Free Murder Shoots the Bull by Anne George

house.”
    “And he hasn’t called.”
    “Nope. And I tried to call the boys after I knew they’d be home from school and nobody answered.”
    Fred pulled into the five-car parking lot adjacent to the two tennis courts. This is a small neighborhood park designed mostly for senior citizens who play chess and checkers in a large gazebo fancifully called the Sunday Bandstand. The swings and slides are toddler size, guaranteeing that the seniors won’t be bothered by rambunctious older children. The tennis courts and a basketball court, demanded by the tax-paying parents of former toddlers, are over on the side behind a chain link fence.
    Surprisingly, for such lovely weather, the park was deserted except for two old gentlemen who sat on a bench, each smoking a pipe. I was suddenly reminded of a poem, “Old Friends.” I tried to remember who wrote it and the exact words, but they escaped me. Something about sitting on a bench like bookends. The poem was sad; I rememberedthat. The friends were waiting. Waiting while the shadows lengthened. I shivered. I had just remembered the other news I had for Fred.
    Woofer wasn’t allowed in the park, so we sat on a bench beside the basketball court. The concrete was still warm, and he stretched out at our feet with a dog-sigh of contentment.
    “What kind of shape is Lisa in?” Fred asked.
    “Not too good.”
    “Doesn’t sound like Alan, does it? I thought they were getting along just fine.”
    I agreed. I didn’t mention Sister’s theory of bimbo territory and the fact that Alan was smack in the middle of it.
    Fred reached down to rub the gray hair between Woofer’s ears. “They’re not getting a divorce are they?”
    “Oh, Lord, I hope not. I don’t know how far it’s gone. Lisa said he wouldn’t go for counseling.”
    “Well, damn.”
    The two old men got up and strolled out of the park, closing the gate behind them.
    “That’s not all.”
    Fred looked up in alarm. “The boys?”
    “No. This isn’t about Alan and Lisa. You know that lady that died yesterday at the Hunan Hut? I told you how Arthur was stroking her hand?”
    He nodded.
    “The police say she was poisoned.”
    “Poisoned!” Fred spoke so loudly, the two men turned to see if everything was all right, decided it was, and continued walking. “What on God’s earth?”
    “Mitzi came over this morning, saying the woman was Arthur’s first wife and that somebody had murdered her.”
    “Arthur had a first wife? Our Arthur Phizer?”
    “Well, it was a teenage thing and their folks had it annulled, so I’m not sure it counts.”
    Fred didn’t say anything so I continued. “Her name wasSophie Sawyer and she was back here from Chicago because she was in bad health.”
    Fred still didn’t say anything.
    “Diabetes and circulatory problems,” I added. “And her daughter lives here.”
    “Who did it?”
    “They don’t know.”
    The two of us sat like bookends while the shadows lengthened. From the nearby fire station we could hear a radio or TV turned to the early evening news.
    “You got any more news for me?”
    The tone of the question flew all over me. Hell, I was only the messenger. A messenger who had had a godawful day.
    I jumped up so quickly that Woofer looked up in surprise.
    “As a matter of fact, I do. If you want any damned supper, you’re going to have to go to Morrison’s.”
    “Well, hell. What’s the matter with you, Patricia Anne?”
    He said it to my back. I was stomping toward the car.
    Just before we got home, I broke the silence. “Don’t say anything about Lisa’s hair.”
    “What’s wrong with her hair?”
    “It’s white and sticks straight up in little bunches.”
    “What?”
    “God’s truth.”
    We looked at each other. At first it was a tentative smile for each of us, and then it was laughter, the oh, hell, everything’s so bad it’s funny laughter. The kind of laughter that keeps people married for forty years.
    We pulled into our driveway and parked