down. She returned to the table with a yellowing notebook. He watched her fingers as she turned the pages. They were nimble fingers for a woman in her seventies.
“Here it is,” she said. “1933. And they came due in July.”
Alex put the date in his notebook. It coincided with the year of the missing tax receipt. “Thank you, Miss Turnsby. Maybe it means something, maybe not. You can’t ever tell in these things. Can I put the box up for you?”
“Much obliged,” she said.
When Alex returned to the table he finished his coffee.
“Can I warm you another cup?”
“No thanks, ma’m. I’m going to have to be moving soon. I don’t suppose Andy mentioned anything about where he’d been that trip?”
“No. I hinted around a bit. My mother taught me never to ask direct questions. It’s the best way I know of not finding out anything.”
Alex smiled. “Anything else you can think of I should know, Miss Tumby?”
“Not off-hand, there isn’t.”
“I wonder where he got the cat. Did he have it for long?”
“Ten years or more. I think it just come to him.”
“Cats have a way of doing that,” Alex said. “He took good care of it, didn’t he?”
“Like a baby. Fed it more than he ate. Good stuff from what Mrs. Durkin says.”
He got up from the table and folded the linen napkin she had given him. Even that was hand embroidered, with the monogram M.T. “I’m going over and take another look around. May I go out your back door?”
“Of course, Alex. Tell your mother to be sure and come to the luncheon tomorrow. It’ll be nice even if she don’t play cards. There’ll be bunco.”
He noticed a ring of keys on a hook by the door and he wondered if one of them did not match the key to Andy’s house in his pocket. Mabel was holding the screen door open for him. She picked up the broom.
“My mother tried to teach me that indirect question business,” Alex said, “but it doesn’t work for me. Did you hear or notice anyone over at Andy’s place the night before last?”
“No, and I looked too. Something woke me in the middle of the night and I looked out the window. His lights were still on, but then he stayed up till all hours, so I didn’t think anything of it.”
“About what time was that?”
“Two-thirty. I looked.”
“Any idea what wakened you?”
“No. Most nothing wakes me, except cats screeching. I can’t abide that. Got rid of my Bessie on that account.”
Alex pushed some excelsior from the step with his toe. “Thanks for breakfast, Miss Turnsby. Your rolls are out of this world.”
“Alex,” she said, following him down the steps, “why did they look for fingerprints?”
“They always do when a person dies suddenly like that.” As he climbed through the long grass between the houses, he could hear her sweeping the steps behind him.
Chapter 13
A LEX OPENED ALL THE WINDOWS in Andy’s kitchen to let in the sunlight. The place was damp and musty. All in all, he was well satisfied with his chat with Miss Turnsby. At least one of the pieces to the puzzle had fallen into place: the tax receipt and Andy’s trip. He was rather pleased with himself for the way he had gone about it. He walked all through the house. Nothing had changed. The house looked as though nothing in it had changed for twenty years, and yet, he thought, standing in the living room, something was different there although the furniture was all as he remembered it. It was the mid-morning light from the small window, and its rays fell between him and a painting he had not even noticed in the artificially lighted room yesterday. Now it had the luminousness of the misty sunlight that probably came to it only at this hour of the day. Alex went to a chair across the room from it and sat down. There was nothing at all in the room except the painting from where he sat—a long sweep of meadow into a sparse wood that almost sang with changing fragments of color, as though there was the movement in it of
“Here it is,” she said. “1933. And they came due in July.”
Alex put the date in his notebook. It coincided with the year of the missing tax receipt. “Thank you, Miss Turnsby. Maybe it means something, maybe not. You can’t ever tell in these things. Can I put the box up for you?”
“Much obliged,” she said.
When Alex returned to the table he finished his coffee.
“Can I warm you another cup?”
“No thanks, ma’m. I’m going to have to be moving soon. I don’t suppose Andy mentioned anything about where he’d been that trip?”
“No. I hinted around a bit. My mother taught me never to ask direct questions. It’s the best way I know of not finding out anything.”
Alex smiled. “Anything else you can think of I should know, Miss Tumby?”
“Not off-hand, there isn’t.”
“I wonder where he got the cat. Did he have it for long?”
“Ten years or more. I think it just come to him.”
“Cats have a way of doing that,” Alex said. “He took good care of it, didn’t he?”
“Like a baby. Fed it more than he ate. Good stuff from what Mrs. Durkin says.”
He got up from the table and folded the linen napkin she had given him. Even that was hand embroidered, with the monogram M.T. “I’m going over and take another look around. May I go out your back door?”
“Of course, Alex. Tell your mother to be sure and come to the luncheon tomorrow. It’ll be nice even if she don’t play cards. There’ll be bunco.”
He noticed a ring of keys on a hook by the door and he wondered if one of them did not match the key to Andy’s house in his pocket. Mabel was holding the screen door open for him. She picked up the broom.
“My mother tried to teach me that indirect question business,” Alex said, “but it doesn’t work for me. Did you hear or notice anyone over at Andy’s place the night before last?”
“No, and I looked too. Something woke me in the middle of the night and I looked out the window. His lights were still on, but then he stayed up till all hours, so I didn’t think anything of it.”
“About what time was that?”
“Two-thirty. I looked.”
“Any idea what wakened you?”
“No. Most nothing wakes me, except cats screeching. I can’t abide that. Got rid of my Bessie on that account.”
Alex pushed some excelsior from the step with his toe. “Thanks for breakfast, Miss Turnsby. Your rolls are out of this world.”
“Alex,” she said, following him down the steps, “why did they look for fingerprints?”
“They always do when a person dies suddenly like that.” As he climbed through the long grass between the houses, he could hear her sweeping the steps behind him.
Chapter 13
A LEX OPENED ALL THE WINDOWS in Andy’s kitchen to let in the sunlight. The place was damp and musty. All in all, he was well satisfied with his chat with Miss Turnsby. At least one of the pieces to the puzzle had fallen into place: the tax receipt and Andy’s trip. He was rather pleased with himself for the way he had gone about it. He walked all through the house. Nothing had changed. The house looked as though nothing in it had changed for twenty years, and yet, he thought, standing in the living room, something was different there although the furniture was all as he remembered it. It was the mid-morning light from the small window, and its rays fell between him and a painting he had not even noticed in the artificially lighted room yesterday. Now it had the luminousness of the misty sunlight that probably came to it only at this hour of the day. Alex went to a chair across the room from it and sat down. There was nothing at all in the room except the painting from where he sat—a long sweep of meadow into a sparse wood that almost sang with changing fragments of color, as though there was the movement in it of
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