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Authors: Livia J. Washburn
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and was ready to sit there and rest for a while as she drank the rest of the coffee.
That plan might have worked if the doorbell hadn’t rung
just then.
“I’ll get it,” Eve volunteered. She went into the front hall and returned a moment later with a heavyset man following her.
Phyllis recognized him right away, even though he was a lot beefier and his dark hair was a lot grayer than it had been when he was a young man living next door.
THE CHRISTMAS COOKIE KILLER • 51
“Hello, Frank,” she said. “I’m so sorry about your mother.”
Frank Simmons nodded in acknowledgment of her sympa-
thy. “How are you, Mrs. Newsom? I heard that you were at-
tacked by the same person who . . . attacked my mother.”
“I’ll be just fine, Frank. Won’t you sit down?”
He glanced around uneasily. None of the others in the room knew him very well, although like many people who had grown up in Weatherford over the past forty or so years, he had been in Eve’s English class when he was in high school. He had missed having Phyllis or Carolyn for teachers.
Frank Simmons was in his midforties. Phyllis had lost track of him after he got married and moved away, but she seemed to remember that he lived in Dallas, which was about an hour to an hour and a half to the east, depending on which part of that sprawling city you were talking about. She had no idea what he did for a living. He sat down awkwardly in one of the armchairs and said, “I just wanted to tell you that I’m, uh, sorry about what happened to you.”
“I appreciate that, Frank, but it wasn’t your fault.”
Unless he had something to do with his mother’s death, Phyllis thought suddenly, then felt a little ashamed of herself for even thinking such a thing. She had been around murder too much lately, she told herself. It was making her overly suspicious of everybody.
Frank clasped his hands together between his knees. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t have gotten hit if you hadn’t been trying to help my mother. The cops said you were trying to find something to . . . to get that belt off of Mama’s neck when that guy attacked you.”
“That did seem to be the way it was,” Phyllis said with a nod.
“But it was just bad luck. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
Sam grunted. “I’d say it was the fault o’ the no-good rascal who did it.”
52 • LIVIA J. WASHBURN
“Well, yes, of course,” Phyllis agreed.
“Have y’all heard anything about whether or not the cops
have any leads?” Frank asked. “Your boy’s a policeman, isn’t he, Mrs. Newsom?”
“Mike’s a deputy sheriff. The police department’s in charge of the investigation.” Phyllis looked over at Sarah. “I believe he talked to the detective last night. . . .”
Sarah shook her head. “We didn’t really find out anything.
You’ve talked to Detective Largo since the last time any of us have, Mr. Simmons.”
Frank sighed and said, “I know. I just thought she might’ve said something, told you something that she wouldn’t tell the family. . . .”
“I’m sure the police will keep you up-to-date on any new
developments,” Sarah told him.
“Yeah.” Frank put his hands on his knees and pushed him-
self to his feet. His face was red, and he seemed to be short of breath. Phyllis wondered what sort of shape his heart was in. “I guess I’d better be running along. . . .”
“Are all of you going to be staying next door?” Phyllis
asked.
“Well . . . for a while, I suppose. We’d planned to visit for a week or so. Now, of course, we have to arrange for the funeral and . . . and take care of all that.” Frank grimaced at the thought, causing Phyllis to feel another pang of sympathy for him and the other members of the family.
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” she
said.
“That goes for the rest of us, as well,” Carolyn added.
Frank nodded. “Thanks.” He moved toward the front door.
“I’ll be seein’ you.”
“I’ll
That plan might have worked if the doorbell hadn’t rung
just then.
“I’ll get it,” Eve volunteered. She went into the front hall and returned a moment later with a heavyset man following her.
Phyllis recognized him right away, even though he was a lot beefier and his dark hair was a lot grayer than it had been when he was a young man living next door.
THE CHRISTMAS COOKIE KILLER • 51
“Hello, Frank,” she said. “I’m so sorry about your mother.”
Frank Simmons nodded in acknowledgment of her sympa-
thy. “How are you, Mrs. Newsom? I heard that you were at-
tacked by the same person who . . . attacked my mother.”
“I’ll be just fine, Frank. Won’t you sit down?”
He glanced around uneasily. None of the others in the room knew him very well, although like many people who had grown up in Weatherford over the past forty or so years, he had been in Eve’s English class when he was in high school. He had missed having Phyllis or Carolyn for teachers.
Frank Simmons was in his midforties. Phyllis had lost track of him after he got married and moved away, but she seemed to remember that he lived in Dallas, which was about an hour to an hour and a half to the east, depending on which part of that sprawling city you were talking about. She had no idea what he did for a living. He sat down awkwardly in one of the armchairs and said, “I just wanted to tell you that I’m, uh, sorry about what happened to you.”
“I appreciate that, Frank, but it wasn’t your fault.”
Unless he had something to do with his mother’s death, Phyllis thought suddenly, then felt a little ashamed of herself for even thinking such a thing. She had been around murder too much lately, she told herself. It was making her overly suspicious of everybody.
Frank clasped his hands together between his knees. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t have gotten hit if you hadn’t been trying to help my mother. The cops said you were trying to find something to . . . to get that belt off of Mama’s neck when that guy attacked you.”
“That did seem to be the way it was,” Phyllis said with a nod.
“But it was just bad luck. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
Sam grunted. “I’d say it was the fault o’ the no-good rascal who did it.”
52 • LIVIA J. WASHBURN
“Well, yes, of course,” Phyllis agreed.
“Have y’all heard anything about whether or not the cops
have any leads?” Frank asked. “Your boy’s a policeman, isn’t he, Mrs. Newsom?”
“Mike’s a deputy sheriff. The police department’s in charge of the investigation.” Phyllis looked over at Sarah. “I believe he talked to the detective last night. . . .”
Sarah shook her head. “We didn’t really find out anything.
You’ve talked to Detective Largo since the last time any of us have, Mr. Simmons.”
Frank sighed and said, “I know. I just thought she might’ve said something, told you something that she wouldn’t tell the family. . . .”
“I’m sure the police will keep you up-to-date on any new
developments,” Sarah told him.
“Yeah.” Frank put his hands on his knees and pushed him-
self to his feet. His face was red, and he seemed to be short of breath. Phyllis wondered what sort of shape his heart was in. “I guess I’d better be running along. . . .”
“Are all of you going to be staying next door?” Phyllis
asked.
“Well . . . for a while, I suppose. We’d planned to visit for a week or so. Now, of course, we have to arrange for the funeral and . . . and take care of all that.” Frank grimaced at the thought, causing Phyllis to feel another pang of sympathy for him and the other members of the family.
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” she
said.
“That goes for the rest of us, as well,” Carolyn added.
Frank nodded. “Thanks.” He moved toward the front door.
“I’ll be seein’ you.”
“I’ll
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