Killer Cousins by June Shaw

think so.” I pointed to the sender—neatopornflicks.
    “Oops, hadn’t noticed that point.” She looked seriously at the others. Eat pizza and lose weight. Lose thirty pounds this week. Better yourself. Someone wants to meet you. Help, my children and I need money. Be happy now.
    She wasn’t deleting any of them. I couldn’t imagine she was seriously entertaining info from these places. “You know this isn’t the way to happiness or to help people or meet a guy, if that’s what you want.”
    She stared at me.
    “This is mostly spam. Why don’t you get it blocked?”
    She snapped her mailbox off the screen and shut her laptop.
    “You didn’t have to do that. I didn’t know if you realized you could stop that junk from coming in your inbox.” Did I really need to apologize?
    “I am an intelligent person. I’m a teacher,” she said, like her profession made her brilliant.
    “Do whatever you want.” I went to the bathroom.
    Going back to my room, I noticed no light from the dining room. Only a glow beneath the shut door to Stevie’s bedroom.
    What was her problem? Did she really want to read all that junk from obscure sites that probably weren’t reliable?
    And what did I know? Maybe those twenty or more sites were exactly what she needed.
    What I needed was to get away from her. First, however, I or someone else had to discover how Pierce Trottier died. I’d get on that task again first thing in the morning.
    My second thought might have been wise, maybe not. I scribbled a note and left it on the kitchen table.
    What would Stevie think when she read my note suggesting that if she still worked out at a gym, I didn’t want to stop her from going? I offered to work out with her.
    Lying in bed, I shook my head. There was no way I really wanted to work out. She surely didn’t anymore. I fell asleep, imagining my waistline and behind spreading wider with each meal I ate here.
    * * *
    In the morning I thought better of what I’d done last night. If Stevie hadn’t read the note yet, I’d throw it away.
    Reaching the kitchen, I smiled, seeing a single page on the table.
    Only one word was printed on this page. OKAY.
    Uggh, she’d taken me seriously.
    “Stevie,” I said, walking through the house. Her bedroom door was open, her bed made, bathroom door open. Door to the spare bedroom locked. No smell or sound suggested she was inside. Her car was gone.
    It was Sunday, not a workday for her, and she’d left me without a word. Well yes, she did leave one word, but that was the wrong one. I guessed I’d ticked her off with my comments about her spam and sent her away, maybe for the day.
    Pierce Trottier may have lived in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, I remembered. Today’s newspaper might have his obituary. I grabbed the paper from the countertop and checked. I wanted to learn about his family. I felt connected to the man and wanted to attend his services to pay my respects.
    A short list. He wasn’t on it.
    I flipped through pages, hoping I wouldn’t find any article about an out-of-towner falling on him.
    Grateful, I didn’t find one. Stevie gave me a printout with information about him last night. Trottier’s name was unusual. It would seem odd for two men with that name to be doing the same line of work. The printout didn’t give a phone number for Accounting by Pierce, Pierce Trottier owner.
    I grabbed my cell phone and called Information. Asked for Tuscaloosa, Accounting by Pierce. The number was no longer in service.
    I asked for Trottier, Pierce. Nothing listed.
    Not ready to give up, I pressed 0 and spoke to a real person.
    “Sorry, there’s no listing for Accounting by Pierce or the name Pierce Trottier,” she said.
    “Can you tell me when the accounting firm’s phone number shut down?”
    “Sorry, I don’t have that information.”
    “How about Trottier with any other first name?”
    No luck there, either. I wasn’t sure what else to do now except eat breakfast. I checked the pantry. Powdered