Guess Who's Coming to Die? by Patricia Sprinkle

door and could hardly speak the words. “You mean he’s done something illegal?” Walker was our impulsive son, the one who raced off on tangents without thinking things through.

    Bo flew to Joe Riddley’s shoulder. Joe Riddley stroked the scarlet breast with one forefinger while a vivid rainbow of tail feathers spilled down his back. “Let it go, Little Bit.”

    I dismissed the notion that Walker had shot Slade over the article, but what else had he done to upset his daddy enough for Joe Riddley to be curt with me?

    I knew in an instant. “He hasn’t taken Cindy out of town, has he? She can’t leave while she’s under suspicion of murder.”

    Joe Riddley turned without a word and carried Bo past me into the house. “I gotta run an errand. I’ll be back for supper.” He slammed the door behind him. I could still hear Bo squawking on his shoulder. “Little Bit? Little Bit! Back off! Give me space.”

    I am never sure whether that bird knows what he’s saying or whether he’s real good at picking up on Joe Riddley’s moods.

    As soon as I heard the automatic garage door shut, I tried Walker’s cell phone. I got voice mail. I tried Cindy’s and got voice mail, as well. This was serious, if they had turned the telephones off. They never turned their cell phones off. Joe Riddley and I suspected they slept with them on under their pillows. Each of their children has a phone, since Cindy likes to stay in touch, but those phones were off, too. Walker must have taken the children, wherever they’d gone.

    In that Corvette, they could be in Alaska pretty soon. Walker often fails to demonstrate what I would call good sense, but if he had whisked Cindy out of the county while she was a suspect in a murder case, this was the dumbest thing he had ever done, and the most potentially dangerous.

    I couldn’t talk about it with a living soul, even Joe Riddley, because as an officer of the court, I was under oath to report any infraction of the law I even suspected had been committed. That was why Joe Riddley had stomped out. He was a magistrate for thirty years and has more integrity than any man I know. If he so much as hinted to me what Walker had done, he’d insist that we report Walker and Cindy so Chief Muggins could alert authorities to pick them up. In all probability, they’d be tried. And while Joe Riddley and I trust the courts to execute justice in most cases, we also know that courts can be fallible. This was our son and his family in jeopardy. Their marriage had nearly fallen apart two summers ago, and they were working hard to rebuild it. Walker’s parents couldn’t fault Walker for wanting to take care of and protect his family. Still, if I’d had him in grabbing range right that minute, I’d have shaken him until his teeth rattled and fell out one at a time.

    I settled into one of the two recliners in the living room and sent up wordless prayers which, if translated, would have been something really profound like, Help! Help! Help!

    As I reached for the remote my finger caught in a small tear in the upholstery, reminding me that I needed to go up to Augusta soon and look for new recliners. Those had been all right in the big house, where we had both a living room and a casual den, but they looked tacky in our new living room. Joe Riddley had agreed I could get new ones if he didn’t have to help pick them out.

    Lulu scrambled up and settled on my lap. I don’t know how people survive problems without prayer and a lapful of dog.

    When I switched on the national television news, I saw a reporter in front of the Hope County Courthouse interviewing Chief Muggins. I’d never realized before how aptly Charlie was named until he mugged for the camera while assuring the world, “We got things under control down here. We are confident of making an arrest soon.”

    “She was killed by a corkscrew twisted through her throat — isn’t that right?” the reporter asked. Why are reporters so avid