Free Murder Passes the Buck by Deb Baker Page A

the right time to talk to him about the whole incompetence court thing, I still was capable of worrying about him. His color wasn ’ t good these days — his face resembled an overripe tomato, and his breathing seemed labored like he ’ d just run five miles. It could be all that weight he carried. I decided to talk to him soon. A little dieting wouldn ’ t hurt, and he should get a physical to make sure the old thumper operated smoothly.
    Maybe he had a medical condition that caused him to behave irrationally, which would explain the court hearing. Or maybe it was the stress of his job.
     
    I wanted to make things right with him. The constant feuding wore me down and interfered with my effectiveness as an investigator. I wanted a truce and I wanted the hearing cancelled, and I knew just how to do it.
    He and Mary always go into Trenary for breakfast on Saturdays at Buck ’ s Inn with some of their friends.
    Bright and early I drove to Ray ’ s General Store and stocked up on a few supplies I knew I ’ d need. Then I watched out the window for Blaze ’ s blue Oldsmobile, which is the family car he drives when he isn ’ t on duty. My kids, both Blaze and Star, have to drive right past my house to get out to the road, which as I ’ ve mentioned is convenient for keeping an eye on them. I walked out on the porch and waved when Blaze and Mary went by, then ran for Barney ’ s truck.
    I pulled into Blaze ’ s drive and parked in front of his mobile home. His sheriff truck was parked in the pole barn, the barn door wide open, inviting me in. I pulled out a can of spray paint from the hardware store and compared the yellow can cover to the color of Blaze ’ s rusted-out sheriffs truck.
    Close enough, I thought, and began spraying.
    It was colder outside than the can recom mended
     
    for use, so I had to warm it inside my jacket every once in a while, and I had to keep shaking it as I worked. I only intended to spray the rusted-out areas, but the color match wasn ’ t as good as I ’ d originally thought and I ended up spraying the entire truck.
    It seemed like a good idea at first and I implemented it with the best of intentions. I really thought I could spot-paint the rust spots and make his truck look like new. I really did. But things got out of hand and every over-spray I tried to correct spread like an oil spill on Lake Michigan.
    I finished up with a sigh of frustration, my arms sore, my spirits dampened. I ’ d almost shaken my uppers loose in my mouth.
    I couldn ’ t find any masking tape in the barn to cover the silver trim and door handles, which turned out to be a problem. They now were yellow. I had protected the windows as I sprayed by holding up a piece of cardboard I ’ d ripped from a box. I took a can of paint thinner from a shelf and dabbed with a rag at a few yellow splatters on the window glass.
    When I left the barn the ground had a light dusting of fresh snow, like powdered sugar on a doughnut hole. The sun peeked out of the clouds, reflecting off the snow. I
     
    dug in my pocket for my Blue Blocker sunglasses and put them on. I leaned against the barn, breathing the fresh air. In the shadow I cast on the side of the barn, I could see my earflaps, and they looked like bird wings poised for flight. I bobbed up and down, pretending I was an eagle. That ’ s where I stood, my earflaps flapping, my sunglasses shielding me from the sun, an empty can of yellow spray paint in my hand, when Blaze and Mary pulled up.
    Next time I come back to this world, I plan on coming back as a bird. I ’ d be safely overhead right now if I could fly. Instead, feeling awkward and helpless, I prepared to “ wing it ” the only way I knew how.
    I grinned.
    Glancing down, I saw flecks of yellow paint on the ground circling my feet.
    Mary sat closest to me and I could see the look of surprise on her face when she spotted the paint can. Blaze jumped out and, following the paint splotches, ran to the barn door. He