Free Good Year For Murder by A.E. Eddenden Page A

starts, they found themselves on what Ammerman said was Ingird Tommerup’s street.
    â€œI’m positive this is it,” Ammerman said.
    â€œDo you see the house?” Tretheway asked.
    The Alderman strained his weak eyes through the flat, upright glass of the windshield. There were no people about. And the grey skies and lowering clouds promised more rain.
    â€œThere!” Ammerman shouted. “Where that car is.”
    The car was a 1936 Nash sedan with a new siren.
    â€œDamn!” Tretheway glared at Ammerman. “Too many wrong turns.”
    â€œI knew I could find it.” Ammerman turned sharply up the driveway and braked as hard as he could, but still bumped intothe police car with enough force to throw his upper body onto the horn.
    â€œJezuz!” Tretheway said.
    Jake jumped out and closed the rumble seat.
    â€œThose brakes don’t feel right, Jake,” Ammerman said, climbing out of the driver’s seat. The two watched the Pontiac dip noticeably as Tretheway, grunting, lifted himself by the sturdy window post onto the running board and dropped to the ground.
    They stood quietly. There was little wind and no sound of birds. The silence was broken by a lonesome whistle from a distant impatient lake freighter and the first drops of light rain falling on the canvas roof of the car.
    â€œThat’s odd,” Tretheway said.
    â€œRounders must’ve heard us.” Jake looked at Ammerman.
    â€œCheck the back, Jake,” Tretheway ordered. “I’ll try the front door.”
    â€œIf I might interject…”
    â€œHarold. You stay here.”
    Tretheway was halfway to the cottage when Jake shouted. “Here! Around here!”
    Tretheway covered the distance with surprising speed. Jake was kneeling beside the prostrate form of Wellington Square’s finest—Chief Rounders. He was flat on his back, arms and legs stiffly and symmetrically outstretched to form the five points (counting his head) of a star that resembled an oversized children’s party cookie.
    â€œWhat’s the matter with him?” Tretheway asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” Jake said. “I think he’s fainted.”
    Ammerman hovered nervously behind Jake. Tretheway looked a full suspicious circle for anything out of the ordinary.
    â€œHe’s coming around,” Jake said.
    Chief Red Rounders groaned, his eyelids fluttered and opened as his eyeballs dropped into view like two blue oranges in a slot machine. Jake gently patted his cheeks. “Red. Red Rounders. Are you okay?”
    The Wellington Square Chief groaned again and said something.
    â€œWhat’d he say?” Tretheway asked.
    Jake helped the Chief to a sitting position. “I can’t hear you, Red.” Red Rounders slowly raised his freckled hand and pointed behind Tretheway. His mouth worked. “R … rain.”
    As though at a signal, the rain became heavier. The familiar hackles rose on Tretheway’s neck as he remembered Addie’s innocent remark about the Rain Saint. He turned and stared in the direction of Rounder’s accusatory finger. The natural shapes of small trees, bushes, vines and tall weeds obscured the corner of the cottage. Tretheway squinted. He saw something else, something too stiff and foreign, an irregular shape that didn’t belong in nature. Tretheway started toward it.
    â€œHold it, Boss,” Jake said. “Maybe we should wait.”
    Tretheway ignored the warning. He ducked under a pair of apple trees, walked around a large forsythia and pushed his way through the weeds and scraggly bushes toward the cottage. The rain water from the shrubbery dripped freely from his patent leather peak onto his nose. His thirty-two calibre officer’s issue revolver remained, as usual, jammed into his leather-lined pocket. He stopped at the corner of the summer cottage where an old-fashioned rain barrel stood under the downspout from the