Free Death and Honesty by Cynthia Riggs

the thought. And suppose he said they were overbilling selective property owners, embezzling funds, and squirreling away townspeople’s money in a private account? What would happen? The town would laugh it off, a simple mistake made by three dear old ladies.
    He paced to the coffeepot, then realized he still had a full mug. He turned off the heat under the frying pan, slid the bacon and eggs onto a plate, and returned to his seat.
    Townspeople would say the assessors had served the town for long and dedicated years. At worst, the confused accounting would be chalked up to approaching senility. The old biddies could always fall back on that.
    He picked up his pencil, then tossed it down again.
    Who’d get in trouble? He would. That militaristic bitch Ellen would get all self-righteous, and show that he, Oliver Ashpine, was the one skimming money from the town’s taxes, and he’d end up his days rotting in a dingy state prison.

    Ellen Meadows was the problem. Too bad the neighbor was killed instead of her. He could deal with the other two. Selena, the lightweight, and Ocypete, drifting off on some cloudy remembrance of protest marches past.
    A preemptive strike, that was what he would have to do. He moved his chair closer to the kitchen table with his full plate and coffee mug near at hand and a pencil and paper to plan his preemptive strike, then the phone rang. Early for anyone to call. Not yet eight.
    “Ashpine here.”
    He grinned when he heard the voice on the other end.
    “I’ve been thinking about you,” he said. “Yes, of course. It occurred to me …
    “Yes, yes …” he said.
    “Certainly, but …” the caller wasn’t letting him get a word in.
    “Well …” Oliver tapped his pencil on his preemptive strike notes, making small dots.
    “Just let me …” He listened for a long time, then slammed the phone into the cradle. “Goddamn!” he said out loud. “Hung up on me.”
    Somewhat rattled, he stood up, stared out of the window at Bertie, who’d given up his digging and was chasing his stubby tail, and sat down again. He was trying to rekindle enthusiasm for his preemptive strike when Bertie started yapping. There was a knock on the back door.
    “Come in,” he called out, surprised. No one ever visited him, certainly not before eight on a weekday morning. Not UPS or FedEx. Not this time of day.
    The door opened and he turned to face his caller.
    The rooster crowed. Bertie continued to bark.
    Oliver stood and his napkin dropped on the floor. “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” said Oliver.
     
    On the North Shore, police cruisers from four Island towns, the state police vehicle, the Tri-Town Ambulance, and Doc Jeffers’s Harley were parked by Delilah Sampson’s garage, and a group of law enforcement officers gathered around the pond and the defaced victim.

    At the last house on Simon Look Lane, Oliver Ashpine’s unexpected caller seated himself across from Oliver.
    Ellen Meadows had spent a sleepless night wondering what the police had learned about Lucy’s killer, and thought how stupid she’d been to insist on sleeping in her own house. It must have seemed strange to townspeople.
    At Town Hall, Mrs. Danvers, the town’s executive secretary, was opening yesterday’s mail. She was tall and lean, almost cadaverous. Her slim tan jeans and shirt with vertical yellow stripes made her look taller and slimmer.
    Dale Fender, the selectman who’d ousted Lucretia “Noodles” Woods in the last election, had come into Town Hall early to clear up some paperwork, and was sitting at the big oak table. He and his wife had celebrated their fortieth anniversary day before yesterday, and his wife had assured him that he was mature, responsible, conscientious, and in charge, and that was the way he felt this morning.
    “Another one,” said Mrs. Danvers, slapping a letter with the back of her hand. “This is the fifth complaint we’ve gotten this week about the tax bills.” She got up from her desk with