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.
Susanâs 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.
âAs I live and breathe, hasnât our funeral director gone and transformed himself into a right proper law officer.â
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.
âKevin. What are you doing here?â
He raised the wineglass higher. âIâve come to receive your gratitude, youngster. I know who killed Jimmy Panther.â
Chapter Nine
I stood inside the front door, doubly shocked by Kevinâs presence and his pronouncement.
âWell, come on in, lad. Susanâs kind enough to invite me to stay for dinner.â 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. âHello, dear.â Her sly smile told me she was amused by the situation. She set the appetizers on the coffee table. âYou want a glass of Malbec?â
âDefinitely.â
Democrat gave up on getting a pat from me and trotted over to Kevin. He put his big head on the Irishmanâs knee and was rewarded with a scratch behind the ear.
âCanât believe he remembered me,â Kevin said.
I broke my frozen stance and closed the door. âYouâre a hard man to forget.â
He set his glass on the table and stood again, this time to give me a firm handshake. âI had a feeling our paths would cross again. Maybe Democrat did too.â He returned to the sofa. âTommy Lee said youâre heading up this Indian killing.â
I sat in a chair opposite him. âDid you see him?â
âNo. 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.â
My mind was racing. Kevinâs car was obviously a rental, probably from the Asheville airport. So, heâd 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. âTommy Lee put you up to claiming you solved my case. What, are you here on vacation?â
Susan entered with my wine. âDinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes.â
Kevin patted the cushion beside him. âSit down, Susan. I donât want you running around on my account.â
She laughed. âIâm not. But it would be on your account before Barryâs.â
He grinned at me. âYouâve caught yourself a wicked one, son.â
âYou men talk,â Susan said. âIâm going to walk Democrat up to the mailbox and weâll eat when I get back.â
Democrat lifted his head at the sound of his name. He headed for the door.
When it closed behind Susan and the dog, Kevinâs face turned rigid. âFrancis Tyrell. He killed your Indian.â
It didnât take a detective to deduce Kevin was dead serious. âWhoâs he?â
âA slick son of a bitch I wouldnât cross Newbury Street to piss on if he was on fire.â
âAnd you flew in today because heâs a suspect?â
Kevin eyed his wineglass. âThis grape juice is nice, but do you happen to have anything stronger?â
âI have some Bushmills.â
âOh, be still my
Shiloh Walker, M. S. Parker
Sharon Gosling
Darla Phelps
Patricia Wentworth
Jennifer Apodaca
Sharon Sant
Bernard Malamud
Courtney Robertson
V. Mark Covington
Sol Stein