Free A Holly, Jolly Murder by Joan Hess Page B

time—with a backpack or overnight bag, as well as black candles, sticks of incense, and whatever other paraphernalia necessary to open lines of communication between Farberville and Hades.
    As I’d expected, the Sawyers lived in the south end of town, but I was a bit surprised when I realized the development adjoined Nicholas Chunder’s estate. Many of the boxy, semi-identical houses were abandoned, the yards surrounding them overgrown and littered with beer bottles, papers, and the lumps of sodden clothing one sees in such areas, as if pedestrians were unaware as shirts and socks dropped off their bodies. The Sawyers’ house was in no better shape. A bicycle had been left in the middle of the yard, along with broken toys and a moldy stuffed animal of an indistinguishable species.
    I locked my car and went up onto a splintery porch. A curtain twitched, then fell still. I waited for a moment, shifting uneasily and assessing the distance to my car, then reminded myself of Caron’s likely reaction if I took in a foster child who drove a hearse. Coward that I am, I knocked on the door.
    I would have preferred to deal with Morning Rose, but the day had been going downhill since well before dawn and I wasn’t especially unnerved when Sullivan opened the door.
    He stared for a moment, then pulled off discount-store reading glasses and cleaned them with a grayish dish towel, as if this simple ritual would reduce me to nothing more than a twinge of heartburn. He wore a T-shirt and baggy trousers; without a winter coat he was much thinner than I’d remembered. On the other hand, he wasn’t any friendlier.
    â€œI’d like to speak to you,” I said hesitantly.
    â€œWhat about?”
    â€œRoy Tate.”
    Rather than invite me inside, he came out onto the porch and eased the door shut. “Then you’ve wasted your time and gasoline. I am not going to discuss Roy with you or the police or anyone else. My children and wife are forbidden to so much as say his name. Am I making myself clear?”
    â€œYes, but that doesn’t mean I’m leaving. I drove all the way over here to try to find a place for Roy to stay until his parents can take charge. They left him in your care, didn’t they? Do they know you broke whatever promise you made to them?”
    â€œProbably not,” he admitted, “but I didn’t throw him out on his butt, even though I would have been justified. I found an acceptable place for him to live. Nicholas had him do odd jobs around the estate in exchange for rent, and his parents left money for food and necessities. I’ll have to tell the Tates what happened when they get back in ten weeks, but I feel I did the best I could under the circumstances.”
    Guilt had weakened his certitude, and I deftly moved in. “Why did you make Roy move out of your house?”
    Sullivan sat down on the top step and rubbed his temples. “I was opposed to him staying here to begin with, but his father’s head of the department and I’m a lowly grad student with a family to feed. Rent’s not cheap, even in this slum. One or the other of the kids is always at the doctor’s or dentist’s office, running up bills. I couldn’t afford to jeopardize my assistantship by pissing off Dr. Tate.” He paused as I sat down beside him, then continued pleading his case. “Roy’s not a normal teenage boy. If I were his father—and thank god I’m not, by the way—I would have packed him off to some sort of adolescent treatment facility. His parents preferred to observe him as they would any aborigine from a diverse culture. They’re big on non-judgmental interpretation. That’s what they said, but I used to wonder if they were intimidated by him—or even frightened.”
    â€œMr. Sawyer,” I said, “I don’t want to waste any more of your time than necessary. I’ve seen enough of Roy to know he