Free Killing Cousins by Rett MacPherson

something for those with weak cardiovascular systems, though. I was huffing and puffing by the time I made it to the top, but it was worth it. I could see for miles around, and off in the distance I could hear the haunting sound of an Indian drum. It is one of my favorite local excursions. Well, that and the horse racing at Fairmount Park. But I haven’t been there in years.
    I finally got off on I–64 and then took 159 south to Belleville. Aurora Guelders lived on the other side of the fountain in the middle of the town square. Every time I go through Belleville, I always end up following the fountain all the way around and going back the way I came. I hate that thing, and I am glad that New Kassel doesn’t have one, or I would have gathered signatures by now to get rid of it.
    I was paying extra attention this time to make sure I did not go full circle around the fountain. A few streets later I turned left, made a few more turns and pulled into the driveway of a red brick house with a large white wraparound porch. The street invaded the yard, giving an overall claustrophobic feel to the front of the house.
    I parked in the street and then walked up the wide steps to the front door, scraping my pant leg on a yellow rosebush that was much in need of pruning. A warm breeze ruffled the flag that hung from the porch, and the smell of roses punctuated the air. I knocked and looked around, waiting for somebody to answer the door. A climbing rosebush was sprawling up the trellis like a wild pink blanket.
    A white lace curtain moved in the door and then a face peered out. Finally, the door opened. The woman who stood there said nothing, but waited for me to give her whatever excuse I had for interrupting her day.
    â€œMrs. Guelders?” I said.
    â€œYou are?” she asked.
    I knew from the records at the Gaheimer house that Aurora Finch had been born in 1931, but the woman who answered the door didn’t look a day over fifty. She was slender, and a few inches taller than I was, making her average height. She had short salt-and-pepper hair and vivid green eyes. I extended my hand. “My name is Victory O’Shea. I live in New Kassel, Missouri. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”
    That was dumb. Of course she’d heard of it. She had grown up there. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
    â€œYes,” she said.
    â€œIt’s not unlike Arthur and Arcola, Illinois,” I said, thinking that I would get brownie points for knowing the names of some tourist towns in Illinois. So far, I looked pretty dumb.
    â€œI doubt that you have Amish living in New Kassel,” she said, and she was right. I just smiled. “What is it you want?”
    At that moment I thought I could play both lead parts in the movie Dumb and Dumber. “Actually, I…uh…I work for the Historical Society, and, well, the president—”
    â€œSylvia Pershing?”
    â€œYes,” I said, smiling and still on the porch.
    â€œShe’s immortal.”
    â€œPossibly. Anyway, she has asked me to pen a few biographies on Granite County’s more notable personalities. One of them is your mother,” I said.
    Her expression dropped all the way to her knees in two seconds flat. “I have nothing to say,” she said and started to shut the door.
    â€œOh, please wait,” I said and put my foot inside her door. I know that was really pushy and if somebody had done it to me, I would have been outraged. But I didn’t know how else to get her to listen. “I’m also handling her estate.”
    Her green eyes narrowed on me and, if it was possible, turned a shade darker. I counted to five while she fought the internal struggle, whatever it was. “What do you mean, you’re handling the estate?”
    â€œPlease, can I come in? You’re losing all of your air-conditioning,” I said.
    She raised her chin and pulled herself up ramrod-straight. “Of course,” she said.
    The inside