Free Death of a Dapper Snowman by Angela Pepper

called out as I entered the kitchen.
    Nobody answered, but I heard the floor creak and assumed she was nearby.
    I called out, “I guess you know all about what’s happening next door? Did the crack team of investigators already interview you?”
    Her voice came weakly, “Yes. It was just awful.”
    I kicked off my snowy boots and walked over to the living room with the cat carrier still in one hand. The television was on, but Pam wasn’t in the room.
    “Pam? Are you hiding? Don’t jump out from a closet at me. I don’t think my nerves can take it after today.”
    Her voice came again, “I really don’t want to say one more word about what happened next door.”
    “You know they’re trying to pin this on my father?”
    “Your father did threaten the man.”
    I stopped and stood still in the kitchen. The cat carrier was getting surprisingly heavy. Jeffrey meowed softly for me to let him out, but I was too angry at her words to move.
    Did Pam actually think my father hurt Mr. Michaels? Where was she hiding? She was smart to hide from me, if she was going to say things like that.
    “Stormy, I know your father didn’t do it,” she called out, as though she’d read my mind. “They’ve got nothing on him. He’s innocent… of that crime.”
    “Of course he’s innocent. They’re being ridiculous.” I looked around the kitchen, at the mess of a partially prepared dinner. “Where are you?”
    “Let’s not talk about the awfulness next door, okay?”
    “Sure. We’ll talk about something else.” Jeffrey meowed with a conversation topic suggestion.
    Someone sniffled in the dark dining room. We usually ate in the kitchen, at the casual table, so the dining room didn’t get much use. Now Pam was in there, sitting in the dark.
    Looking carefully, I could see the shadow of her form. She was probably shaken up from the discovery of the body, plus my father wasn’t in town to calm her down. It was up to me to be supportive in her time of crisis, which I could be. Probably.
    “Want to hear something interesting?” I asked. “Your little Russian Blue cat is not a girl. He’s a boy, and now he has a proper name.”
    Pam’s shadow didn’t move, but she did sniffle again.
    “Pam? Don’t you want to see your cat? He was very brave at the vet’s office, and he hasn’t touched his stitches.”
    She sniffled again, then answered, “I don’t feel well. I’m having a migraine. You can bring the cat in, but please don’t switch on the lights.”
    I walked slowly into the dining room and set the carrier on the table. My aching arm and shoulder thanked me.
    Pam didn’t even lean over to look at her cat. She seemed really upset, or in pain. She didn’t typically get migraines, as far as I knew, but a traumatic event like having your neighbor murdered could certainly trigger one.
    Pets are a wonderful antidote for stress, though.
    I opened the pet carrier door and gently lifted Jeffrey out. When I brought him to my chest, he snuggled against me, like he didn’t want to be set down. I cuddled him in my arms and swayed with him in the dark dining room.
    Keeping my voice gentle, I said, “Other than the thing we’re not going to talk about, how was the rest of your day? Did you have any work today on store display windows?”
    “That poor man,” she said. “One day, he’s minding his own business, and the next day, some awful killer has made him into a snowman.”
    “I thought we weren’t going to talk about this. Are you feeling okay? Can I get you something for your headache?”
    I took a seat across the table from her and cuddled Jeffrey to my chest. He squirmed a bit, probably thinking about his food dish in the other room, but he let me hold him. My eyes were adjusting to the weak light, but I couldn’t quite see Pam’s face.
    “Pam? Are you crying?”
    “I don’t think you can help me. It’s all just dreadful. I don’t feel safe at all.” She took a gasping breath. “What if this serial killer