Risky Undertaking

Risky Undertaking by Mark de Castrique Page A

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Authors: Mark de Castrique
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catalysts, a convergence of events, each individually explainable and yet with no logical connection. Maybe there was no logical connection. They were a coincidence of timing, timing that someone saw as an opportunity for murder.
    Susan’s car was in its customary spot by the cabin porch. I saw a black Ford Escort with a Tennessee plate parked beside it. We had company, but I had no idea who.
    I opened the front door and my yellow lab Democrat jumped up from his rug near the hearth and bounded for me. At the same time, a man sprang from the sofa, wineglass in hand.
    â€œAs I live and breathe, hasn’t our funeral director gone and transformed himself into a right proper law officer.”
    I was stunned to see Kevin Malone, Boston police detective and Vietnam platoon mate of Tommy Lee. Although several years had passed since he was in Gainesboro to help solve a murder going back to that war, Kevin looked the same. His gray hair was a little thinner, but the impish Irish grin was as broad as ever.
    â€œKevin. What are you doing here?”
    He raised the wineglass higher. “I’ve come to receive your gratitude, youngster. I know who killed Jimmy Panther.”

Chapter Nine
    I stood inside the front door, doubly shocked by Kevin’s presence and his pronouncement.
    â€œWell, come on in, lad. Susan’s kind enough to invite me to stay for dinner.” He sat down as if he were in his own den.
    Susan came around the bar from the kitchen with a plate of cheese and crackers. “Hello, dear.” Her sly smile told me she was amused by the situation. She set the appetizers on the coffee table. “You want a glass of Malbec?”
    â€œDefinitely.”
    Democrat gave up on getting a pat from me and trotted over to Kevin. He put his big head on the Irishman’s knee and was rewarded with a scratch behind the ear.
    â€œCan’t believe he remembered me,” Kevin said.
    I broke my frozen stance and closed the door. “You’re a hard man to forget.”
    He set his glass on the table and stood again, this time to give me a firm handshake. “I had a feeling our paths would cross again. Maybe Democrat did too.” He returned to the sofa. “Tommy Lee said you’re heading up this Indian killing.”
    I sat in a chair opposite him. “Did you see him?”
    â€œNo. Got him by phone as I was driving in. He said you and he spent the afternoon in Cherokee and he had to go to some civic meeting tonight.”
    My mind was racing. Kevin’s car was obviously a rental, probably from the Asheville airport. So, he’d flown in from Boston. How had he learned about the murder and gotten here so fast? And why? I could only think of one explanation. “Tommy Lee put you up to claiming you solved my case. What, are you here on vacation?”
    Susan entered with my wine. “Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes.”
    Kevin patted the cushion beside him. “Sit down, Susan. I don’t want you running around on my account.”
    She laughed. “I’m not. But it would be on your account before Barry’s.”
    He grinned at me. “You’ve caught yourself a wicked one, son.”
    â€œYou men talk,” Susan said. “I’m going to walk Democrat up to the mailbox and we’ll eat when I get back.”
    Democrat lifted his head at the sound of his name. He headed for the door.
    When it closed behind Susan and the dog, Kevin’s face turned rigid. “Francis Tyrell. He killed your Indian.”
    It didn’t take a detective to deduce Kevin was dead serious. “Who’s he?”
    â€œA slick son of a bitch I wouldn’t cross Newbury Street to piss on if he was on fire.”
    â€œAnd you flew in today because he’s a suspect?”
    Kevin eyed his wineglass. “This grape juice is nice, but do you happen to have anything stronger?”
    â€œI have some Bushmills.”
    â€œOh, be still my

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