Free The Magic of Murder by Susan Lynn Solomon

while? A week, maybe two at the most.”
    “Not a chance,” I said.
    “Then how about some money? You’ve done well for yourself, your books and all. I just need enough dough to get away from here…” His voice trailed off. He must have seen my eyes grow cold.
    “You can’t come barging into my home, and—”
    “Please, Emlyn. They’re after me.”
    “Who is?”
    He shot another nervous glance at the French doors. “They got Jim Osborn—I’m sure it was them.”
    I sat up, instantly alert. Jimmy had been investigating some criminal activity and that’s what got him killed. This could be the answer to my prayer. Kevin would tell me, I’d call Chief Woodward, and Roger wouldn’t know who it was until it was too late to do anything but curse at the caged killers.
    My lips pinched and my eyes narrowed, I said, “Who shot Jimmy?”
    “Must’ve been them. Had to be. No one else would’ve had a reason.” Once more it was as if he talked to himself, trying to reason something out.
    “Tell me!”
    Startled by my shout, he shrank back against the arm of the sofa. He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
    “Kevin!”
    At last he seemed about to answer. But he stopped abruptly, his eyes like full moons, when we heard knocking on my front door.
    “Emlyn, you still awake?” Roger called. “You left your headlights on. I turned them off for you.”
    I bounced from my chair. “Stay there,” I said to Kevin.
    “That’s you neighbor…the cop?”
    “Yes, and he’s gonna want to hear this.”
    “Don’t let him in!” Kevin cried.
    “Whatever trouble you’ve gotten into, Roger can help,” I said as I rushed past the kitchen to the door. But first, I thought, I’ll make Roger swear he’ll call Chief Woodward, and not go after the killers himself.
    My friend smiled at me when I opened the door. In his dark overcoat, suit and red and blue power tie, his brown curls neatly combed, and especially with the gray at his temples, he cast the image of a successful business executive. “Can I get you to put up a pot of coffee?” he said.
    I was so taken by this view of him, for a moment I forgot about Kevin. I let my eyes roam from Roger’s head to his feet. “Look at you, all dressed up.”
    “If I’ve gotta sit behind a desk all day, I might as well make use of my good suit.” He glanced back toward his house. “Gonna invite me in?”
    I pushed the storm door open. “Of course I am. And there’s someone I want you to—”
    I stopped when I felt a draft from behind.
    Roger must have felt it, too, because he leaned to look past me. “You’ve left the French doors open.”
    I pivoted on my heels. Kevin was gone.

Chapter Seven
    Back in the Hunt
     
                  M y kitchen is white. Cabinets, canisters, floor tiles, refrigerator, stove, all white. Even my microwave and coffee pot are white. I’m nothing if not consistent. To satisfy Mom, who had a penchant for cooking but didn’t want to be shut away from us, my father broke down some walls and enlarged the kitchen. After that, Mom’s workspace was separated from the living room and front hall only by a counter. When Dad died and Mom moved to Florida, I resurfaced the counter with white Formica. 
    Roger sat patiently at my dinette table, while, hands shaking, I struggled to scoop coffee into the filter on top of the pot. Bless him for his patience. He hadn’t missed my eyes go wide when I saw the open French doors, so he knew I had something to tell him. More, because I knew how upset he was over his partner’s murder, he might have suspected my reaction had something to do with that. As I’ve said, Roger Frey is a good detective: he sees things, and the relationship between those things, others don’t. He’s able to do this because he’s patient. Patience, he’s often told me, is the most important skill a good cop must learn.
    I carried the pot and two mugs to the table. As soon as I sat, I began to blurt out what Kevin told