Murder on the Horizon by M.L. Rowland Page A

said, gently chiding her husband. “Gracie has some knowledge and ideas. So why don’t we listen to what she has to say? Go ahead, Gracie. What would you grab if you only had five minutes?”
    Shooting a look at John, who was walking into the house, hands loaded with dishes and food, Gracie said, “Essentials. Minnie first. Then my laptop and my strong box of important documents and valuables. Fifteen minutes, I’d take photo albums. Sentimental things. If I had two hours, I could remove everything I care about. Everything else, including the cabin itself, is replaceable.”
    â€œThat’s an excellent idea.” She looked up at John, who had reemerged from the house and was walking back down the ramp. “We’ll make out our own list tomorrow, won’t we, John?”
    Another noncommittal grunt.
    â€œNow, where is it you’re from, Gracie?”
    â€œGrosse . . . , um, the Detroit area. I’m flying home in a couple of days. Family stuff.”
    Acacia, who had left a half-eaten bowl of ice cream to throw the ball up in the air for Minnie, bounced over to stand next to Gracie. “Who’s taking care of Minnie, Miss Gracie?”
    â€œI . . . hadn’t gotten that far yet. I—”
    â€œCan I take care of Minnie? I want to take care of her.” She turned to Vivian. “Nana, can I? Please?”
    â€œI—” Gracie tried again.
    â€œI don’t see a problem with that—do you, John?”
    â€œWhat do I know?” John said, scrubbing the grill with a brush. “I’m just the cook.”
    Vivian just chuckled and seemed to be amused by her husband’s surliness.
    With much good-natured back-and-forth between the two women, Gracie cleared the rest of the food from the table and, back in the kitchen, rinsed the dishes and placed themin the dishwasher. As the women sat on the front deck, Vivian in her wheelchair and Gracie in the red Adirondack chair, John puttered around the yard, hand-edging the lawn, pulling nonexistent weeds along the wooden fence, unobtrusive, but obviously keeping a protective eye on his wife. From what—or whom, Gracie couldn’t guess.
    Acacia threw a tennis ball for Minnie on the front lawn, then, as Gracie discovered later, settled quietly on the bed in her room, sitting cross-legged on the spread of pink and yellow flowers, watching television with Minnie curled up at the end of the bed as if she belonged there.
    It was pleasant and peaceful in the little house at the bottom of the Arcturus hill. As the sun dropped to the horizon at their backs, chilling the air, stretching the shadows longer, and turning the sky overhead incandescent opal, Gracie and Vivian chatted and laughed, the conversation as easy and comfortable as a pair of old slippers. As they talked, birds chirped their evening songs in the background and an occasional car drove by—three in an hour—the cranberry-colored Equinox that was a part-time neighbor’s up the street, a maroon sedan that Gracie guessed was someone for the vacation rental two houses up from her cabin, and a rust-pocked white pickup truck with a hole in the muffler.
    The evening was the most enjoyable Gracie had experienced in years, certainly one of the most serene. Vivian might be trapped in a broken and infirm body, but she was a wise and old soul infused with a calming spirit.
    It was fully dark when Gracie walked with Minnie back up the steep curving road to her own little cabin. The night sky was bursting with stars—large and brilliant, with the Milky Way slashing across the zenith. As she walked, Gracie realized she was filled with something unfamiliar, something resembling contentment.
    As she stepped up onto her front porch, she heard the telephone in the kitchen ringing. Unlocking the door, shelet Minnie run inside ahead of her, trotted into the kitchen, and grabbed up the telephone on the counter.