Free The Cincinnati Red Stalkings by Troy Soos Page A

baseball diamond all week, and we didn’t get home until well after midnight.
    But I did little better than doze, my thoughts on Ollie Perriman and why he might have been killed. When I’d first met him, I thought he was harmless, obsessed with an innocent hobby that many people might find childish. And since his death, I hadn’t been able to imagine why anyone would want to hurt someone who was so absorbed in preserving the past—it was like killing a librarian.
    The more I thought about it now, though, the more I realized I hadn’t given him proper credit. His wasn’t a childish hobby, it was a passion. Ollie Perriman had something in his life that he loved, and he gave himself to it wholeheartedly.
    From what I’d heard today, he’d also had an unfaithful wife who didn’t care for his hobby, and a pushy partner who now owned the entire business.
    And I started wondering if maybe the reason nothing was stolen from Perriman’s collection was because theft wasn’t the intent of the crime. Maybe the “robbery” was to cover up a murder. But who would gain from such an act?
    Lloyd Tinsley? According to Katie Perriman, he stood to inherit the collection. But why would he kill Perriman before the opening of the exhibit? Tinsley had been pressing for it to be opened soon, and Perriman’s death was only going to delay that. And why wouldn’t Tinsley wait to find out if people wanted to see the collection first—what if it was a bust? Big risk killing somebody when you don’t know what it gains you.
    If it wasn’t to gain something, maybe it was to get rid of something: an unwanted husband. Was Katie Perriman tired of supporting Ollie financially? Or did she want him out of the way so that she would be free to take up with Curt Stram? She could have simply divorced him, though, instead of resorting to something as rash as murder.
    Rash. That practically defined Curt Stram. He certainly had no discretion in his personal behavior, but I didn’t think he was stupid or calculating enough to murder a man. Besides, could he really care about Katie Perriman to talk about her the way he did? What was going on between the two of them, anyway?
    I’d start to nod off, but every time I did, a new scenario would intrude and demand attention. Finally, I decided that putting something in my stomach might help me fall asleep.
    Careful not to wake Margie, I slid my shoulder out from under her head, replaced it with a pillow, then gradually eased myself out of bed.
    In my bare feet, I padded downstairs, through the dining area, and into the kitchen. I was about to hit the light switch, when I heard a rustle behind me.
    Then my skull exploded.
    The blast sent fireballs from the back of my head through to the front, where they flashed before my eyes. I felt my knees start to melt and sensed the kitchen floor coming up to meet my chin.
    The lights in my head sputtered, replaced by a calm darkness. I was vaguely aware that the pain was fading. So was consciousness.

    The pain came back, pounding and intense.
    Margie, wearing only a chemise, was bent over me. Her hands gripped my shoulders and she was shaking me as if trying to wake me from a sound sleep. “Are you all right?” she asked.
    “Think so.” She continued the shaking until I added, “I’m awake. Please stop.”
    “Oh, sorry. What happened?”
    “Somebody hit me.” I slowly raised myself on my elbows and lifted a hand to feel the back of my head. It was tender to the touch but there wasn’t much of a lump. “Came up from behind me; must have been in the parlor.” I held my fingertips close to my bleary eyes to check for blood; there was none. On the whole, this was no worse than a nasty beanball—except I wasn’t going to be awarded first base. “How long have I been out?”
    “Not long. I heard the door slam—that’s what woke me. You weren’t in bed, so I came down to see if you’d gone outside for some reason.”
    “No, I wanted cookies.”
    She