Free Dead for the Money by Peg Herring Page A

grandfather’s assistant.
    As Gramps had done less and less that might be considered active work, Arnold’s role had shifted to more general duties. Arlis often pre-empted him for a day or even more, claiming she needed his help with a church or social event. Arlis considered herself the grand dame of Frankfort, hosting teas and Twelfth Night suppers and garden tours for the supposed benefit of the locals. Gramps, noting that it was all for charity, played his part when the day of each event came, allowing Arnold and Arlis to have the spotlight as his home, his property, and his money were made available to the public.
    Arnold was a fake and a sneak, one of those people who thought if he smiled when he said something awful, people wouldn’t realize what a sneak he was. She had heard him on the phone sometimes (yes, she had been spying) and knew that he told stories about her, dramatizing her minor mistakes to make her seem even worse than she was. She tried not to let it bother her.
    Bud finally called Arnold into the office, where they conferred for a moment. Arnold left with a folder in one hand and his car keys in the other. Brodie wondered if Arnold had said anything to Bud about her. She had glued Arnold’s shoes to the floor last year, but only with hot glue. It wasn’t like she’d used the tough stuff.
    Scarlet had gone into town to find Brodie a pair of real shoes. Apparently, flip-flops were not appropriate for a funeral. When Brodie mentioned that she had a pair of Reeboks, Scarlet had given her The Look. “You have to have something nice,” she said firmly. “It’s for your grandfather.”
    Brodie liked that Gramps had never explained to Scarlet—or to anyone who did not already know—that she was not really his granddaughter. Still, she hated shopping. “You go.”
    “But what if the shoes I buy don’t fit?”
    “I’m only going to wear them for an hour.”
    Shaking her head, Scarlet had gone, leaving Brodie with nothing to do. She passed through the living room aimlessly, wondering how to keep from thinking about Gramps. The sound of crunching gravel caught her attention. The front wall was mostly windows, but Shelley had closed the blinds to keep the house cool. Pulling them aside, Brodie saw the county sheriff’s car pull into the drive. That gave her a head start to a spot where she could overhear what the deputy had to say to Bud.
     
     
    S EAMUS SAW THE CAR through Brodie’s eyes, and his interest picked up. He had to work his way to someone in authority, and here was an early opportunity. Law officers knew things he wanted to know: autopsy details, salient facts, and what witnesses had said about the incident. He wanted to jump to the deputy who now approached the house. He hoped Brodie would get close enough to allow it.
    Brodie was on the move. Seamus didn’t understand her purpose until she slid under the staircase and crouched down in a shadowed recess. A hiding spot. She wanted the same thing he did, information.
    The girl’s position was well-suited to eavesdropping, since the open stairway faced the office where Bud Dunbar sat sorting through old photographs. The deputy was shown in by a fifty-ish woman who moved as if her feet hurt. As he passed not four feet from them, Seamus jumped easily to him. He had a moment of misgiving at leaving Mildred behind, hoping she understood now that she could not just chat with her host at will.
    The deputy was a better fit all around. Seamus preferred hosting with men—not, he told himself, because he had anything against women. He simply felt more comfortable with the male linear thought process. They spent less time considering alternatives. Instead of dithering over the best choice, they chose a path and then made it work.
    William Dunbar’s fears had been correct. This officer believed Bud Dunbar was a murderer. However, Seamus sensed nervousness in the man’s mind. Those above him in rank were convinced the old man’s death had been