Read Online Killing Cassidy by Jeanne M. Dams - Free Book Online Page B

meet both of you.”
    We were shooed out the door, quite nicely but very efficiently. I backed out of the driveway and drove out of sight before stopping. I stretched back, my arms stiff against the steering wheel.
    â€œWell, now what? That sure didn’t get us anywhere.”
    â€œA lady with a mission,” said Alan a little dryly. “Missionaries are often somewhat—monotonous, shall we say?”
    â€œI liked her.”
    â€œMy dear, so did I, though she got a little shrill on the subject of Jerry, didn’t she? I simply wished she would moderate her enthusiasm a trifle, even though I agree with her point of view.
    â€œNow,” he added briskly, “shall we go on to the next person on the list? I’m beginning to get very interested in this wild-goose chase of yours, Dorothy.”

7
    T HE next person on the list, we decided after a quick conference, was either the attending doctor in Kevin’s last illness or the police chief, whichever could be found easily on a Saturday afternoon.
    â€œLet’s try the police chief first,” I suggested. “At least we know where to look for him. And if he isn’t working today, we can try the doctor.”
    So we drove back into town, where the police station, thank heaven, was still where it had always been.
    Yes, the chief was in. Yes, we could see him. Names, please?
    Here, at least, was a place where Alan’s title might be useful. “Dorothy Martin. And Chief Constable Alan Nesbitt, from the county of Belleshire, England.”
    â€œYou don’t say. Official business?”
    â€œNo,” said Alan firmly. “Merely a courtesy call.”
    The desk sergeant scratched his head and spoke into the telephone. I frowned at Alan.
    â€œMy dear, I cannot operate under false pretenses,” he said quietly. “And I am, I remind you, not the chief constable anymore.”
    â€œIt never hurts to throw your weight around a little,” I whispered back.
    Which just goes to show how wrong I can be.
    We were given visitors’ badges. I was a little surprised at that formality, but Hillsburg tries to keep its civic departments up-to-date. When we were shown back to the office occupied by the chief, though, it seemed very small-town. It was a shabby, homey place—imitation knotty pine paneling, scarred wooden desk covered with pictures of the chief’s family. I glanced at them, looked more closely, and then looked at the chief’s name badge with dawning recognition.
    â€œLacey! Darryl Lacey! My word, I wouldn’t have known you, but your son looks exactly the way you did in fourth grade.”
    He grinned. “He does, doesn’t he? Now me, I’ve put on a little weight. And lost a little hair. But I was sure you’d figure out who I was, Mrs. Martin. What’re you doing back in town?”
    He was bald as an egg, indeed resembled an egg: He could have played Humpty Dumpty in any production of
Alice in Wonderland
.
    â€œOh, we’ve been meaning to come for a visit for some time,” I prevaricated. “Darryl, this is my husband, Alan Nesbitt. Alan, Darryl was one of my students, oh, years ago, now.”
    I beamed at both of them. Alan extended his hand. Darryl took it and said stiffly, “How do you do, sir.”
    Uh-oh.
    â€œWon’t you sit down?”
    He was being very formal now. Alan tried to set him at ease. “Mr. Lacey, I hope you don’t mind our dropping in on you like this. I’m sure you’re very busy.”
    â€œNot as busy as all that. We don’t go in for all the spit and polish that you guys do in your country. Just a rough and ready small-town police force, that’s all we have here. Drunk and disorderly, auto theft, domestic violence, a bank robbery now and then. We manage.”
    â€œEr—the students give you no trouble, then?”
    â€œThat’s what the campus police are for. We deal with ’em when they get