Free Eine Kleine Murder by Kaye George Page B

but only if Martha was the only one there.
    I spread the beach towel, dry by now, on one of the daybed couches, showered, and changed into my nightgown, then sat on the brightly lit porch, pondering my future.
    Did I want to stay here longer? I was torn in two directions. Go or stay? Go back to Len’s stalking or stay with Gram’s ghost?
    Maybe I would leave straight after Gram’s funeral. No, I should stay for Grace’s, too. Was there really any way those two women could have both accidentally drowned in the same spot, at the same time of night?
    Then a horrible thought hit me. I gasped. Would Grace be alive if I had gone with her? Or would I be dead, too? I desperately wanted to talk to Neek. The dark windows reflected my unhappy face back at me. I couldn’t see anything outside with the inside lights on.
    But someone else could see in. Remembering the evidence of a peeper, I knew I was too exposed on the porch. I turned off the lamps, went inside the cabin, and closed the door to the porch. There sat my composition, on the breakfast bar.
    An idea hit me like a flash, sforzando . I would dedicate this piece to Gram. I would fill it with life, with her passion, her fascination with just about everything. Above all, I would fill it with the sounds of this place she loved. I had a vague sense of making something up to her, of atoning for her death.
    A sweet melody came into my head and I jotted it down. I tried to imagine if Gram would like it or not. From an early age, probably as a result of having had musicians for parents, I started making up ditties on Gram’s piano whenever we weren’t on the road. Sometimes she recorded them and played them for other people. She thought I was a genius and I never tried to talk her out of that idea. Really, all I was doing was composing melodies, but she loved them. I eventually learned there’s a lot more to composing than that. She grew more proud as my music matured.
    I decided she’d like this one. Then I found myself wondering if my mother would have liked it. Or my father. Putting away such unproductive thoughts, and satisfied I had the bare bones of something I could work with tomorrow, I made up one of the daybeds and climbed in.
    I could hear the night sounds through the small open window above the bed. The sounds were of last year’s dead leaves being disturbed, of live leaves riffling with the passage of animals, and of the peculiar woody scratching sound I’d heard my first night.
    I raised both ears off the pillow to hear that last one better. That last noise was definitely not coming from outside. It came from inside the cabin. And more clearly than ever. Right across the room. It must be in the kitchen area. It had to be a mouse. The droppings atop the armoire had told me mice had been here. The scratchings told me they were still here. Shoot! The cabin was far from airtight. I’d seen places on the porch where daylight peeked through the chinks.
    For a moment I thought I smelled cigarette smoke coming through my window. I fought my panic and tried to convince myself Len wasn’t here. Neek had seen him in Chicago. But Mo was a smoker, too. Should I look out the window? While I was still paralyzed by indecision and fear, the pure, clean country air replaced the odor.
    Now I had a new worry. Was Mo lurking outside my cabin at night?

Chapter 14
    Agitato: Agitated (Ital.)
    My eyes flew open to blankness and dark. My heart rattled like a set of castanets. I was sure I’d heard a gunshot. Was Len shooting at me? No. The trees were singing? The leaves were speaking? Ah no, listening more closely, I could tell it was rain swishing through them. I turned over to resume my sleep but was interrupted again by a terrific flash and a thunderclap that sounded like it struck two feet from the front door. My heart hammered like a snare drum for several minutes.
    How does anyone ever get any sleep around here?
    The storm continued. I