaint the front door? I wondered. Ben shrugged.
    I hadn’t researched the practice sufficiently to know whether the manner of death or the popularity of the deceased mattered, as far as the flag-lowering rules went. Wendell was a native son who’d lived and worked in the community all his life. Wasn’t that enough?
    â€œWhat if Wendell was involved in some activities that he shouldn’t have been?” Ben asked. “Something that led to him getting shot? We should wait and see.”
    My head snapped up from its relaxed position. “Do you know something like that about Wendell?” I asked.
    â€œWhat if? That’s all I’m saying.”
    â€œAre we talking about shady dealings? Is there someone you suspect of killing him?”
    â€œNever mind,” he said.
    â€œIf you know anything, Ben, you need to tell Sunni.” When Ben didn’t respond, I made it more clear, as if he might not know who Sunni was. “The police, Ben. If youknow something they don’t about a motive for killing Wendell, or anything at all, you need to tell them.”
    I was about to lay an obstruction of justice charge on him, when the front door opened. Ben unfolded his long legs, got up faster than I could even think of moving, and leaned over the counter, ready to serve.
    â€œEvening, folks,” said Officer Ross Little. Only when I stood did I see that Ross had arrived with a dolly piled high with phone books.
    â€œWhat do we have here?” Ben asked. I realized that I’d never mentioned the missing books to Ben. He probably thought I’d handed out every last one of them while he wasn’t around. “Do you know anything about this,