“But she caught him at it, didn’t she? I bet she was up getting her pills.” I fished a lion out of the bag and then tossed it back, looking for another camel.
“How’d you know that?” Hugh asked.
“Haven’t you heard? Postmistresses are nosy. Actually she mentioned how cold it was when she got up to take her pills at night since the window had been broken.”
“She came out just as he was leaving and startled him. He picked up the weight Chris had brought over to fix the window and struck her on the back of the head with it.”
“That would explain the shape of the wound. What happened to the weight?”
“He tossed it down into the window well where the trim molding was pried off, figuring no one would think it out of place there if it was run into during a future renovation. Pretty good spot to dispose of it actually.”
“Gene’s a clever man.”
“Not clever enough to dispose of you, I’m glad to say.” Hugh reached over and cupped my cheek below the bandage. I leaned into it.
“I’m glad, too. What about Beulah? Do you think it’s going to be possible to prove whether it was Chris or Ethel who killed her?”
“Between Ernesto’s testimony about the cane and Chris’s own admission about the arson, a good prosecutor will be able to build a decent case against Chris.”
“But is he the one who killed Beulah?”
“Unless Chris pleads guilty to cut a deal, we probably won’t know. Beulah’s body was so badly charred we don’t know if it was the head wound that killed her or smoke inhalation. Either way, he’s responsible for her death.”
“So there will always be questions.”
“Only one that still interests me.” Hugh leaned forward and reached for my hand. “Now that the case is closed, will I be seeing any more of you or not?”
Standing in front of the cellar hole the next day where Beulah’s house had stood, I still couldn’t believe the place had burned to the ground. Just looking at the charred debris made me shaky and angry all over again. Augusta was remarkably upbeat about the whole thing.
“At least we don’t need to inventory it anymore.” She turned up her collar against the stiff breeze and draped her arm over my shoulder. “Too bad I’ve already given up the lease on my condo.”
“You didn’t tell me that,” I said.
“I finalized everything while you were at work yesterday. Good thing I can stay with you.” I wasn’t sure I would have called it good, but I’d been grateful to have someone else in the house with me last night when I woke up with nightmares about being roasted alive.
“So you’ll be staying a while,” I said.
“Yes. The Museum needs a curator, and there might be an opportunity for a new antique store.”
“Good. I need to borrow something from your wardrobe again. I’ve got a date tonight with Hugh.”
Meet Author Jessie Crockett
A nearly lifelong resident of the Granite State, Jessie naturally adores black flies, 98% humidity, killing frosts in August, and snow banks taller than the average grandmother.
When not working on her next murderous adventure, she enthusiastically putters in her greenhouse, designs bento lunches and throws parties. She delights in mentoring young writers at the local elementary school.
Jessie lives with her dark and mysterious husband and exuberant children in a village so small most other New Hampshire residents have never heard of it. Hearing from readers makes the winters seem shorter so please drop by for a visit at www.jessiecrockett.com.
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