Read Online Cat With a Fiddle (9781101578902) by Lydia Adamson - Free Book Online

and started a school for the children—the children of
this community
—to teach them dancing and painting and every art you can think of. At one time we had artists from all over the world up here teaching us hicks about the finer things.
    â€œThe School has been a part of life in these parts for some seventy years. Ask the grocer if he doesn’t want their business. Ask Paul Fiske in the liquor store. You think the school doesn’t pay property taxes like anybody else? Water bills? People who’ve stayed there tend to come back up here to vacation. They rent cars, they stay in the bed-and-breakfast places. They buy books in the bookstore. They—”
    â€œAll right, Lieutenant Donaldson! I think I’m beginning to see.”
    â€œHope so.”
    He had made some points I couldn’t brush off. And not merely the socioeconomic lecture he’d just delivered. Yes, I supposed it was possible that it could have been local teenagers who’d made love in the shed. Except for the empty brandy bottles. How likely was it that out-of-work or minimum-wage kids would take Martell’s cognac along on a joyride, like a six-pack of Budweiser?
    At any rate, I was still convinced that Miranda’s story was true. And that the relationship between Beth and Will might have played an important role in the murder.
    â€œLieutenant Donaldson,” I said, “I have to admit everything you’ve said is also ‘interesting.’ But I have something else to tell you.” I was ready to drop the bombshell now.
    â€œSomething else?” he said distractedly, counting out change for the waitress’s tip. “What’s that, Alice?”
    I said somberly, “That accident yesterday was no accident. Someone was trying to kill us—or me—or Roz—or whomever.”
    That shook him.
    I moved in quickly and told him all about my search for the injured dog; about the strange sled-like marks I’d found in the road; and then about the big toy in the shed with the mud on its rocker.
    He said not a word to interrupt me. And when I’d finished he burst into laughter.
    I sat there, furious all over again, waiting for his merriment to subside.
    It did stop, after a few more choking guffaws. And finally his face settled into its old unreadability.
    â€œAll done, Ford?”
    â€œYep. Yeah, Alice, I am.” He checked his watch, then asked me very politely, “Need a little more coffee?”
    â€œNo, I do not!”
    Donaldson leaned forward, toward me, and took on a toneless, very professional air. He then began to fire a series of questions at me.
    â€œWas the car trip into town planned for days in advance?”
    â€œNo,” I answered, “of course not—that is, I don’t see how it could’ve been. Ben just decided on the spur of the moment and I decided to join them. It was so gloomy in the house . . . ”
    â€œHow could an elaborate plan like that have been set into motion on the spur of the moment? It would have required a conspirator somewhere on the road—right?—someone waiting with your stuffed camel and a car phone.
    â€œSomebody would have had to call him from the house, the moment the three of you left, and then he would have had to hide the car somewhere, station himself at a strategic place on the road, wait to catch sight of the Mercedes, and then at the last minute run across the road—or better yet, slide the toy across the road at just the right moment.”
    He paused briefly, waiting for my response. I had none. He was right: the conspiracy would have had to be almost absurdly elaborate.
    â€œThe guy in the car gets a call on his fancy phone saying you three are underway. Okay—how does he know which way the car is going to turn once it leaves the property? You can’t even see the road from the house. You can make a left turn or a right turn. There are at least two ways to get into