Free THE SOUND OF MURDER by Cindy Brown Page B

showed her pierced belly button. She was beautiful, and way too young to be living in fifty-five-plus Sunnydale. The homeowner’s daughter, maybe? Granddaughter? I decided to figure that out later. Instead I said, “I’m from Duda Detective Ag—”
    Slam. Dang Uncle Bob Duda’s pride. I knocked again. The woman opened the door a crack. “Let me explain. I’m Ivy Meadows—”
    It’s pretty hard to slam a door that’s open just a few inches, but somehow she managed it.
    I took a deep breath and knocked again. No answer, not that I expected one. I took one of Uncle Bob’s business cards out of my messenger bag and wrote my name on it above Uncle Bob’s. I drew an arrow indicating that the card should be turned over. On the back I wrote, “re: Charlie Small’s death.” I stuck my business card in the crack between the door and the frame, and walked down the concrete path that cut through the gravel lawn. The tiny rocks reflected the heat, even on a spring morning. No wonder half of Sunnydale took off for the summer. Their lawns would bake them.
    Nobody was home at the next several houses I tried. It was eight thirty on a beautiful spring morning. Most people hadn’t gone north for the summer yet. Where was everyone?
    I decided to widen my search. I got in my Bug and drove around until I found the cul-de-sac that backed up against Charlie and Bernice’s cul-de-sac. Though it took several minutes to drive the winding streets, the houses’ backyards on this street faced the ones on Charlie and Bernice’s. Only a gravelly sagebrush-lined wash separated the houses’ yards. Maybe someone over here saw or heard something.
    More empty houses. Wait, was that movement? I paused in front of a rambling ranch-style house with a green gravel lawn. A shadow passed by the picture window. Yes!
    I strode up the walk, past a brightly painted concrete mule pulling a wagon full of fake flowers. I pressed the doorbell and Beethoven’s Fifth played loudly on chimes. This time I’d skip the introduction to me or my uncle’s detective agency, hoping to get past any slammed doors.
    The lady who opened the door had gray hair that was squashed on one side, like she’d been sleeping on it, and enormous sunglasses. I whipped mine off, hoping to make a better impression. I had dressed to impress this morning, in a conservative white blouse and navy polyester skirt.
    “Good morning, ma’am. I’m investigating the death of Charlie Small and wondered if I might ask you a few questions.”
    “Goodness me,” she said in a trembling voice. “Am I a suspect?”
    “Oh, no.” Nice job, Ivy, scaring an old lady. “I’m just doing a neighborhood investigation, finding out if anyone saw or heard anything that might help us.”
    “Well, I’ll certainly tell you what I can,” said the woman, turning away from the door. “I’m Fran Bloom.” She walked toward the back of the house. “I just made some coffee. Come sit and have a cup.” Her voice still quavered. Maybe she was nervous. Maybe she did know something.
    I followed Fran into a dark kitchen redolent with the smell of fresh-brewed coffee. She opened a cupboard door and took down two large plastic mugs. Her hands shook as she poured coffee into them.
    As she worked in the kitchen, I sat at her table and reviewed what I knew about investigating witnesses. Uncle Bob had counseled me to begin with questions they could answer truthfully, so I could see which direction they looked when they were telling the truth. Then I should ask a question that caused them to use their imagination and watch where their eyes went. Then start in on the real questions. If their eyes drifted to the imagination place, said Uncle Bob, they were usually lying.
    “How do you take your coffee?” asked Fran. She set down a silver tray. A dainty creamer and small sugar bowl, both beautifully wrought in silver, looked incongruous beside the white plastic mugs filled with coffee.
    “With cream,” I replied.