trellises, but saw no sign of it.
“Crum,” she said, throwing up her hands, knowing that somehow, some way, her shovel had vanished.
In all the years she’d lived in this town, she’d never had anything stolen, nothing but a few flowers picked by a passerby.
She sunk down on her porch steps, feeling strangely sad, far more distressed at losing the old tool than she was at what happened to Milton.
Chapter 17
A MOS M ELVILLE HAD only just gotten his office back to himself and settled down behind his desk when the telephone rang. He picked it up. “Yes?”
“I didn’t sleep a wink last night, my friend, but I got you the answers you wanted. I’m not sure, though, that you’ll be so anxious to hear them.”
Amos sighed, sure then that he’d made a big mistake.
“Give it to me straight, Ed.” Amos eyed the patient files stacked on his desk as he listened to the medical examiner lay out his findings from Milton Grone’s autopsy.
Amos didn’t interrupt, not once, merely punctuated the information dealt him with a murmur of “Ah-ha” or “I see.”
When Dr. Drake had finished, Amos took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “So you’ll get a copy of your report to me as soon as possible?”
“I’ll drop it by myself this afternoon, if you’d like.”
“Great,” Doc mumbled, to himself as much as Drake, “I’ll have to amend the death certificate. The body’s set to be cremated tomorrow.”
“I’m sure his friends at least will be glad to know the truth.”
Doc let out a dry laugh. “The man didn’t have any friends.”
And, he mused, those who knew Milton best likely wouldn’t care about the truth, just the fact that he was dead and out of their hair forever.
“So he was a mean bugger, eh? Well, that makes sense enough,” Drake replied. “From the looks of his crushed temporal lobe, your Mr. Grone pissed someone off pretty bad.”
“Oh, he pissed off a lot of someones,” Doc said.
“Wish I had better news.”
“Thanks for your help, Ed,” Amos said, parting after a mention of a golf date the next weekend.
When he hung up, Doc couldn’t focus on the mountain of files on his desk that needed dictation. He could think only of what Drake had confirmed in the last five minutes.
“It’s my professional opinion that Milton Grone’s death wasn’t caused by his heart,” Ed Drake had said, “but by a blow to his skull . . .”
Something Amos had suspected when he examined the body.
“The tissue from his heart showed damage, all right, but it wasn’t recent. You mentioned a severe myocardial infarction that kept him in the hospital years ago. I’ll bet it’s related to that. I’d put my money on the skull fracture killing him. I found particles of iron oxides mixed with brain matter, so it looks like a hard metal object . . .”
Drake’s words ran through his head, and Amos shifted in his chair.
“Chemical analysis also identified dirt, rust, and traces of a nitrogen, calcium, phosphorus, and potassium compound . . .”
What the hell?
“Fertilizer,” Drake had told him. “What the green-thumbs stir in with their topsoil to make their plants grow.”
Fertilizer?
Amos stared ahead at the wall, so deep in his own thoughts he didn’t realize he wasn’t alone until he heard a voice.
“You okay?” It was Fanny.
He started to lie, telling her, “I’m fine.” Then he shook his head. “No. No,” he said. “I’m not okay, not by a long shot.”
She crossed her arms and waited for him to go on.
“Got a call from Ed Drake,” he said, knowing how Fanny liked things straight-up, no pussy-footing around. “It appears that Milt was killed by a blow to the head. He didn’t die of a heart attack, Fanny. He was murdered.”
“What?”
He nodded.
Before he could say another word, his wife picked up the phone and dialed. “Hello,” he heard her say. “Sheriff? I think you’d better get over here fast.”
Chapter 18
H ELEN
“Crum,” she said, throwing up her hands, knowing that somehow, some way, her shovel had vanished.
In all the years she’d lived in this town, she’d never had anything stolen, nothing but a few flowers picked by a passerby.
She sunk down on her porch steps, feeling strangely sad, far more distressed at losing the old tool than she was at what happened to Milton.
Chapter 17
A MOS M ELVILLE HAD only just gotten his office back to himself and settled down behind his desk when the telephone rang. He picked it up. “Yes?”
“I didn’t sleep a wink last night, my friend, but I got you the answers you wanted. I’m not sure, though, that you’ll be so anxious to hear them.”
Amos sighed, sure then that he’d made a big mistake.
“Give it to me straight, Ed.” Amos eyed the patient files stacked on his desk as he listened to the medical examiner lay out his findings from Milton Grone’s autopsy.
Amos didn’t interrupt, not once, merely punctuated the information dealt him with a murmur of “Ah-ha” or “I see.”
When Dr. Drake had finished, Amos took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “So you’ll get a copy of your report to me as soon as possible?”
“I’ll drop it by myself this afternoon, if you’d like.”
“Great,” Doc mumbled, to himself as much as Drake, “I’ll have to amend the death certificate. The body’s set to be cremated tomorrow.”
“I’m sure his friends at least will be glad to know the truth.”
Doc let out a dry laugh. “The man didn’t have any friends.”
And, he mused, those who knew Milton best likely wouldn’t care about the truth, just the fact that he was dead and out of their hair forever.
“So he was a mean bugger, eh? Well, that makes sense enough,” Drake replied. “From the looks of his crushed temporal lobe, your Mr. Grone pissed someone off pretty bad.”
“Oh, he pissed off a lot of someones,” Doc said.
“Wish I had better news.”
“Thanks for your help, Ed,” Amos said, parting after a mention of a golf date the next weekend.
When he hung up, Doc couldn’t focus on the mountain of files on his desk that needed dictation. He could think only of what Drake had confirmed in the last five minutes.
“It’s my professional opinion that Milton Grone’s death wasn’t caused by his heart,” Ed Drake had said, “but by a blow to his skull . . .”
Something Amos had suspected when he examined the body.
“The tissue from his heart showed damage, all right, but it wasn’t recent. You mentioned a severe myocardial infarction that kept him in the hospital years ago. I’ll bet it’s related to that. I’d put my money on the skull fracture killing him. I found particles of iron oxides mixed with brain matter, so it looks like a hard metal object . . .”
Drake’s words ran through his head, and Amos shifted in his chair.
“Chemical analysis also identified dirt, rust, and traces of a nitrogen, calcium, phosphorus, and potassium compound . . .”
What the hell?
“Fertilizer,” Drake had told him. “What the green-thumbs stir in with their topsoil to make their plants grow.”
Fertilizer?
Amos stared ahead at the wall, so deep in his own thoughts he didn’t realize he wasn’t alone until he heard a voice.
“You okay?” It was Fanny.
He started to lie, telling her, “I’m fine.” Then he shook his head. “No. No,” he said. “I’m not okay, not by a long shot.”
She crossed her arms and waited for him to go on.
“Got a call from Ed Drake,” he said, knowing how Fanny liked things straight-up, no pussy-footing around. “It appears that Milt was killed by a blow to the head. He didn’t die of a heart attack, Fanny. He was murdered.”
“What?”
He nodded.
Before he could say another word, his wife picked up the phone and dialed. “Hello,” he heard her say. “Sheriff? I think you’d better get over here fast.”
Chapter 18
H ELEN
Similar Books
