Free 5 A Sporting Murder by CHESTER D CAMPBELL

a kid, but that was on roller skates out in the
street. We used to flatten a tin can to use as a puck. My dad ran a Rexall drugstore
out Hillsboro Road.”
    Jill turned to me. “I think I
patronized that drugstore. You remember I lived out that way.”
    Her dad, who died a few years after
we married, was a highly successful life insurance agent. They lived in a fancy
area that gave me a real shock the first time I visited her large fieldstone
home. It looked like a mansion to me, the son of a St. Louis master brewer and
an English teacher.
    “I’m retired Air Force,” I said.
“How long were you in the Marines?”
    “Three years. I was injured in Vietnam and got out when I came back. That newspaper story about Wechsel mentioned he was
from Germany. Have you learned anything about him from over there?”
    “His uncle is a former colleague of
mine,” I said. “We’re committed to tracking down who’s responsible for Arnold
Wechsel’s death. Our main effort, though, is to find out what’s behind this
so-called rumor, which doesn’t sound like a rumor at all. We plan to look deeper
into the NBA backers, starting with Louie Aregis. We have one good lead we hope
will pay off.”
    I decided not to go into detail.
Although the CPA was one of Protect Our Preds’ major benefactors, Terry Tremont
had said Bradley Smotherman was the official client responsible for our being
hired. My law enforcement experience had taught me that people tended to
exaggerate or misinterpret information frequently. Spreading around too much about
a case could quickly complicate matters.
    When we left a short time later,
Jill took me to task over what I had said. She gave me a squinty eye and
dropped her voice to a skeptical tone. “What’s that good lead we’re expecting
to pay off, dear?”
    “I’m inclined to go with a mother’s
intuition,” I said. “I think the gambling angle involving Arnold Wechsel is
worth digging into a lot more deeply.”
    At the moment, however, I had no
idea where to turn to pursue that possibility.

Chapter 12
     
    Nashville drivers handle winter weather in one of two ways.
They either dash madly like mail carriers facing a deadline to deliver despite
rain or snow or heat or gloom of night, or they creep along as though the
streets were glazed over. On the way back to the office, we navigated a
perilous path between both types as a mixture of rain and sleet pelted the
windshield. Our only mad dashing came when we parked a couple of rows out from
the small family restaurant at the opposite end of the shopping center.
    “So what are the sleuths eating
today?” asked Tillie, our usual waitress, or female server as my PC friends
would say. A yellow pencil appeared from the graying hair above her ear. Round
spectacles joined it in a vertical position, as if she had eyes in the top of
her head. I suspected she did. She missed little.
    “I’ll have that nice fruit salad
you’ve been pushing lately,” Jill said. “I don’t know where you’re getting the
fruit this time of year, but it seems really fresh.”
    “The boss has a secret source at
the Farmer’s Market. I think it’s a Florida farmer.” Tillie nodded her head at
me. “What about the old guy?”
    I gave her the eye rolling routine.
“The old guy would like a nice, juicy steak, but he’ll settle for a nice, fresh
fruit salad.”
    “He’s on his good behavior these
days,” Jill said, smiling.
    As the waitress flounced off to the
kitchen, I gave Jill a look. “Thanks for that vote of confidence.”
    “It’s true. I don’t believe you’ve
gained a pound lately. Of course, you haven’t lost one, either.”
    She kept me on a short leash, but
her magical touch made our low-fat, low-calorie dishes tasty.
    “Enough chit-chat, babe,” I said, “you’re
still on the clock. What did you think of Gordon Franklin?”
    “I have a hard time picturing that
Mr. Milquetoast as a Marine.”
    “That limp could’ve