Read Online Places in the Dark by Thomas H. Cook - Free Book Online Page B

doubted that he’d actually gone that way, of course. I’d had enough experience with death by then to know that people died like old cars, shaking and clattering, spewing fluids, gases. I suddenly remembered my mother as I’d found her in the cottage, alive but barely, sprawled across the floor, her nightgown sticky with sweat and urine. My old anger leaped up in me again, like a cat in wait. When I glanced toward Dora, I saw something move across her features, swift as a shadow. I felt that she’dseen the very image that had darted through my mind, had sensed how quickly grief turned to rage in me.
    “Mr. Dillard seems to have gone peacefully,” I said as I pulled out my notebook. “I just have to ask a few questions,” I explained.
    She gave a quick nod.
    “Were you with Mr. Dillard when he died?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you remember about what time he passed away?”
    “Shortly after nine o’clock.”
    “And he died right here? In his bed?”
    “Yes.”
    “Has anybody been in the room since then?”
    “No.”
    “Has he been moved?”
    “I washed him and changed his clothes. Should I not have done that?”
    “No, no, that’s fine,” I assured her. “Nothing to worry about.” I glanced at my notebook, writing nothing. “Just for the record, what was your relationship to Mr. Dillard?”
    “I was his housekeeper.”
    “Live-in?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you know if he had any relatives? People who should be contacted?”
    “He never mentioned anyone.”
    “And your name is?”
    Her arms drew upward protectively, as if against invisible fingers unbuttoning her blouse. “Dora March,” she replied evenly.
    I closed the notebook. “Well, that’s all I need to know at the moment. I’ll have to send Dr. Bradshawover. He’s the county coroner. Do you want me to call him now?”
    “Yes,” she said.
    I used the phone downstairs, a wooden one that hung on the wall. Dora stood a few feet away, beside a lamp with a bloodred shade, listening silently as I made the arrangements.
    “The doctor will be by in just a few minutes,” I told her as I hung up the phone.
    She nodded.
    “I’m sorry about Mr. Dillard,” I added.
    “Thank you.”
    She walked me to the door.
    I stepped out onto the porch. “Well, good night, Miss March.”
    “Good night, Mr. Chase.”
    I was back in my office, sleeplessly toiling at some nondescript prosecution, when Doc Bradshaw came by an hour later. He was an old man, careless in his dress, with a rumpled hat, and a day or two’s growth of gray stubble. One leg was shorter than the other, so that when he walked his left shoulder rode a good two inches higher than the right. It gave him a mangled appearance, like a bicycle that had been run over then crudely hammered back into shape.
    “Here’s the death certificate,” he said. He slid a single sheet of paper onto my desk.
    I picked it up and began to glance over it. “Anything I need to tell Hap?”
    Doc Bradshaw lowered himself with a sigh into the chair opposite my desk. He didn’t answer my question. Instead, he asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have a shot of whiskey, would you, Cal?”
    “I don’t keep it in my office.”
    “Because it’s against the rules?”
    “Because it’s too tempting.” I glanced at the bottom of the page. “Natural causes. You have any reason to doubt that?”
    Doc Bradshaw chuckled. “You looking for trouble, Cal? Not enough felonious activity in Port Alma for you?” He laughed again. “No, I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Old men die, that’s the long and short of it.” He bent forward, massaged his knees, then sat back with a soft groan. “Poor old Ed. Not a person in the world to shed a tear for him.”
    “Except that woman,” I said, surprising myself as I said it.
    “Think they were close?” Doc Bradshaw asked.
    “She seemed to care about him.”
    Bradshaw glanced toward the window. “I guess she’ll be leaving Port Alma.”
    “Why’s that?”
    His eyes