Free See Also Murder by Larry D. Sweazy

the heck hadn’t he told me? But I stopped in my tracks.
    The green Chevy sedan was parked across the street.
    It was empty as far as I could tell. There was no sign of the newspaper reader anywhere, even though the car was parked in front of the Western Auto store. The big red letters on the front of the blonde brick building were usually a source of comfort; it was a place to go to first in search of a myriad of needs. It was more than an automobile parts store; Hank bought his shotgun and the .22 there, along with most of the tools he kept neatly in the garage section of the first barn. The other two barns were used for housing what animals we kept, equipment, and hay bale storage.
    A tremor of fear rolled up my spine as I looked up and down 1st Avenue. Most of the cars and trucks I saw were subdued colors: blacks, grays, and dark green like our Studebaker truck. There were a few yellows and reds. One of those, a little red rear-engine Chevrolet Corvair drove by, sounding odd, drawing my attention for a second because of the puttering of the engine and the size of it, not the color. That car would’ve fit in one of our pig stalls; it looked like a death trap to me.
    Hamish Martin’s 1960 buttercup yellow Plymouth Fury convertible sat in front of his insurance office with the top up. The car drew attention wherever it went—just like Hamish, with his wide loud ties. Most folks in these parts were simple and modest in their tastes, but the modern world was getting more colorful and loud, so I figured there’d come a day when the insurance salesman’s car would become normal, and the sedate black sedans of the past would become quaint.
    Still, the green Chevy stood out—at least to me. I looked up and down the street again and saw nothing out of place, then chastised myself, again, for being paranoid, nervous.
    But, I was on a unusual mission, and it had been a difficult afternoon. I had an odd, perhaps stolen, amulet in my purse. My cousin had left me unsettled, and he had given me a reason to question Hilo, a man that I had always trusted implicitly. Calla was upset with me because she couldn’t find Herbert Frakes. Two of my closest friends had been murdered in a horrible, horrible way, and my heart was breaking for their two sons, who must have been lost in a way they had never counted on. I longed to see both of the boys and hold them as tight as possible.
    Before I knew it, a tear streamed down my cheek. It was all too much. I should have told Hilo no. Taken the pies over to the Knudsens’ place and given the boys as much comfort as possible, then gone home to Hank and buried myself in my work. That’s what I always did when things went bad. Work. It was the salve for most of the wounds I had ever encountered.
    The tears didn’t stop. They just cascaded more readily—and for whatever the reason, it didn’t bother me that I was standing on the sidewalk doing so. Any other day I would have been mortified.
    I should have been home working. My deadline for Sir Nigel’s book was getting closer every day, and I was in town on a fool’s errand, engaged in something I was wholly unprepared for.
    â€œPull yourself together, Marjorie,” I said to myself. “You’re stronger than this.” It was my mother’s voice, urging me on. I knew that and wasn’t the least bit angry about it.
    I dug into my purse, pulled out my handkerchief, wiped my eyes, looked up and down the street one last time to see normal life pulsing all around me, then looked over to the green Chevy.
    â€œYou’re just imagining things, Marjorie,” I said in a whisper. “Go on, go home where you belong.”
    I took a deep breath, pulled myself together, and headed toward the truck, but just as I got to the door, I decided to make a quick detour into the Rexall.
    I hurried inside the drugstore, looked around to see if there was anyone inside that I knew, then made my