Free Cutter's Run by William G. Tapply Page B

call.”
    A few minutes later Alex came into the kitchen, where I was bent over peering into the refrigerator. She patted my butt. “Hungry?”
    “Yep.” I found a big plastic bag that held the remnants from the salad we’d served to Susannah and Noah. I turned and held it up. “How’s this?”
    “Perfect.” She tiptoed up and kissed my chin. “Did you see Charlotte?”
    I shook my head. “Let’s dump this into bowls. I’ll tell you about it.”
    Which I did while we ate at the kitchen table. When I told Alex about the swastika on the outhouse door, she put down her fork, dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, and muttered, “God!” And she sat there, her eyes peering intently into mine, as I recounted my search of the house.
    Then I remembered the business card she’d been using as a bookmark. I took it out of my shirt pocket and showed it to her.
    She shrugged. “You think this means something?”
    “I don’t know.”
    When I told her about meeting Susannah and our ride on Arlo the horse, she smiled. “And you’re the one who’s jealous when I go to a party without you.”
    “She’s coming by later on to take us to meet Arnold Hood,” I said. “He’s Charlotte Gillespie’s landlord. I’m hoping he might shed some light on the situation.”
    “Us?”
    “If you’d like to come.”
    “Sure,” said Alex. “I’ve heard Arnold Hood is quite the character. I’d like to meet him.”
    We took coffee out onto the deck and lit cigarettes. “Oh,” said Alex. “I forgot to tell you. Noah called. He wants you to call him.”
    “What’s he want?”
    She shrugged. “He didn’t choose to confide in me. He sounded a bit anxious, though.”
    I stubbed out my cigarette and picked up my coffee mug. “I’ll do it right now, lest I forget.”
    Alex remained on the deck while I went inside. I found Noah’s number in the skinny local directory and dialed it.
    Susannah answered.
    “It’s Brady,” I said.
    “Oh, hi. How are you?”
    “Aside from a sore backside, I’m fine.”
    She chuckled. “Did you talk to the sheriff?”
    “Left a message,” I said. “Your father wanted me to call him. Is he around?”
    “Sure. Sorry about your butt. Hang on. I’ll get him for you.”
    I heard her call. “Hey, Daddy. It’s Brady Coyne,” and a moment later Noah said, “Brady?”
    “What’s up, Noah?”
    “Something I’d like to run by you.”
    “Shoot.”
    He dropped his voice. “I’d rather not on the phone. Why don’t you and your pretty Alexandria let us return the favor? Come on over, have dinner with us tonight. We’ll find a time to talk then.”
    I opened my mouth to tell him I couldn’t do that, that I had a law office back in Boston that was open on Mondays, that this was Sunday, and that on Sundays Alex and I ate an early supper so I could drive back to Boston in the daylight, which, in late August, expired a little after seven o’clock. Alex and I treasured our quiet time alone on Sundays before I had to leave. Saying good-bye for a week was something we liked to do privately.
    But then I thought of Charlotte Gillespie and her poisoned puppy and the swastikas. I had to tell Sheriff Dickman about the new one on the outhouse, and about my conviction that something had happened to her. I wanted to see if I could locate a local spray-paint artist, and I was curious to hear what Arnold Hood might tell me and to learn if he could suggest other people to talk to and other places to snoop around.
    In the five seconds it took for these thoughts to zing through my brain, I decided I’d call Julie and tell her to cancel my Monday appointments. Julie, of course, wouldn’t like it, and she’d try very hard to make me feel guilty. She was very skilled at making me feel guilty, which was one of the reasons I treasured her. Without Julie, I’d probably go broke.
    But, I reminded myself, it was my law practice, and if I chose to accrue zero billable hours once in a while, I could do that. That’s