Free Wherever Lynn Goes by Jennifer Wilde

dangling. If there had been a note, I might buy it, but there wasn’t.”
    â€œHe didn’t need to leave a note. His reasons for killing himself were obvious.”
    â€œThe motive isn’t there, either. Why did he kill her? Because they’d had a falling out. Totally absurd. If he were a hot-blooded Latin thirty years old and passionately in love, perhaps, but I hardly think escorting her to a few church socials and bingo games constitutes a grand passion. If even half the things you’ve told me about your aunt were true, the Colonel was probably relieved to be rid of her. How old was he, by the way?”
    â€œI don’t know. Seventy, at least.”
    â€œA seventy-year-old man commits a crime of passion and then kills himself in a fit of self-remorse? Really, Lynn, someone has to be joking.”
    â€œPassion had nothing to do with it,” I said. “She was giving him a very hard time. Aunt Daphne could be extremely vicious. She probably drove the poor man to the point of desperation.”
    â€œThat’s still not motive enough for such a brutal crime.”
    â€œHe was seen leaving the house that night.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œThe knife was at his side when they found him. What’s more, his fingerprints were on it.”
    â€œThat doesn’t prove a thing,” she said stubbornly.
    â€œHe went berserk, Mandy.”
    â€œThat’s a very pat explanation. There’s no real motive, so everyone simply assumes he went berserk. The police didn’t really investigate , Lynn. They just accepted things at face value.”
    Reluctantly, I had to admit that she was right. I tried to make light of all she had said, attributing it to her addiction to sensational fiction, but Mandy was an extremely intelligent person, and there was much food for thought in what she had said. Constable Plimpton was an amiable, easygoing chap, no doubt very popular with the villagers, but he hardly inspired confidence. What if they had made a mistake? What if the Colonel hadn’t murdered her … Of course he did, I told myself firmly. It was absurd to think otherwise. Mandy could chatter all she liked, but one of us had to remain sensible.
    â€œOne other point,” she said.
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œThe telephone call. That’s what really bothers me. She was incoherent, hysterical. She said it was an emergency, that she had something to tell you. Lynn, if she was afraid for her life, why did she call you? Why didn’t she phone the local police?”
    â€œI don’t know, Mandy. The—the call probably had nothing whatsoever to do with the murder.”
    â€œPerhaps not.”
    â€œI wish you wouldn’t carry on like this.”
    â€œI suppose I do read too many thrillers,” she said lightly. “It probably happened just the way they say it did. I certainly hope so. I wouldn’t want to think the murderer was still roaming around, not if we intend to stay way off out here.” She glanced through the windshield at the thick, leafy trees, their trunks almost hidden by underbrush. “We are going to be isolated, aren’t we?”
    â€œVery,” I said cheerily.
    â€œSo many trees—”
    â€œWould you like to turn back?”
    â€œOf course not.”
    â€œWe could always take rooms at the inn.”
    â€œI wouldn’t think of it, pet. I’m dying to see the house. Is it really as dark and gloomy as you’ve described it?”
    â€œIt was thirteen years ago. By this time it should be in even worse condition.”
    â€œMarvelous. There’ll probably still be bloodstains in the hall, too. Do hurry, Lynn. I can hardly wait …”

CHAPTER FIVE
    The house was exactly as I remembered it, only more weathered from thirteen additional years of exposure to sun and damp night air and seasonal storms. Built shortly before the turn of the century, it had all the architectural