Free Death and Honesty by Cynthia Riggs Page A

the letter and slid it across the table.
    “Where’s Oliver?” Dale asked. “This is his job.”
    “Oliver is late again. He’s worse than Tillie.”
    “Who’s the complaint from this time?”
    “Mrs. Summerville, as usual. She hasn’t received her tax bill.” Mrs. Danvers’s glasses had slipped down her nose, and she pushed them back.
    Dale sighed.
    “Oliver’s got to go,” said Mrs. Danvers. “I can’t spend all my days fielding complaints about his job.”
    “We can’t get rid of him,” said Dale. “He’s Denny’s wife’s cousin. Did he call in sick?”
    “Not a word from him.” Mrs. Danvers peered over the top of her glasses. “And as you rightly know, this isn’t the first time he’s pulled this.”
    “Did you call his house?”
    “Got the answering machine.” Mrs. Danvers tugged a pencil from behind her ear where she’d stashed it, and dropped into
her chair. “He’s probably gone fishing. Everyone on the Island seems to think that’s a legitimate excuse. Fishing.”
    Dale shook his head and the strand of hair he’d combed over the balding spot unstuck itself. He smoothed it back into place. “Not Oliver. He hates the out-of-doors.” Dale picked up the letter, read it, and held out his hand. “Give me the rest of those complaints, and I’ll get my wife to answer them.”

CHAPTER 11
    “What’s the idea of hanging up on me?” Oliver stood, fists clenched on his hips, and looked up. “What do you want now, Willoughby?”
    Standing, Lambert Willoughby loomed over Oliver. He strode over to a chair, turned it around, and sat with his arms crossed over the back. Seated, he was almost at eye level, even with Oliver standing. Despite the chill morning, he wore a thin T-shirt tucked into soiled jeans. His bulky arms were covered with tattoos, faded with age to a bleary red and pale blue.
    Willoughby was chewing gum. “How much you skimming off our taxes, Ashpine?” He wiped a wrist across his mouth.
    Oliver looked for something to lean on and finally sat down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “You don’t, eh?” Willoughby smiled, lips together.
    Oliver shook his head.
    “You got my sister’s job, right?”
    “Tillie? Tillie is your sister?”
    “Don’t play stupid. You know whose sister she is. You got Tillie’s job after she run off with that guy.”
    “Her job’s not exactly a big deal,” Oliver said bravely. “Not much more than minimum wage.”
    Willoughby laughed. “I got my sister that job as assessors’ clerk. You knew that, right?”
    Oliver studied the faded tattoos. Entwined snakes, he thought.
    “You think I don’t know about the paperwork? About the assessors’ setting-aside account?”
    Oliver didn’t look up. The more he studied the tattoos, the more they looked like snakes. Big, fat snakes.
    “Cat got your tongue, Ashpine?”
    Oliver looked up.

    “You don’t think the assessors leveled with me?”
    Oliver looked down.
    Willoughby went on. “I know about their scam and they know I know. Fact is, they told me. Those three ladies need someone they can trust. Besides me, that is. I told them Tillie was their gal. And she was. Never blabbed a word to anyone. Put aside a nice little nest egg, right?”
    Oliver looked away.
    “Right?”
    Oliver stammered, “I don’t know.”
    Willoughby mimicked him. “You don’t know? I’ll just bet you don’t know. Those three ladies made goddamned sure you knew exactly what you was gettin’ into.” Willoughby thumped his chest with a fist, then folded his arms again and chewed his gum.
    “What do you want?” Oliver watched Willoughby’s jaw.
    “Same deal Tillie and me had.” Willoughby unfolded his arms from the back of the chair and stood up.
    Oliver leaned back as far as he could. “What deal?” The smell of his untouched bacon and eggs, so appetizing only a few minutes ago, now made him queasy.
    “Fifty-fifty cut.” Willoughby smiled.
    “Fifty …” murmured