Free Habit by T. J. Brearton

the steps outside of “Kettering's,” his eponymous hardware and appliance store on Erwin Street. There was no wedding ring on his finger.
    Boonville was bigger than Remsen, with a population of almost five thousand. Erwin Street was busy with traffic and people out running errands. The sun was just past its zenith overhead, and the pavement and sidewalk radiated heat. Kettering invited Brendan into the store, where it was cooler and darker.
    “We’re actually not so much a summer town, really,” Kettering said as he led Brendan further into the store. There was white tile underfoot, scuffed but squeaky clean. Brendan noticed that the front door was left open, even though the air conditioning inside was blasting. Kettering either had money to burn or wasn’t thrifty. “But we’re more of a winter place,” he said. “‘The Snow Capital of the East.’” He turned as he walked, slowing his pace, and frowned. “But you probably know all that, I’m sorry. This is your county. You probably know every nook and cranny. I just start rattling on when a new face shows up. It’s the salesman in me.” He smiled, showing his white teeth again.
    He was in considerably good spirits for a man who’d been told, thirty minutes ago, that someone he was close to was dead. Then again, he had a business to run, and keeping up appearances was probably second nature to him. Brendan wondered if he would take a day, shut down. Then again, the detective didn’t know the extent of the man’s relationship with the deceased woman. He had decided to save his questions until they were in person.
    “I don’t mind,” Brendan said about Kettering’s exposition. Brendan had a chance to glance down one or two aisles – racks of nuts, bolts, and washers, cans of house paint stacked ceiling-high, a wall of uncut keys, and a duplication machine – before Kettering said, “My office is right back here.”
    He led Brendan around a long white counter where a young male employee with a rash of acne looked back at Brendan with a mixture of awe and fear. The youth’s eyes seemed to probe Brendan’s person for where his firearm might be tucked away. Brendan offered a reassuring smile.
    They went through an open door and into a decent-sized space. It was at the back of the building, and two windows overlooked a parking area outside.
    “Please take a seat.”
    Brendan sat in one of two chairs across from what looked like a school-teacher’s desk, a double pedestal model. Kettering sat down and his chair squeaked. Behind him was a peg board filled with bulletins, flyers, newspaper clippings, and pictures. There were filing cabinets, a small couch beneath one of the windows, and an exercise bike.
    “Thank you,” said Brendan as he got comfortable. He added, “I really don’t mind hearing about the town. I try not to hide the fact that I’m new here. A big snowmobile destination?”
    Kettering lit up even brighter. “Oh, absolutely. That’s when things get really booming in Boonville. The Oneida County Fair, the Woodsman Field Days, really great events, without a doubt, but the Snow Festivals are one of a kind. We’re the only village in Upstate New York to really do winter right, if you ask me. Up Saranac Lake they have a nice Winter Carnival, too, historic and all that. These Snow Festivals we got though . . . boy.”
    Brendan watched Kettering’s enthusiasm dwindle as he settled into the business at hand. “So, how can I help you? I mean, this is . . . a terrible tragedy. Terrible.” His facial features rearranged into a properly downcast expression.
    Brendan put a small tape recorder on the desk. “Is this okay with you? Otherwise you can go and give your official statement at the office. But then you have to take a trip and repeat yourself.”
    Kettering only glanced at the recorder. “That’s fine.”
    “How long have you known Rebecca Heilshorn?”
    He leaned back and his chair squawked again. His eyes rolled up to the