Free The Dying Hour by Rick Mofina Page B

building with a community hall attached. It was well kept with a neatly trimmed hedge and beautiful shrubs and flowers. Some flowers had nameplates rising from them. Someone had put in a lot of work on the landscaping, Jason thought as he went to the front desk and asked for Hanna Larssen.
    “Sorry, she’s not a resident.” Seeing the disappointment in his face, the receptionist added, “But she might be in the living center around the back with the card club.”
    Jason followed the sidewalk to the rear of the building and entered. A piano was being played for about twenty white- and silver-haired people, mostly women, who sat in the large room. Some rocked in chairs and chatted, others were playing cards, or working on needlepoint. Jason bent down to a woman with thinning hair.
    “Excuse me, can you point me to Hanna Larssen?”
    “Who?”
    “Hanna Larssen?”
    “What?”
    “Hanna Larssen?”
    “She’s right there, with the checkered shirt.” A man with a pencil moustache pointed to a woman with a very grave expression talking quietly with another woman. “Hanna’s not a resident. She just visits. Are you a friend?”
    “I’m here to speak to Hanna Larssen on business.”
    Jason glanced at his watch, mindful of the press conference and his deadline to get a story filed to the paper.
    The man touched each side of his moustache. His eyes twinkled at the notion that Hanna would have business with someone so young.
    “I’ll tell her you’re here. Your name?”
    “Jason Wade.”
    The man bent slightly as he talked to Hanna, causing her to look at Jason. Her face was serious as she nodded. Then the man waved Jason to join them at the small table. Jason remembered Phil Tucker telling him how seniors, coherent ones, made the best interviews because they feared no one. They’d lived through wars, deaths, every hardship imaginable. Jason hoped that was the case as he told Hanna he was a reporter with the Seattle Mirror.
    Strong, intelligent soft blue eyes assessed him.
    “Ma’am, is that your property out by Whitstram where the police are investigating?”
    She nodded.
    “And are you the one who found the body this morning?”
    “Yes.”
    “Can you tell me how you came to find it?”
    “Lieutenant Buchanan told me not to speak to the press.”
    “I understand. But there’s about forty reporters in front of your place and in a short time the investigators are going to hold a press conference. I’m just here to make sure I get the facts right.”
    “Who told you where to find me? Was it the deputy who just left with my report?”
    “I protect my sources, but you can say I heard it through police circles.”
    She nodded as Jason opened his notebook and tapped it with his pen.
    “Can you walk me through what happened and what you saw, please?”
    The color drained from her face and she looked out the window.
    “Cody ran off. I got in my truck and went to the coulee to find him.”
    “Cody?”
    “My shepherd.”
    “I see. And was it Cody who found the woman?”
    “Yes, she was in the coulee, by the creek.” Hanna covered her mouth with her hand.
    “Was the body in a shallow grave, on the ground, or in a plastic bag?”
    “That would have been better, maybe.”
    “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
    “Buchanan told me not to tell anyone the details because he needs them for his investigation.”
    Jason said nothing. He thought for a moment, then had an idea.
    “Did you see the woman’s face?”
    She nodded.
    Jason reached into his pocket and pulled out the snapshots of Karen Harding he had.
    “I’m going to show you pictures of a woman and you tell me if the woman in the coulee is the woman in these pictures.”
    One by one Jason set down pictures, Karen on the beach, Karen in the kitchen, Karen with Luke. All the while he was studying Hanna Larssen for her reaction. Tears welled in her eyes.
    “I can’t.”
    “Is the woman in the coulee the woman in these pictures?”
    She kept shaking