Free Killer Fudge (A Callahan Garrity Short Story) (Callahan Garrity Mysteries) by Mary Kay Andrews, Kathy Hogan Trocheck Page B

cop and a
private detective. I can help you if you let me. Did you know the
DA is thinking of asking for the death penalty for Merritt Ragan's
murder?"
    "I heard," he mumbled. He didn't look
worried.
    I was losing patience. "Look, Darius. I've
seen the police reports. This does not look good. Can you tell me
anything at all about yesterday? Could anyone else have been in
that house before you got there? Did you see Mr. Ragan when you
went into the house? Had the door been forced?"
    No answer.
    "Did you kill him, Darius? Did you? Ruby says
you're a good boy. What happened? Why'd you take the money and kill
him? He was a helpless old man. Is that what you'd like to have
happen to Ruby?"
    He continued to stare at the floor. "Ain't
tellin' you nothin'. I'm gettin' me a lawyer."
     
     
    * * *
     
    Another person who wasn’t overjoyed to see me
was the deceased man’s daughter. On the other side of the screened
door, Caroline Ragan's lips set in a tight disapproving line when I
told her who I was and what I wanted.
    Somebody had told her that old-maid
schoolteachers were supposed to be thin and humorless, and she'd
taken their advice to heart. She had mouse-colored hair and
close-set brown eyes, which she blinked continually.
    "I'm sorry for Ruby's troubles. She kept this
house immaculate. I guess it wouldn't hurt to let you come in and
look around. The police said I could start cleaning things up
today."
    Merritt Ragan's gray saltbox house could have
been an antique shop. Shelves lined the walls of every room, and
each held a different collection. There were silver candlesticks,
Steiff teddy bears, majolica, miniature snuffboxes, and blue and
white porcelains. The wooden floor was dotted with jewel-toned
Oriental rugs. The furniture was old too, and the mellow wood
glowed in the late afternoon sunlight that poured through the
windows.
    "The kitchen's in there," Caroline said as we
neared the back of the house. "That's where they found Daddy. Go
ahead in. I... don't like to be there. Because of Daddy and all.
The new cleaning service is supposed to take care of it tomorrow."
She glared at me when she mentioned the new cleaning
service.
    Merritt Ragan's kitchen was one of the
cheeriest murder scenes I've ever examined. White-painted cabinets
lined the room, and a fruit-motif wallpaper covered the walls.
Crisply ruffled white curtains hung at the windows. The floor was
gleaming yellow vinyl. Spotless. I walked over to the back door and
took a look. Fingerprint powder stained the wall and the woodwork
of the door. About the door. The lock didn't look like it had been
tampered with. "The police cleaned up the blood," she said. I
turned around. Caroline stood in the doorway, her matchstick arms
crossed over her chest, as though she were chilled.
    "Daddy must have let him in," she added. "I
begged him to get a lawn service. But he wouldn't hear of it. He
was fascinated with that Darius."
    I got up and walked slowly around the room.
The countertops were those of a man who lived alone and liked
things orderly. A toaster, coffeemaker, and cordless phone were
lined up in military fashion. The stove held a copper teakettle and
a small wooden file box. Idly I flipped up the lid. A
grease-spotted index card had a recipe for tomato aspic written in
purple ink in a tiny crabbed handwriting. I closed the
box.
    "Your father got on well with
Darius?"
    "They were thick as thieves," she said, then
laughed bitterly. "Literally, one might say."
    "The police say they found quite a bit of cash
on Darius. Six hundred dollars. Cash he admitted taking from the
house. Was your father in the habit of keeping that much cash
around?"
    Caroline pulled nervously at the collar of her
blouse. "Cash? Daddy? I suppose he could have had that much around
the house. Usually he liked to pay for things by check or credit
card. It helped him with his record keeping."
    I roamed the small room again, looking for
something the police might have missed. On a wooden chair