F is for Fugitive by Sue Grafton Page A

render salads and desserts in record time for just such occasions. I pictured a section in the ladies’ auxiliary church cookbook for Sudden Death Quick Snacks . . . using ingredients one could keep on the pantry shelf in the event of tragedy.
    â€œWhat can I do to help?” June Haws asked from the kitchen door. With her cotton gloves, she looked like a pallbearer, possibly for someone who had died recently from the same skin disease. I moved a plate of cookies just out of range and pulled a chair out so she could have a seat.
    â€œOh, not for me, hon,” she said. “I never sit. Why don’t you let me take over, Ann, and you can get off your feet.”
    â€œWe’re doing fine,” Ann said. “If you can keep Mother’s mind off Bailey, that’s all the help we need.”
    â€œHaws is reading Scriptures with her even as we speak. I can’t believe what that woman’s been through. It’s enough to break your heart. How’s your daddy doing? Is he all right?”
    â€œWell, it’s been a shock, of course.”
    â€œOf course it has. That poor man.” She looked over at me. “I’m June Haws. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
    Ann broke in. “I’m sorry, June. This is Kinsey Millhone. She’s a private detective Pop hired to help us out.”
    â€œPrivate
detective
?” she said, with disbelief. “I didn’t think there was such a thing, except on television shows.”
    â€œNice to meet you,” I said. “I’m afraid the work we do isn’t quite that thrilling.”
    â€œWell, I hope not. All those gun battles and car chases? It’s enough to make my blood run cold! It doesn’t seem like a fit occupation for a nice girl like you.”
    â€œI’m not that nice,” I said modestly.
    She laughed, mistaking this for a joke. I avoided any further interaction by picking up a cookie plate. “Let me just take these on in,” I murmured, moving toward the other room.
    Once in the hallway, I slowed my pace, caught between Bible readings in the one room and relentless platitudes in the other. I hesitated in the doorway. The high school principal, Dwight Shales, had appearedwhile I was gone, but he was deep in conversation with Mrs. Emma and didn’t seem to notice me. I eased into the living room where I handed the cookie plate to Mrs. Maude, then excused myself again and headed toward the office. Reverend Haws was intoning an alarming passage from the Old Testament full of besiegedness, pestilence, consuming locusts, and distress. Ori’s lot must have seemed pretty tame by comparison, which was probably the point.
    I went up to my room. It was almost noon and my guess was the assembled would hang around for a hot lunch. With luck, I could slip down the outside stairs and reach my car before anybody realized I was gone. I washed my face and ran a comb through my hair. I had my jacket over my arms and a hand on the doorknob when somebody knocked. For a moment I flashed on the image of Dwight Shales. Maybe he’d gotten the okay to talk to me. I opened the door.
    Reverend Haws was standing in the corridor. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “Ann thought you’d probably come up here to your room. I didn’t have an opportunity to introduce myself. I’m Robert Haws of the Floral Beach Baptist Church.”
    â€œHi, how are you?”
    â€œI’m just fine. My wife, June, was telling me what a nice chat she had with you a short while ago. She suggested you might like to join us for Bible study over at the church tonight.”
    â€œHow nice,” I said. “Actually, I’m not sure where I’ll be tonight, but I appreciate the invitation.” I’m embarrassedto admit it, but I was mimicking the warm, folksy tone they all used with one another.
    Like his wife, Reverend Haws appeared to be in his fifties, but aging