Free A Function of Murder by Ada Madison Page B

an editor at a children’s games
     magazine in a week. I’d chosen a bakery theme, then constructed a puzzle around cupcakes,
     pies, birthday cakes, tarts, and many kinds of cookies. I proofread what I had so
     far, wishing I had a real treat to go with my coffee.
    A call from Bruce, already at work, brightened my mood. The morning briefing at MAstar
     was over and he was waiting for his assignment.
    “We’re probably going to sit around the trailer all day watching videos until the
     Bat Phone rings.”
    Fortunately, Bruce was a big movie fan and considered himself very lucky that he got
     paid to watch endless loops of his favorites.
    “I’m sure you guys will dig out all the old war movies,” I teased.
    “I drew the right straw, so we’re starting with
Tigerland
.”
    “I knew it. And it’s not Vietnam you’re interested in. You just like staring at Colin
     Farrell’s widow’s peak and pretending you’re looking in the mirror,” I said.
    “Guilty,” he said.
    Buzz. Buzz.
    My doorbell. I was glad I’d opted for a pair of capris and a decent Henley Math Department
     T-shirt this morning instead of staying in my pj’s, which had been my first inclination.
    I looked through the peephole. Virgil Mitchell, from the HPD, in his light summer
     suit, stared back. He looked more rested than I did. Best of all, he was carrying
     a box from the donut shop.
    “Your best bud is here,” I said to Bruce. “I hope you don’t have to bail me out later.”
    We signed off as I pulled open the door to let Virgil in. I tapped the box. “Really?”
    “I love being a cliché,” Virgil said, handing it to me.
    The delicious, unhealthy smell took over my nose and I could hardly wait to dive in.
     The box had barely hit my island counter when I lifted the cover.
    “Two jellies. How did you know?” I asked, squeezing cherry-colored foodstuff (I hoped)
     into my mouth while the other hand poured coffee for Virgil.
    “You made it clear years ago.” He smiled. “I figured we’d listen to your phone message
     over breakfast. As long as you don’t tell Bruce the menu.”
    I brushed powdered sugar from my T-shirt. “I’ll vacuum every trace. He’ll never know
     we veered from the health-food regimen.”
    “Feeling any better this morning?” he asked.
    The question caused my good humor to collapse. My light mood was over. “Not a lot.”
    “It’s tough when anyone loses his life too soon, especially when you witness it.”
    “You deal with this all the time,” I said.
    He pointed to the box of donuts. “There are rewards.”
    I laughed and thanked him for the break.
    We’d settled across from each other at my breakfast nook, overlooking the patio where
     my glorious lilies of the valley, late-blooming tulips, and impatiens held sway. How
     could it be so cheery outside when I wasn’t ready for it? Warm as it was, I wanted
     to hide under the lavender comforter on my bed.
    “I’ll get my phone for you,” I said to Virgil.
    “Do you mind if I turn on your TV? I didn’t see a paper yet. Don’t know if this would
     make the
Globe
, anyway.”
    “He was our mayor,” I said, feeling I’d made my point.
    Virgil, who’d spent a few years of his career in Boston, shrugged. “It’s Henley,”
     he said.
    I handed Virgil the remote and went to retrieve my phone from its charger.
    Since our local newspaper had cut circulation to a weekly appearance, the metropolitan
Boston
Globe
was our only option for timely news other than the Internet and television. There
     were those who didn’t think we needed labor-intensive, slow-moving print media anymore,
     but I wasn’t ready to give myself over completely to i-living. I could only guess
     how far cell phone photos of last night’s drama had traveled through the ether.
    When I returned to the kitchen, Virgil was watching the footage shot by the local
     news crew. I wondered how the anchors managed to look so perfectly groomed before
     ten in the morning.
    “Do