Free When Will the Dead Lady Sing? by Patricia Sprinkle

Burlin,” Binky told me. “He’s always on to me about quitting, but I tell him we all need one vice, and this is mine.” She slid something into her pocket with her free hand. “Well, Hubert, it’s been good talking to you, but I’d better get back to the party. You coming, Lance?” She stubbed her cigarette out on a small plastic plate and picked the plate up to carry it inside.
    “In a minute.” He craned his neck and peered at the ceiling of the porch. “I wonder if those are the original boards.”
    “Gusta would be proud to tell you they are,” I informed him.
    “Don’t be long,” Binky warned him as he strolled down the porch looking at siding. The front door closed behind her with a click.
    Hubert looked at his cigarette in disgust. “It’s an addiction, Mac. You know that.”
    “Fight it,” I advised. “You’re a grown-up.”
    “I know.” He fished in his pocket and brought out a book of matches. “But see that? I just got ’em this week. Aren’t they pretty? I had ’em printed for my fortieth anniversary celebration next month. Here, Lance,” he added as Lance headed back our way. “Take home a souvenir.”
    The cover was bright cherry red, with SPENCE’S APPLIANCES, HOPEMORE, 40 YEARS dropped out in white. “Thanks.” Lance pocketed it absently, still looking at the ceiling.
    “They are nothing but temptation at my fingertips,” Hubert grumbled, taking out another matchbook and frowning at it. “I keep picking up a few and carrying them around, and whenever I want a smoke, there they are.”
    I reached for it. “Let me relieve you of temptation, then.”
    He snatched it back. “I’m not handing them out in town before the celebration. You can have as many as you want then.”
    “Maybe you ought to advertise on packs of gum instead,” Lance suggested, leaning against the rail again to examine the front of the house.
    “Didn’t think of that.” Hubert took one last puff and tossed his lit cigarette over the rail.
    It landed in the grass with a little flare. “Maynard won’t have to worry about rings on his furniture if you burn the place down,” I told him.
    He huffed, but he trotted out onto the grass and ground the butt under his foot.
    “Not again,” Lance muttered, looking toward the street.
    The homeless man in the gray suit was shuffling past. At the front walk, he paused to give us a jaunty wave. Lance shook his head and made a small, amused sound. “I don’t know if we’re on his circuit or if he’s on ours, but that man has been in almost every town we’ve been in these past two months. He even shows up at some rallies—the ones that give free food. Watch out, or he’ll be mingling with Mrs. Wainwright’s guests.”
    “Not if she sees him, he won’t. Maybe he’s a very loyal supporter.”
    He chuckled. “Registered to vote in every county? I could use some of those.”
    Before I could reply, Hubert shouted, “Hey! Git out of here! Git, you hear me? Git!” He ran across the lawn, arms flailing. “Git out of my barn, too, and stay out. You hear me? Go back where you came from.” Too busy looking at the homeless man to watch where he was going, he tripped over the buffalo’s chain and fell sprawling onto the grass.
    The buffalo gave an angry snort and jerked its head.
    “Hey!” shouted Sarge, the keeper. “Watch where you’re going.”
    Hubert hauled himself to his feet and trotted on across the lawn. The homeless man had stopped at the corner of the lot to watch him. “Git!” Hubert waved his arms.
    He wasn’t getting much reaction from the homeless man, but the buffalo was fascinated. He trotted after Hubert. I guess his chain wasn’t sufficiently anchored, or maybe Hubert had dislodged it, because it came loose and dragged along behind him.
    “Hubert!” I yelled in warning. He looked back, and panic spread all over his face. He started running faster. The buffalo picked up speed.
    “Oh, Lord,” Lance breathed as Hubert dashed toward