Free Backstab by Elaine Viets

they’d make up. They didn’t drink much, just a beer before dinner. Most nights, their place was very quiet. I liked that.
    “The only bad thing about my new life was the way people acted around me. Whenever I went out with my grandparents, there would be thissort of whispery buzz, and I knew people were saying, ‘That’s the little girl whose mother shot her father and then killed herself. Poor little thing.’
    “That’s what the nice ones said. The mean ones said this would make me not right in the head and no man would marry me, because there was insanity and suicide in the family. After a while I got used to the buzz, and it died down a bit, too.”
    “Now there’s a buzz that follows you around when you go in a place,” said Lyle. “But it’s because of your column. Everyone in St. Louis knows you.”
    That was Lyle. He always put the best interpretation on everything. He was never jealous of my success. I took another bite of the sandwich. I didn’t mention the other bad thing—the dreams. Some nights I would dream of that drip, drip, drip sound, but the blood would be dripping on their coffins. On real bad nights, it would be dripping on mine, and I would wake up screaming.
    After a few years the drip, drip, drip dreams faded. Now I only get them when things are very bad. I knew I’d get one tonight, because of Burt’s murder.
    “Hello,” said Lyle, “anyone home?”
    I realized I was holding the sandwich in midair.
    “Francesca, I know you liked Burt, but you only saw him maybe twice a year. His murder reminds you of your parents’ deaths, doesn’t it?That’s why you’re so upset. You aren’t here. You’re back in Crestwood.”
    Lyle was right. I’d been wandering around in the past to keep from talking about the present. “Burt wasn’t quite a friend, but he was more than a source,” I said. “He worked hard all his life, and he never asked for anything.”
    “Just like your grandparents,” said Lyle.
    “He did remind me of my grandfather in some ways, I guess. I admired him so much.”
    “Burt? Or your grandfather?” asked Lyle.
    “Both. Oh, Lyle, it was just awful at Burt’s Bar.” And then I told him about the body bag, the bloody kitchen, and the weeping Dolores. Once again he listened. “Any leads on who did it?” he said.
    “The police say it’s a holdup gone wrong, but I think it’s more than that. I can’t imagine why Burt would have let in his killer or turned his back on him.”
    “Or her,” Lyle said. He was always reminding me that sexism swings both ways. “Maybe Burt just made a mistake. We all do, and he was getting old. He got careless.”
    “Burt was Scrubby Dutch like me,” I said. “We’re very clean and very good at doing the same thing over and over again. That’s why Germans make such good beer. It takes both those qualities.”
    Talking about Burt’s death took away some of the horror. I was glad to have Lyle to talk to. We usually talked on the phone daily. I’d tell him about a column or something interesting I sawand he’d talk about the university. He taught English and did a little freelance writing—but he refused to work for the
Gazette.
Lyle had enough money so he didn’t have to work and he said the
CG
delighted in making people miserable. I felt better when we started talking. We were good at that. We were good at loving, too. We did most things well together. Lyle was funny, he was sexy, he could wiggle both ears at once. Sometimes I spent weeks at a time at his town house on Laclede. I liked to tease him that it looked like a men’s club, but I liked the marble fireplace, the stained glass, the cozy wing chairs and even the pictures of his rich dead relatives. I think he bought it only because of the huge mahogany wet bar. Then I’d get restless and run home for a few days to my grandparents’ place over the store.
    Lyle wanted to get married. I didn’t. I couldn’t marry him. I didn’t see anyone else. I couldn’t