Free The Last Blue Plate Special by Abigail Padgett Page B

voice, “do you think Kate is in any danger? If she is I want her
     to drop out of the campaign immediately. I’m asking for your professional opinion. Is there really a killer stalking these
     women, or just some sick person trying to make everybody think there is?”
    I’d come to know both Kate and Pieter fairly well while working on her campaign for city council and liked them both. In addition
     to his European manners, Pieter is a listener. He takes people seriously; he pays attention. I would do him the honor of returning
     the courtesy.
    “I honestly don’t know,” I said. “There is enough evidence at this point to justify concern.”
    “Tell me more, Blue. What’s going on? We heard that Dixie Ross died of a cerebral hemorrhage as did Senator Grossinger, and
     that a letter threatening these deaths was sent to the police weeks ago. How could someone commit murder without even being
     present? Is there some kind of poison that does this? And
why
?”
    He was wearing a blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a silk tie I knew cost at least as much as the four new radial
     tires on my truck. Yet he had a saintly aura that always makes me think of monks. It wasn’t just the tonsured look of his
     prematurely white hair or those powder-blue eyes. It was a sense that it would never occur to Pieter Van Der Elst to hurt
     anything, that he was incapable of deliberate harm. He could play St. Francis of Assisi without changing clothes and seem
     completely in character. I wondered about the differences between Pieter and whatever called itself Sword of Heaven.
    “So far the victim profile is women in positions of authority, positions formerly reserved for men,” I told him. “These may
     be selected from coverage in the newspaper.”
    “Kate’s in the paper all the time,” Pieter said, his eyes scanning the street beyond a plate glass window. “The election is
     only a few weeks away. Of course the papers are covering all the candidates. And more than a fourth of them are women!”
    “There’s no way to tell if the killer regards the city council as a bastion of male power being taken over by women,” I told
     him. “There’s no way to predict much of anything yet, except, Pieter …” I made a fist and stared at my knuckles before finishing
     what I’d started to say.
    “Yes?”
    “It isn’t over. There’s very likely to be another … incident.”
    Color was rising in his pale cheeks.
    “Another death, you mean. Blue, how can this be happening? I’m going to ask Kate to withdraw from the race. Dixie Ross died
     on her way to Kate’s fundraiser, and both of them knew Mary Harriet Grossinger. There are too many connections. It’s not worth
     the risk.”
    Kate had terminated her phone call and now stood behind her husband.
    “Hello, Blue,” she said, a thoughtful smile emphasizing the attractive contours of her face. “I suppose Pieter has told you
     he wants me to withdraw from the race two weeks before election day?”
    I never know what to do with declarative statements pronounced as questions, so I merely smiled at a point just behind her
     head. Kate went on to answer the next question, which nobody had asked.
    “It’s out of the question, of course,” she said. “And I love your outfit, Blue. Where did you find that hat?”
    Real question.
    “At a thrift store in Palm Springs. I’m going to a revival. Undercover, sort of.”
    It was clear that neither Kate nor Pieter had ever met a person who went to revivals. Or else they’d never met anyone who
     bought hats at thrift stores. Both faces went blank for the same fraction of a second, and then both said, “Really!” in unison.
     I assumed it was the revival thing that had brought them up short and decided to tell them what Rathbone apparently hadn’t.
    “A revivalist named Ruby Emerald was taken to a hospital with symptoms which might be the result of high blood pressure last
     night,” I began. “Shortly after the