Free Three Can Keep a Secret by Judy Clemens Page A

beyond repair.
    A note at the end of Brad’s obituary mentioned that those who wished to contribute to a fund for the family could route it through Yoder Mennonite Church. I wondered if that was Lucy’s idea, seeing how she didn’t really like the church. It could’ve been a simple way for her to let Brad’s family receive comfort from their congregation.
    I sat back, halfway frustrated and halfway relieved. I had been hoping for better information about the extent of Brad’s injuries and the event itself, and I sincerely wished there had been more of a sense that the investigation found the accident exactly that—an accident.
    I also felt like a goddamned snoop.
    I rubbed the back of my neck as I dealt with a very unwelcome reality. To satisfy myself I’d hired someone with true grief and clean hands, I’d have to go back to the source I should’ve stuck with from the beginning.
    Lucy herself.

Chapter Thirteen
    I was awakened by Queenie’s frantic barking.
    I slid out of bed and peeked through my blinds. A dark shape sat in the drive, close to the apartment. A car.
    A glance at the clock told me it was almost two a.m. Not a time for visitors. Any visitors who were expected, anyhow, or that Lucy would want me to see.
    I pulled on some shorts and went down the stairs as quickly as I could, seeing how my Motrin had worn off. By the time I got to the front door Queenie’s barking had stopped, but I couldn’t see her. I reached out and flipped the switch in the front hall that floods the yard with light.
    One figure—face hidden by a ski mask—held Queenie at bay, a blanket over her head, while another stood poised at the front of the garage. Both turned to gape at me, shocked by the light. The one at the garage, face obscured by a Donald Trump mask, ran toward the car, while the one holding Queenie let go of the blanket. Queenie untangled herself and lunged at the fleeing figure. She sank her teeth into Ski Mask’s calf, and a sharp cry of pain split the air as the person stumbled.
    I ran into the yard, but when I got within twenty feet of Queenie, her victim kicked her in the face, dislodging her bite, and scrambled to the car. Spitting dust, the Grand Am, already pointed toward the road, raced away. There was no time to get a license number.
    “Queenie, girl, you okay?” She danced around while I gripped her collar, her throat resonating with deep growls. A quick check of her face showed no injuries, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
    The door at the top of the apartment steps flew open, and Lucy stood on the landing in an oversized T-shirt. “What’s going on?” The harsh floodlight did her no favors, her face looking pale and haggard.
    I glanced toward the garage and wished I’d been half a minute quicker to interrupt our visitors. Sprayed across the doors in a bloody red were the words “WHORE,” “SLUT,” and an incomplete “MURD—”. I waved a hand toward the vandalism, and Lucy trotted down the stairs to see.
    She stopped short at the sight of the graffiti, her hand flying to her mouth.
    “Any ideas who would do this?” I asked. I had to assume the slurs were meant for her.
    She remained still, staring at the garage. I turned toward the house. “I’m calling this in.”
    She spun around. “Do you have to?”
    The desperation in her voice was clear, but I’d had enough. “I’m not letting this happen to my property without reporting it.”
    She looked at me for a few seconds before turning back to the garage. “Do you need me?”
    “Don’t know. I’ll see what the cops say.”
    Slowly, she climbed the stairs to her apartment. At the top she glanced back over her shoulder. “I’ll be waiting in here.”
    Within ten minutes a patrol car pulled into the lane. I recognized the officer from the month before when my barn had burned down, but couldn’t place her name.
    “Officer Stern,” she said, holding out her hand.
    I shook it, holding Queenie’s collar with my left hand so she