Free Murder on the Mind by L.L. Bartlett

discuss the church guest list or any arrangements on the Sumner funeral. Instead, they referred me to their attorney.
    Richard and I hit the road about twelve forty, giving us a twenty-minute window to get across town. We hadn’t gone far when I pulled down the visor, inspecting my hair in the attached mirror. Maybe I should’ve asked Brenda to concoct some kind of bandage to cover my unusual haircut. I’d explained to Mrs. Sumner about my . . . accident . . . so that when she saw me she wouldn’t wonder what kind of nut case had come to visit her.
    “What’s the matter?” Richard asked, glancing over at me. “Nervous?”
    I flipped the visor back into place. “Yes.”
    “Why? You interviewed six or eight people on Monday.”
    “Yes, but none of them was the victim’s wife, and none of them found the guy hanging in the garage.”
    “Just what do you hope to learn?”
    “I don’t know. What I really want to do is get in that garage—”
    “To see where it all happened?”
    “Not the murder. Just the aftermath.”
    Richard made no further comment. He still didn’t believe me. The logical part of me didn’t blame him. The brain-damaged part of me was irritated.
    “Look, after we finish here, I’ll take you where I go and we’ll get you a haircut,” he said. “Maybe they can trim it up so that you don’t look like a—”
    “Psycho?”
    Richard smiled. “Nonconformist.”
    “Thanks,” I said, meaning it. The visor came down for another look. Definitely nonconformist.
    Sumner’s house appeared no different than it had before, except for the uniformed security guard posted at the bottom of the driveway. Mrs. Sumner had found it necessary to hire someone to keep the hounding press at bay.
    Richard waited in the car while I checked in with the guard, who waved me through.
    I walked past a late-model Lexus. Mrs. Sumner’s or a friend’s? After climbing the concrete steps, I thumped the door’s brass knocker. Seconds later it opened a few inches on a chain, as though she’d been waiting behind it. All I could see were a pair of sharp, gray, schoolteacher eyes.
    “Mrs. Sumner, I’m Jeffrey Resnick. I called earlier.”
    “Can I see some identification?”
    “Of course.” My old insurance ID worked again.
    She scrutinized the card. “I must confess I don’t recall Matt having a policy with your company.”
    Then again, maybe it hadn’t.
    Just when I thought she’d slam the door in my face, she released the chain.
    “May I take your coat?”
    I waved off her offer and followed her into the house.
    Claudia Sumner was an attractive woman of about fifty. Her short, permed hair was colored an appropriately light shade of brown, and her face was virtually unlined. Either she never had a care in the world, or knew a skilled plastic surgeon. Petite and trim, she wore a beige cashmere sweater, matching slacks, and comfortable-looking leather pumps. I bet she never sat down in front of the TV with a bag of nachos and a pot of salsa.
    She seemed to be alone in the house, with no friends or relatives in attendance for emotional support. In fact, her attitude was very businesslike, not at all the bereaved widow I’d expected.
    She settled on one end of the overstuffed couch in the living room, motioning me into a chintz-covered wing chair. The furnishings stressed comfort. Antiques and expensive-looking porcelain figurines graced the shelves and tabletops. Several framed photographs were scattered throughout the room, but they seemed to be exclusively of her children. No books or magazines, and no lingering aura of Matt Sumner, either.
    “Are you working with the police?”
    “I expect to share some information soon,” I said, hoping I’d effectively evaded her question. “I’m grateful you agreed to talk with me. It must’ve been unpleasant to find your husband.”
    “I really don’t care to discuss it.”
    “Can you give me some background on Mr. Sumner? His interests . . . ?”
    “The