Free Lie in Wait by Eric Rickstad Page B

Cut-­the-­Crap Plumbing. “All these folks yak ’bout marriage like it’s the greatest damned thing since the microwave when half of us have been divorced. Been married twice myself. Divorced twice. Let the homos have their insurance and let half of ’em get divorced just like the rest of us.”
    â€œYou can’t make it legitimate,” Victor said. “Where’s it end? Brother marrying sister?”
    â€œHalf a what you probably do with your wife ain’t legitimate according to the blue laws still on the books. Who knows what all any of us get up to?” Branch winked at Gwynne.
    â€œI don’t do anything of the kind with my wife,” Victor said.
    â€œMissing out,” Branch said.
    Â­People thought it was easy, living up to the Lord’s standards. But the Lord sometimes asked that hard tasks be done by his flock. Just ask Abraham. “They certainly don’t need to be teaching it in our schools,” he said.
    â€œJesus,” Branch said. “If a kid’s bent that way, he’s bent that way. You can’t teach a kid to be homo. You can teach respect though. School ain’t gonna turn ’em the other way any more than you would have turned me off girls.” Branch took off his cap and scratched at his bald crown. “What the hell you so afraid of anyway? What do you care what two men do with their dicks? Long as they aren’t molesting kids.”
    Victor bristled as Branch handed Gwynne a ten-­dollar bill. He didn’t care at all for this kind of talk.
    â€œKeep the change, darlin’,” Branch said and headed toward the door.
    Victor watched Branch go. The man was as full of crap as an outhouse at a chili contest. He acted as if he knew something. Maybe he did. But not about God.

 
    Chapter 13
    T HOUGH D ETECTIVE N ORTH parked his cruiser a block behind the back of Greg and Scott’s place, two reporters still hustled toward him as he got out of it.
    North waved a hand at them. “No comment,” he grunted and picked up his pace, entered the backyard through a small wooden gate.
    â€œAre you close to making an arrest?” a reporter shouted.
    North ignored him.
    The back yard grew wild with autumn flowers and ancient apple trees. The air here smelled of rotted leaves and turned loam.
    Near the back steps, North paused beneath an apple tree whose few stunted apples lay on the ground, gone soft in the dead grass. Yellow jackets clung to the rotted fruit, wings quivering drunkenly.
    North heard a moan like that of an old man awakening and looked to see, in the shadows beneath the tree, a yellow Labrador retriever, its muzzle grizzled, cataract eyes. The dog whined and North gave it a good scratch behind the ears.
    In the flower bed, a clutch of purple asters had somehow survived October. They were Loretta’s favorite fall flower and she had just tossed out a bouquet of them that had wilted in the vase on the formal dining room table they never used. She got fresh flowers every Friday, often wild ones she picked herself. Fresh Flower Friday. North’s granddaughter would abbreviate it to FFF. Loretta’s mother had brought fresh flowers into the home every Friday when Loretta had been a child. Loretta had picked the practice back up now that her mother was living—­dying—­in the mother-­in-­law apartment they had built above the garage, outfitted with a wheelchair lift.
    As North reached to pluck a handful of asters, a yellow jacket stung him on the back of his hand.
    â€œBastard,” he said and sucked at the sting on his hand.
    The back door of the house opened and Gregory Sergeant stood there, barefoot in frayed cords and a yellow V-­neck sweater that may have been cashmere. He was a slight, compact man with alert savvy green eyes, ginger hair cut close and a goatee.
    â€œPracticing your kissing?” Gregory said, nodding at North sucking at his hand.
    â€œIf I