Shadow of Doubt (A Kali O'Brien legal mystery) by Jonnie Jacobs Page B

took two aspirin, called to Loretta, whose spirits were as high as mine were low, and stomped angrily out of the house.
    The racket seemed to be coming from the old Gallagher place down the road. I didn’t know who lived there now, although I was pretty sure it was no longer any of the Gallaghers. They wouldn’t have been hammering and sawing first thing in the morning. Or any other time for that matter. Two of the upstairs windows had been missing the whole time I was growing up, and when a falling tree had knocked a hole in the front door the winter I was twelve, Mr. Gallagher simply nailed a sheet of plywood across the whole thing. From then on, the family used the back door.
    I walked up the rutted driveway, past the old orchard, and knocked. The front door had been replaced. It was a beautifully crafted, eight panel door with shiny brass trim. A real improvement over plywood.
    After a moment, I knocked again. Up close like that, the rasp of the saw was piercing. There was no way a gentle knock would be heard, so I started pounding and kicking and hollering with a vengeance. The sawing stopped; my banging and kicking continued for a moment longer, a window-rattling ruckus almost as unpleasant as the sawing. Then the door opened, and I stood nose to nose with my brother’s friend Tom.
    “You?” My voice was about as pleasant as everything else that morning. “What are you doing here?”
    “Good morning to you, too,” Tom said, lifting the pair of protective goggles to his forehead. “I live here.”
    “What happened to the Gallaghers?”
    “Mr. Gallagher died. Mrs. Gallagher went to live with her daughter in Florida. Is that who you’re looking for? I’ve probably got her address somewhere.”
    I pulled myself to my full five-foot-five and scowled. “Do you realize that it’s seven o’clock in the morning?”
    “Seven-fifteen actually. And a truly lovely morning, too. You want to come in? I’ll make up some coffee.” Tom pulled the goggles all the way off, then brushed the sawdust from his bare arms. “It’ll take me just a minute to wash up.”
    He turned and headed inside without waiting for an answer. I wasn’t about to be left talking to an empty door, so I followed. “No coffee,” I said tersely. “Caffeine makes me jittery.”
    “I’ll make decaf then. Or herb tea. Jesus, are you always so surly?”
    “Do you always wake the neighborhood with your God-awful hammering and sawing?”
    “Ah,” he said, stopping midway through a room stacked with plywood and sheetrock. “I take it this isn’t a social call.”
    I gave him one of those icy glares that’s intended to convey more than words. “Quite a job you’ve taken on here,” I said, surveying the gutted interior. The nasty tone I’d tried for was muted somewhat by grudging respect. Anyone who would tackle a job like that with the confidence it would end up whole again deserved credit.
    “It is quite a job, taken on more by necessity than choice. I’m sorry about the noise. Your dad never minded, and I guess I didn’t think that with you here it might be different. I have to fit this construction stuff into the hours I’m not at work so I don’t have a lot of leeway.”
    “What about Sunday?” I smirked. “That your day for golf?”
    He looked puzzled.
    “You didn’t work Sunday. It was quiet all morning.”
    The puzzled expression gave way to a grin. “It was my weekend with my kids.” He tossed his goggles onto a make-shift workbench. “Cappuccino okay? Strictly decaf, I promise.”
    We passed through the rehab zone and into a kitchen straight out of House Beautiful. A large, open space with hardwood flooring, granite counter tops, gleaming new appliances, and a profusion of sunlight.
    “This is beautiful,” I said, genuinely impressed. “You did it yourself?”
    “Not the finish work. I’m merely the grunt labor and gofer. It cuts costs considerably. It did turn out nicely though, didn’t it?” He filled the