Eine Kleine Murder by Kaye George Page B

The foliage doesn’t look too dense to walk through, but it would make a good screen, especially at night.” Treading with care, I searched the ground for anything telltale; I found nothing but sticks and leaves. “Maybe there’s something that could tell us who was here. A footprint or something.”
    â€œBut it’s part of the club, right? If you did find a footprint here, what would that prove?”
    She had a point. Lots of people had a right to walk around here. I slumped against the trunk of the oak and slid down to the damp ground, heedless of my jeans.
    â€œOkay, you’re right again,” I admitted. “There wouldn’t be any evidence here.” I sighed into the cell phone. “So, you called to ask me about the ficus?” She wouldn’t have called about a plant.
    â€œNot exactly. I hate to bring this up,” Neek said, “but you told me to get the messages off your answering machine.”
    â€œYes?” I straightened up against the tree trunk. I hoped Len hadn’t left any.
    â€œSomebody named, uh, TRIGG-vee called. He sounded nasty. He said he and his brother were going to take you to court.”
    I groaned. “Oh damn.”
    â€œWhat’s he talking about?”
    â€œGram left her cabin to me. My cousins must think there’s a lot of money to fight over because they’re contesting the will. Gram’s lawyer says they won’t win.”
    â€œOh, Cressa, what a nuisance. And on top of everything else.”
    â€œYeah. They’re not my favorite people.”
    We said goodbye, then I saw it. A shiny metal something sticking out of the wet leaves. I lifted a soggy layer of vegetation and discovered a pair of silver-rimmed bifocals.
    I heard, in my mind’s ear, Grace’s progress the last time I’d seen her out my front window, her dark form heading for the swimming area, a large towel draped over her arm, her flip-flops going twup , twup as she went, and the silhouette of her glasses—her silver bifocals—perched on her nose. But how did they get here?
    I retrieved my bag from the boat and, being careful not to put my fingers on the lenses—who knows, they might carry fingerprints—nudged them into the bag with a twig.
    Could I have actually found evidence? Excitement vibrated inside me. I had to show these to Al.
    I set the bag down with more care, climbed in, rowed back to the cove as fast as I could, and headed for the dock. I glanced over my shoulder and thought I was lined up, but the next time I looked, the boat had drifted sideways. I tried it again. Missed again. It was a lot harder than I thought it would be.
    I didn’t need any more last straws. I slammed the oars into the water, but that didn’t help anything.
    Okay, take a deep, cleansing breath. I should be analytical about this. Maybe landing a boat is like working on a composition—the ending is the hard part. I stopped for a moment, drew a steady breath, and re-aimed.
    I hummed Richard Strauss’s Thus Spake Zarathustra , the piece that was used for the opening of the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey , for inspiration. I hummed it aloud and I guess it worked, because at last my craft bumped against the big wooden post. I threw the rope to loop around it, grabbed the dock and pulled the boat over, then hopped out.
    After the boat was secured, I dashed up the stairs to take my findings to Al’s place. He was bound to be back home from his fishing expedition.
    â€œKisha, Kisha, can’t get me!” shrieked a high, light voice. Others answered with shrieking laughter.
    Curious to see what the commotion was, I slowed. Three children ran across Eve’s yard playing tag, and two more stood near her cabin door.
    â€œEverything’s ready,” Eve called from inside. “Come on in, kids.”
    They all piled onto the stoop and crowded through the door. Their small, piping voices continued from inside