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Authors: Emilie Richards
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eyes glistening.
“You’re kidding!”
“Browning Kefauver the Third has the other key.”
“Why?”
“Remember I told you the owners rented out the house for a while? That’s why they left the old furniture behind? Well, Brownie’s half brother and his wife were the renters. They were moving to Dallas, and they sold their house sooner than they’d expected. So they put most of their stuff in storage and rented the house across the street for a couple of months until it was time to head south.”
“This must have happened before we came. I don’t remember anyone living there since we moved in.”
“Before they left they gave their key to Brownie so he could supervise the movers and make sure all their stuff went to Dallas and the owners’ junk stayed behind.”
“And he never gave back the key?”
“Get this. He claims he lost it,” Lucy finished triumphantly.
The idea of Emerald Springs’ anal-retentive mayor having anything to do with Jennifer Marina’s murder was intriguing.
“He doesn’t drive a green SUV by any chance, does he?” I figured Lucy would know. Lucy has sources at City Hall and can find out anything.
“A cream-colored Lincoln.”
We had sipped and talked our way to ten o’clock. I knew the meeting at church should be ending soon. Emerald Springs was an early to bed kind of place. Former farm towns often are.
“I’ll walk you to your car.” I rose and cleared away our cups. One more mug of Irish coffee and Lucy was going to be sleeping in our guest room. “You’re okay to drive?”
“I went light on mine. You needed the extra shot. And I parked at the church. Some bozo was blocking your driveway.”
“That happens all the time. The prevailing theory is that the minister and family have no life and therefore no need to use our car.”
Outside the sky was clear and the stars were spectacular. In the parking lot we said good-bye, and I watched Lucy drive away. The girls are sound sleepers, and I’d locked the house tight so I had a few minutes of freedom. The lights were on in the parish house, and I saw movement in the foyer, although the light in Ed’s study was off. Since this probably meant the meeting had broken up and people were lingering over good-byes, I decided to go inside. Ed hadn’t wanted me at the meeting, but he hadn’t said a word about the farewell party.
The foyer, where our secretary’s desk is located, is open and modern, with nothing more than a low brick planter heavy on philodendron separating his desk from the coat closet and reception area.
I expected to see a dozen or more people but only found two. Simone Jeffrey, the board president’s wife, and her teenage son Ron, a lanky, dark-haired boy who, judging from behavior at monthly potlucks, routinely consumed enough calories to fuel a football team.
“I thought the meeting was over,” I told Simone after a brief greeting. “You, too?”
“Tom told me to pick him up at ten. He’s an optimist.”
I didn’t know what else to say. Simone is a nice enough woman, who attends most services and social events and lays low otherwise. But gossiping about the possible outcome of the meeting was inappropriate.
I chatted with Ron instead, asking whether he was looking forward to his senior year at Emerald High and a plethora of the other questions adolescents find repugnant. Silently I asked his forgiveness.
Ron was about to strangle me when the door to the meeting room behind the secretary’s desk flew open.
My immediate impression was of a flock of geese flying in V formation. Gelsey was the leader, with the gaggle in formation behind her. I know too much about geese. Last year I helped Deena research a report on the Canada variety. As geese fly their wings create an uplift, and by sticking together they boost their flying power about 70 percent. Those who want to fly solo feel an uncomfortable resistance and usually return.
This particular gaggle consisted of five people. With the
“You’re kidding!”
“Browning Kefauver the Third has the other key.”
“Why?”
“Remember I told you the owners rented out the house for a while? That’s why they left the old furniture behind? Well, Brownie’s half brother and his wife were the renters. They were moving to Dallas, and they sold their house sooner than they’d expected. So they put most of their stuff in storage and rented the house across the street for a couple of months until it was time to head south.”
“This must have happened before we came. I don’t remember anyone living there since we moved in.”
“Before they left they gave their key to Brownie so he could supervise the movers and make sure all their stuff went to Dallas and the owners’ junk stayed behind.”
“And he never gave back the key?”
“Get this. He claims he lost it,” Lucy finished triumphantly.
The idea of Emerald Springs’ anal-retentive mayor having anything to do with Jennifer Marina’s murder was intriguing.
“He doesn’t drive a green SUV by any chance, does he?” I figured Lucy would know. Lucy has sources at City Hall and can find out anything.
“A cream-colored Lincoln.”
We had sipped and talked our way to ten o’clock. I knew the meeting at church should be ending soon. Emerald Springs was an early to bed kind of place. Former farm towns often are.
“I’ll walk you to your car.” I rose and cleared away our cups. One more mug of Irish coffee and Lucy was going to be sleeping in our guest room. “You’re okay to drive?”
“I went light on mine. You needed the extra shot. And I parked at the church. Some bozo was blocking your driveway.”
“That happens all the time. The prevailing theory is that the minister and family have no life and therefore no need to use our car.”
Outside the sky was clear and the stars were spectacular. In the parking lot we said good-bye, and I watched Lucy drive away. The girls are sound sleepers, and I’d locked the house tight so I had a few minutes of freedom. The lights were on in the parish house, and I saw movement in the foyer, although the light in Ed’s study was off. Since this probably meant the meeting had broken up and people were lingering over good-byes, I decided to go inside. Ed hadn’t wanted me at the meeting, but he hadn’t said a word about the farewell party.
The foyer, where our secretary’s desk is located, is open and modern, with nothing more than a low brick planter heavy on philodendron separating his desk from the coat closet and reception area.
I expected to see a dozen or more people but only found two. Simone Jeffrey, the board president’s wife, and her teenage son Ron, a lanky, dark-haired boy who, judging from behavior at monthly potlucks, routinely consumed enough calories to fuel a football team.
“I thought the meeting was over,” I told Simone after a brief greeting. “You, too?”
“Tom told me to pick him up at ten. He’s an optimist.”
I didn’t know what else to say. Simone is a nice enough woman, who attends most services and social events and lays low otherwise. But gossiping about the possible outcome of the meeting was inappropriate.
I chatted with Ron instead, asking whether he was looking forward to his senior year at Emerald High and a plethora of the other questions adolescents find repugnant. Silently I asked his forgiveness.
Ron was about to strangle me when the door to the meeting room behind the secretary’s desk flew open.
My immediate impression was of a flock of geese flying in V formation. Gelsey was the leader, with the gaggle in formation behind her. I know too much about geese. Last year I helped Deena research a report on the Canada variety. As geese fly their wings create an uplift, and by sticking together they boost their flying power about 70 percent. Those who want to fly solo feel an uncomfortable resistance and usually return.
This particular gaggle consisted of five people. With the