Free Deadly Dues by Linda Kupecek Page B

so-called lunch at the speed of a buzz saw, and forced myself to slow down. Acid reflux is no picnic, and I didn’t want to invite a visitation.
    Then there was Mister Size Twenty, who had died on top of me. Who was this guy? What on earth did he think Stan had passed on to me, before he had passed on? Had he followed me home from the bar and waited until Geoff left? Did Mr. Size Twenty have a best friend, a wife, a mother? Would they miss him? What was he like when he wasn’t trying to kill people? A tear rolled down my cheek and fell onto a piece of red pepper that I had just speared. The casserole needed salt anyway, and I popped it into my mouth and chewed solemnly. I was becoming overly maudlin if I was wasting a prime fifteen minutes of my life weeping over the brute who had tried to kill me last night.
    The police, in the form of Ryga, would be crazy to think I was a suspect, but common sense can disappear momentarily in all professions. How on earth was I—although not svelte, still a relatively petite person—supposed to have clunked him on the head from my prone position? I suppose they didn’t believe I was prone. If only Horatio were around to speak up for me.
    And where was Horatio? Every now and again, despite city bylaws governing the roaming of dogs without a leash, he would get frisky and go out, looking for action. Although I had never done that myself, I understood that he was a boy dog, and boys just have to have fun. As long as he was careful. But, darn, I needed him now. I needed a hug, no matter how smelly the participant.
    I wondered how much it would cost to print flyers. I missed Horatio. How does one look for a dog? Should I call the Boy Scouts? The Marines? The Army? The animal shelter? What if Horatio were imprisoned in a cell at the animal shelter, having to fend off the attentions of brazen poodles and chihuahuas? Oh, poor Horatio. I made a note to call the animal shelter.
    I chewed down the last of the casserole, hoping it wouldn’t kill me, but also noting that it appeared to be second or third on the list of potential killers, considering last night’s events.
    Then I got to the part I didn’t want to think about. Who had beaned Mr. Size Twenty with the garden gnome? Could Geoff have come back? Unlikely. Geoff was basically a coward. He would have run to a phone and called the police (or maybe his pals at the Daily Sun ) before taking any action on the scene. And even if he had, he would be taking centre stage, gloating and glowing to reporters, enjoying the glory of being a hero. If a friend had done it, surely he would have hung around for a few moments to see if I was all right. And if a stranger had done the deed, why didn’t he bash my head in while he was at it? One-stop shopping for anybody with a murderous bent. Who else? Mrs. Lauterman? I couldn’t imagine her getting her walker into my condo and out again so quickly. Although she was pretty energetic. That green hair had really perked her up. I discounted my other neighbours, who were infinitely boring and would have nothing to do with murders or rescues on general principle. Not when Survivor or American Idol were on television.
    This was even more depressing. I devoted a few self-righteous minutes to cursing North American culture in general and agreeing with the H. L. Mencken quote about nobody ever going broke underestimating the taste of the American public. Having done that, I suddenly remembered that the Bow Wow Dog Food commercials, however adorable, might not necessarily have been a watershed event in North American culture, and I beat a quick critical retreat and decided that there was room for everything in North American culture, as long as it satisfied and enriched society. I thought that sounded pretty good, and grabbed a pen to jot it down, in case I could use it in a future grant application. I was somewhat long in the tooth for grant applications, but in my profession, you