testily. “I wore gloves”—he pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and dropped them on the table—“and I didn’t contaminate the scene; it was clear from the doorway that Gatchel was dead. You know,” he said, “it’s been a damn long time since I saw a body. At least, one that wasn’t laid out in a four-thousanddollar coffin and surrounded with lilies and carnations. East Berlin, 1982.” He lapsed into silence.
The outline of his skull showed beneath his skin, the dent where his temple curved in, the line of his nose that seemed sharper now than it had a few years back. Grandpa Atherton was getting old and I didn’t like it. I also didn’t like the way I felt protective toward him, like I needed to take care of him. He was the grandpa and I was the granddaughter, damn it—grandpas take care of grandkids, not vice versa. When I realized I was the catalyst, if not the reason, for him being at risk, I couldn’t sit still. I rose to pour him a glass of water.
“Here.” I put the glass in front of him. “You can stay here tonight. I’ll drop you at your place in the morning. Grandpa—”
“Oh, don’t be a worrywart. I haven’t had this much fun in decades.”
The impish smile he gave me almost persuaded me that housebreaking might be a better way to stave off old age dementia than crossword puzzles and sudoku.
I slept fitfully the rest of the night, waiting for the police to knock on the door and demand that I turn over Grandpa. Nothing of the sort happened, however, and I dropped Grandpa at his cottage in the Serendipity Heights retirement community Wednesday before reporting to work. He was none the worse for his night’s adventures; in fact, he was scrambling me some eggs and toasting a bagel when I got up. He promised to sift through the data from Gatchel’s computer and let me know if anything interesting turned up.
“Anything interesting in the news?” I asked Joel when I got to the office. I didn’t get a paper delivered and hadn’t had time to check online. I sincerely hoped Grandpa hadn’t made the headlines.
“Well, there’s a short article about snakes being loose in the mall.”
Just what we needed. Quigley would be livid if our customer traffic went down.
“And Earl Gatchel was killed last night,” Joel said, his brown eyes avid. “Maybe someone offed him to keep him from spilling the beans. Maybe it was the same person who snuffed Porter.”
“What beans? Didn’t you think Gatchel killed Porter?”
“Well, yeah, but what if the conspiracy is bigger than the two of them?”
“Unlikely,” I said, trying to discourage Joel’s theorizing. “It’s more likely Gatchel committed suicide.”
“Yeah, that’s what the reports say,” Joel admitted, scrolling down with his mouse. “ ‘Probable suicide . . . pending autopsy . . . no note . . . distraught over financial reversals and his role as central figure in murder investigation’ . . . yada-yada.” He rolled back from his desk, lacing his hands over his stomach. “So, I guess that’s it for our murder. Case closed.” Disappointment sat heavily on his young face.
“Case closed?” I asked, surprised. “Why would you say that?”
Joel shrugged. “It seems obvious. Whatever bribery or kickback scheme Porter and Gatchel had going, it was about to blow up in their faces. Gatchel killed Porter to keep him from testifying about it and then shot himself when it looked like the police were closing in.”
I was about to point out that his scenario didn’t explain how Gatchel got access to Diamanté or why he left the body in the window, when Detective Blythe Livingston walked in. Her rust-colored suit jacket blended with the hair corkscrewing to her shoulders. Medium-heeled boots peeked from beneath her slacks. Her face was makeup free, but her strong brows and naturally reddish lips stood out. “Good morning,” she said, “I suppose you heard the news?”
We nodded. Pushing a curl off her face,
The outline of his skull showed beneath his skin, the dent where his temple curved in, the line of his nose that seemed sharper now than it had a few years back. Grandpa Atherton was getting old and I didn’t like it. I also didn’t like the way I felt protective toward him, like I needed to take care of him. He was the grandpa and I was the granddaughter, damn it—grandpas take care of grandkids, not vice versa. When I realized I was the catalyst, if not the reason, for him being at risk, I couldn’t sit still. I rose to pour him a glass of water.
“Here.” I put the glass in front of him. “You can stay here tonight. I’ll drop you at your place in the morning. Grandpa—”
“Oh, don’t be a worrywart. I haven’t had this much fun in decades.”
The impish smile he gave me almost persuaded me that housebreaking might be a better way to stave off old age dementia than crossword puzzles and sudoku.
I slept fitfully the rest of the night, waiting for the police to knock on the door and demand that I turn over Grandpa. Nothing of the sort happened, however, and I dropped Grandpa at his cottage in the Serendipity Heights retirement community Wednesday before reporting to work. He was none the worse for his night’s adventures; in fact, he was scrambling me some eggs and toasting a bagel when I got up. He promised to sift through the data from Gatchel’s computer and let me know if anything interesting turned up.
“Anything interesting in the news?” I asked Joel when I got to the office. I didn’t get a paper delivered and hadn’t had time to check online. I sincerely hoped Grandpa hadn’t made the headlines.
“Well, there’s a short article about snakes being loose in the mall.”
Just what we needed. Quigley would be livid if our customer traffic went down.
“And Earl Gatchel was killed last night,” Joel said, his brown eyes avid. “Maybe someone offed him to keep him from spilling the beans. Maybe it was the same person who snuffed Porter.”
“What beans? Didn’t you think Gatchel killed Porter?”
“Well, yeah, but what if the conspiracy is bigger than the two of them?”
“Unlikely,” I said, trying to discourage Joel’s theorizing. “It’s more likely Gatchel committed suicide.”
“Yeah, that’s what the reports say,” Joel admitted, scrolling down with his mouse. “ ‘Probable suicide . . . pending autopsy . . . no note . . . distraught over financial reversals and his role as central figure in murder investigation’ . . . yada-yada.” He rolled back from his desk, lacing his hands over his stomach. “So, I guess that’s it for our murder. Case closed.” Disappointment sat heavily on his young face.
“Case closed?” I asked, surprised. “Why would you say that?”
Joel shrugged. “It seems obvious. Whatever bribery or kickback scheme Porter and Gatchel had going, it was about to blow up in their faces. Gatchel killed Porter to keep him from testifying about it and then shot himself when it looked like the police were closing in.”
I was about to point out that his scenario didn’t explain how Gatchel got access to Diamanté or why he left the body in the window, when Detective Blythe Livingston walked in. Her rust-colored suit jacket blended with the hair corkscrewing to her shoulders. Medium-heeled boots peeked from beneath her slacks. Her face was makeup free, but her strong brows and naturally reddish lips stood out. “Good morning,” she said, “I suppose you heard the news?”
We nodded. Pushing a curl off her face,
Similar Books
