Free Consider the Crows by Charlene Weir

all this local history.”
    â€œIs this a long story, George? Because I’m tired and I’m hungry and I need to stop at the market before I can go home.”
    â€œHardly take any time at all. Sit yourself.”
    Settling back with a squeak of the chair, he rested his elbows on the arms. “Howard Creighton died eight years ago at the age of eighty-four. For thirteen years prior he was a recluse, closed himself up in that house and fired a shotgun at anybody who set foot on the land.”
    â€œAnybody killed?”
    â€œNope, salt pellets. Left a few kids with sore behinds. Everybody knew he was crazy, but he was one of ours, so we made room for him, like happens in small towns. His folks were farmers and when they died, he got the farm, which turned out to have oil under it, and he already had a going tractor business.”
    â€œYou saying he was rich? Then why did he live in that shacky house?”
    â€œI’m getting there, just be patient. The man was a genius with machinery, invented some kind of carburetor for tractors. He married and had one son late in life who was supposed to be big and strong and carry on the business. Except the son—Lowell, his name was, after his mother’s father—wasn’t much good with machinery. He wanted to play the violin.”
    â€œYou’re making this up.”
    â€œGod’s truth. Old Howard was blustery and gruff, and didn’t see eye to eye with Lowell about most things. Lowell’s mother left him some money when she died—some kind of female troubles—and Lowell was the one who bought that house so he could get away from Howie. Besides the trouble with his father, he was having a love affair with his music teacher and folks were beginning to talk.”
    Susan snorted. “Was she the church organist or something?”
    â€œClose.” George hooked a finger over his glasses, slid them down and looked at her over the top. “Mr. Spenski was the choir director.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œYou can imagine the kind of scandal that caused. Lowell’s life was made miserable. One Halloween night he up and hanged himself in that little house.”
    â€œThat’s a ghastly story, George. I assume the ghost is going to turn up here soon.”
    â€œAfter his son’s suicide, Howie started getting peculiar. He sold out everything and moved himself into that house. Rumor was he hid all the money out there somewhere. When he died, nothing was found. That’s when the ghost stories started, eerie noises and strange lights flickering. The idea was that old Howie’s spirit was guarding the money.”
    George leaned forward with another squeal of the chair and rested his forearms on the edge of the desk. “The reality of it was treasure hunters, creeping around trying to find buried gold. Nobody ever did and after a time it all faded away, including Howie’s ghost.”
    â€œDoes any of this have anything to do with Lynnelle’s death?”
    â€œWell maybe not, unless she stumbled across the gold and somebody killed her for it, which does sound like a heap of nonsense, doesn’t it?”
    â€œDid Creighton have any relatives?”
    â€œWell now, there’s something a mite interesting maybe. One nephew, his wife’s sister’s son, who lived in Boston at that time.”
    â€œWhat’s his name?”
    George smiled. “I wondered if you’d get around to that.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “Attorney by the name of David McKinnon.”
    *   *   *
    At ten past seven she set off for home, thinking about David McKinnon. She couldn’t believe in buried treasure and strongly doubted, even if it existed, that it had anything to do with Lynnelle’s death. David had found the body, and he had moved it; that always roused suspicion and, as an attorney, he knew better, but his reason was tenable. He’d inherited the