Free When Will the Dead Lady Sing? by Patricia Sprinkle Page B

said the last family was pretty interested in the house, but when they got to the barn and saw signs somebody was bedding down, they said they didn’t want to live so far out.”
    “Huh,” I grunted. “Folks want to get away from it all, but once they get half a mile from streetlights, they get antsy.”
    Hubert gave a bitter laugh. “You got that right. Every city slicker’s dream: a private, gated five country acres smack dab in the middle of town.” He rocked a few minutes, then said, “I’ll tell you what, Mac. Do some of that detecting you’re so good at. Sneak up on him, get him to talk to you. Tell him I’ll buy a bus ticket to anywhere he wants to go. One way.”
    Hubert knew I wouldn’t do that, but talking seemed to have helped him let off steam. We were quiet for a spell after that. We’d been neighbors so long, we didn’t need to talk. I don’t know what Hubert was thinking, but I was thinking how terrible it must be not to have a safe place to sleep or a modern bathroom when you needed one.
    Out of the blue, he asked, “Did you see the little lady I was just talking to? Her name’s Abigail, and she’s Burlin Bullock’s sister.” He smoothed his hair, which was a bit thin but still wavy. “She’s coming over to our place for dinner tonight. Would it be proper for me to ask if she’d like to go for a little spin afterwards, to see the sights? Gusta and Pooh generally shut down pretty early—” He was looking at me just like Lulu did when she hoped I had a treat in my hand.
    I didn’t want to spoil his party. On the other hand, I didn’t want Hubert courting Abigail. Hubert wasn’t any older than us, and he had a sizeable bank account. Now that Pooh and Gusta had taken him in hand, he even smelled good. Georgia hadn’t mentioned any romance in Abigail’s life. Had anybody even mentioned her last name? What if she were susceptible and married Hubert? Could I live in Hopemore with the constant threat that Burlin might come back? Was that reason enough to stand in the way of Hubert’s happiness?
    “You’ll have to ask her,” I said.
    Maynard’s phone rang just inside the open window. “I’ll get him,” I heard Maynard say.
    I heard Joe Riddley’s voice. Next thing I knew, he was striding through the door waving me to follow him. “Come on, Little Bit. That was Bethany. The barn’s on fire, and she can’t get either Martha or Ridd.”

6
    “Lulu!” I gasped the word as I hared after Joe Riddley, who was practically running down Oglethorpe. In my mind I saw my dog as I’d found her the year before, lying in a blood-soaked nest of pine straw in the woods after she and Joe Riddley had both been shot. The would-be murderer had left her for dead, but although her left hind leg was mangled beyond saving, that plucky little beagle had burrowed into the pine straw and managed to survive until I found her.
    Save her and her pups, I begged God. That poor dog has suffered enough.
    “Did she get Lulu and the pups out?” I called after Joe Riddley’s back, clutching my stomach to keep my insides from falling onto the street.
    He looked around, his mouth grim and set. “I don’t know. Cindy’s horse, either.”
    “Did she call 911?”
    “The fire trucks were already there. Stop yapping and run.”
    I’d barely gotten my car door slammed before he had zoomed out of the lot. All I can say about Joe Riddley’s driving is, it was a good thing he’d driven those roads for fifty years. He’d never have made it home at that speed, otherwise.
    We saw smoke above the pines before we even reached the gravel road. “I’ll bet it was Tad,” I muttered.
    “What was Tad?”
    “Who started the fire. Smoking.”
    “He’s smoking?” Joe Riddley didn’t sound as upset as I was, but when we grew up, all the boys smoked. It was their contribution toward the Southern economy.
    “Martha said the girls caught him smoking in the woods. Ridd gave him a talking to, but that probably just drove