her.
“Bad news? Or should I say more bad news?” Vernon asked. He turned off the burner then put the lid back on the pot.
“No. At least I don’t think so. Daniel isn’t at home either. Brenda is there.” Adelaide busied herself setting the table.
Carl came into the kitchen followed by Oscar, who was now meowing loudly, an indication that his food bowl was empty.
“I’ll take care of my buddy here,” Carl said. He went to the wooden bin on the back porch where she kept the cat food. Next he refilled the cat’s bowl, which sat beside the refrigerator. Once that task was completed, he came up beside Adelaide at the stove as she ladled the soup into a tureen.
Leaning in close he said, “If Jerry was so sure there was something going on between Susan and Reverend Underwood, then it is probably true. He wasn’t a man who would make accusations without something to back them up.”
Adelaide knew this was correct. Jerry Hatfield had been a pragmatic man with an unshakable sense of right and wrong. But he was also a fair man—a man who would need solid proof before making any accusation.
Vernon said, “I wonder how Eric is taking the news? Surely he’s been told by now.”
Eric Hatfield, Jerry and Susan’s son, was a freshman this year at Ohio State University. Adelaide recalled just a week before how Jerry had told her about Eric making the dean’s list.
“Jerry was so proud of that kid. They were close, so close.” Carl’s voice trembled just a little.
Adelaide took the tureen to the table, where Ethel was conversing with Vernon in low tones. “Let’s eat. We need to keep up our strength. After that, I’ll find Daniel so we can get an update, even if I have to track him down in person.”
They joined hands around the antique oak table while Carl did the honor of saying grace.
Chapter Twelve
It was close to ten o’clock Saturday night before Adelaide was able to locate Daniel. He finally answered his cell phone. “I’m just leaving the station. I’m coming over. Are you alone?”
“Carl, Vernon and Ethel left about a half hour ago.” She stopped short of reminding him Brenda was waiting for him at his condo, with her own key.
“I’ll be there in five minutes.” The line went dead.
She left the kitchen and entered the foyer, where she flipped on the front porch light, then continued into the living room. After turning on the Christmas tree lights, she settled down on the sofa. Immediately Oscar jumped up onto her lap. As she stroked his soft, thick fur he began to purr. She let her mind wander.
Instead of the murder, however, her thoughts went to the way things had been before Albert was wracked with that horrible disease. They’d traveled some, seen the Grand Canyon, Yosemite, taken a couple of cruises—how grateful she was that they’d done those things then instead of waiting for retirement.
Albert had been a joyful man with a gentle nature. They’d spent many lovely hours gardening in the spacious yard surrounding this wonderful old house. In fact, he’d planted most of the fifty rose bushes that now graced the property. She recalled the first one. He’d bought it from a street vendor in Marietta. It was barely more than a twig. She’d scoffed at it, stating that they had blades of grass that looked heartier.
Undaunted by her skepticism, Albert had nurtured the plant through two winters until finally it burst forth with so many blooms during that third summer that they had to stake it up because the stems wouldn’t hold the weight. That bush still thrived next to the gazebo they’d later erected. Idly, she wondered if the rose bush missed Albert as much as she did, if it somehow knew he was no longer caring for it.
She stared at the Christmas tree, her eyes growing moist. How Albert had loved the holidays. He’d always insisted on a real tree. Each year they’d decorated it with ornaments collected throughout their marriage. Once he was gone, she’d opted
“Bad news? Or should I say more bad news?” Vernon asked. He turned off the burner then put the lid back on the pot.
“No. At least I don’t think so. Daniel isn’t at home either. Brenda is there.” Adelaide busied herself setting the table.
Carl came into the kitchen followed by Oscar, who was now meowing loudly, an indication that his food bowl was empty.
“I’ll take care of my buddy here,” Carl said. He went to the wooden bin on the back porch where she kept the cat food. Next he refilled the cat’s bowl, which sat beside the refrigerator. Once that task was completed, he came up beside Adelaide at the stove as she ladled the soup into a tureen.
Leaning in close he said, “If Jerry was so sure there was something going on between Susan and Reverend Underwood, then it is probably true. He wasn’t a man who would make accusations without something to back them up.”
Adelaide knew this was correct. Jerry Hatfield had been a pragmatic man with an unshakable sense of right and wrong. But he was also a fair man—a man who would need solid proof before making any accusation.
Vernon said, “I wonder how Eric is taking the news? Surely he’s been told by now.”
Eric Hatfield, Jerry and Susan’s son, was a freshman this year at Ohio State University. Adelaide recalled just a week before how Jerry had told her about Eric making the dean’s list.
“Jerry was so proud of that kid. They were close, so close.” Carl’s voice trembled just a little.
Adelaide took the tureen to the table, where Ethel was conversing with Vernon in low tones. “Let’s eat. We need to keep up our strength. After that, I’ll find Daniel so we can get an update, even if I have to track him down in person.”
They joined hands around the antique oak table while Carl did the honor of saying grace.
Chapter Twelve
It was close to ten o’clock Saturday night before Adelaide was able to locate Daniel. He finally answered his cell phone. “I’m just leaving the station. I’m coming over. Are you alone?”
“Carl, Vernon and Ethel left about a half hour ago.” She stopped short of reminding him Brenda was waiting for him at his condo, with her own key.
“I’ll be there in five minutes.” The line went dead.
She left the kitchen and entered the foyer, where she flipped on the front porch light, then continued into the living room. After turning on the Christmas tree lights, she settled down on the sofa. Immediately Oscar jumped up onto her lap. As she stroked his soft, thick fur he began to purr. She let her mind wander.
Instead of the murder, however, her thoughts went to the way things had been before Albert was wracked with that horrible disease. They’d traveled some, seen the Grand Canyon, Yosemite, taken a couple of cruises—how grateful she was that they’d done those things then instead of waiting for retirement.
Albert had been a joyful man with a gentle nature. They’d spent many lovely hours gardening in the spacious yard surrounding this wonderful old house. In fact, he’d planted most of the fifty rose bushes that now graced the property. She recalled the first one. He’d bought it from a street vendor in Marietta. It was barely more than a twig. She’d scoffed at it, stating that they had blades of grass that looked heartier.
Undaunted by her skepticism, Albert had nurtured the plant through two winters until finally it burst forth with so many blooms during that third summer that they had to stake it up because the stems wouldn’t hold the weight. That bush still thrived next to the gazebo they’d later erected. Idly, she wondered if the rose bush missed Albert as much as she did, if it somehow knew he was no longer caring for it.
She stared at the Christmas tree, her eyes growing moist. How Albert had loved the holidays. He’d always insisted on a real tree. Each year they’d decorated it with ornaments collected throughout their marriage. Once he was gone, she’d opted
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