Free Payment in Kind by J. A. Jance

grouped around an island counter.
    I nodded. It had been a long morning, with no time out for a single cup of coffee, to say nothing of breakfast.
    While we watched in silence, Pete ground fresh, gourmet-type beans, started a pot of coffee, and put a hunk of crusty homemade bread on the countertop in front of us along with a container of butter and a pot of homemade apricot jam. He moved with the easy assurance of someone accustomed to working in a kitchen.
    “Help yourselves,” he said, handing us knives and napkins. “I’ve got to make some calls first. Our daughter is in school at the U of O down in Eugene. I need to get hold of her. And then there’s Marcia’s parents,” he added bleakly.
    Rather than retreating to the relative privacy of another room, Pete made the two calls from a wall phone in the kitchen. He reached Erin, the daughter, first.
    Munching on the delicious brown bread and helping myself to the robust, black coffee, I heard only one side of the difficult conversation. Pete Kelsey delivered his shocking news as humanely as possible. After a short pause punctuated by murmured words of comfort, he went on to arrange the businesslike details of how and when Erin should get back home.
    His judgment, one with which I heartily concurred, was that the roads were far too hazardous for her to risk driving. He advised her to catch the first available plane and that he’d be sure someone was at the airport to meet her when she got in.
    The next call was to Marcia’s parents, who, he explained, were retired and wintering on the Arizona snowbird circuit. Kelsey handled himself well through both difficult calls, but once he got off the phone with his mother-in-law, his face was chalky gray and his eyes red-rimmed. He looked totally drained. For a moment, he stood leaning against the doorjamb, covering his eyes with his hands. When the front doorbell buzzed from two rooms away, he jumped as though he’d been shot.
    “Would you mind getting that?” he asked. “I don’t want to see anybody just now, I don’t care who it is.”
    I was only too happy to oblige. I had a pretty good idea of who would be ringing his bell right about then. It had taken some time for the locked-out reporters to get organized and work up their considerable nerve.
    I’ve always thought it takes a hell of a lot of gall to try for a firsthand interview with someone whose life has just been jolted by some terrible tragedy. In this instance the circling pack of newshounds had evidently decided that sending one emissary was a better tactic than having everybody show up at once.
    The person standing with her finger poised on the bell preparing to ring it yet a third time turned out to be one of the more attractive distaff members of Seattle’s electronic media. I recognized her from other crime-scene gatherings, but when I opened the door, she didn’t know me from Adam. That was probably just as well.
    “Mr. Kelsey?” she asked sweetly.
    “No,” I answered.
    She gave me a charming, white-toothed smile, a win-friends-and-influence-people-type smile. “I was wondering if I might speak to him,” she said carefully. She was pushy, but doing her best to temper it.
    “Mr. Kelsey isn’t seeing anybody right now,” I replied. I started to close the door, but she wasn’t about to be dismissed quite that easily.
    “Are you a member of the family?” she asked quickly, somehow insinuating herself between the closing door and the frame. She could have taken her training from Fuller Brush.
    Some of the other newsies had worked their way onto the sidewalk, warily edging onto the porch and within earshot.
    “I’m a police officer,” I answered shortly. “Mr. Kelsey would like all of you to leave. Now. He won’t be making any statements at this time.”
    With that, I bodily elbowed her out of the way and shut the door in her face.
    My former partner, Ron Peters, the one who’s working in Media Relations, keeps telling me that I need to