Free The End of The Road by Sue Henry

collection.”
    Lew’s small house could be a bookstore. It’s so full of books it reminds me of one. When I’m looking for something Andy doesn’t have on hand, Lew is my go-to guy.
    “Of course,” I told him, and, seeing that he had half finished his coffee, fetched him a refill.
    “Now,” he said, changing the subject as I sat back down at the table. “What’s all this about that Walker fellow doing away with himself at the Driftwood Inn? It is the same guy who was here Saturday night at your party, right?”
    I should have known that the details of John’s death would spread through our small town like wildfire. There is always gossip circulating, especially in the winter, when the tourists disappear, things slow down, and there’s not much that’s exciting going on.
    “Yes,” I told him with a sigh. “I’m sorry to say it is. But I don’t know why. Where did you hear about it?”
    “From my cousin, Caroline Harrison, who got it from her daughter, Julia Bennet. You know, she was a Harrison before she married Jess Bennet’s oldest boy, Bob.”
    Sometimes it seems that the permanent population of Homer is all related one way or another, although in the last few years there has been an influ x of new, retired people buying or building homes and summer cottages on the bluff above town. Still, many of the names are well known and can be traced back to our earliest settlers in the area, like the Harrisons and the Bennets.
    I told Lew why he would probably soon have a visit from Trooper Nelson and about finding John’s name on the whiskey bottle, figuring I might as well. He would hear it somewhere soon anyway.
    “John Walker. Johnnie Walker,” he tried them both out, then frowned and shook his head. “It must have been a pseudonym. Who in their right mind would name a child after a bottle of booze?”
    Who indeed? I wondered after Lew had departed, but was convinced that John had selected his own name—or pseudonym.
    After that my phone just about rang itself off the line with people calling to ask questions. News, good or bad, spreads like lightning in a town as small as Homer. After a while I considered leaving it for the machine to answer, but was afraid people would simply come rapping on my door with their curiosity if I did. And I had passed the point of tolerance in relating the story another time. It simply made me sad.
    So I didn’t respond to the knock on the door that I heard from upstairs, where I had retreated to attack the closet.
    I only lock my door at night, or if I leave the house, so I wasn’t surprised when I heard the door open and close behind the person who had knocked. Then Harriet Christianson—who knows she’s always welcome—called my name from the bottom of the stairs.
    “Maxie? Are you up there?”
    “Certainly am,” I replied, stepping down from the stool on which I was standing to reach the top shelf. “Don’t bother to come up, I’ll be right down.”
    When I arrived at the bottom of the stairs I found that she had removed her coat and was standing at the kitchen counter to open a bottle of Merlot. She turned and smiled.
    “Aren’t you supposed to be at the library?” I asked.
    “So—I took an afternoon off. Things were slow at the moment, so I skipped out.
    “I figured you’ve probably been run ragged with a hundred questions about that Walker guy,” she went on. “Don’t worry. I don’t intend to ask you any more, having already heard several versions of the thing from people who have nothing but rumors to go on.
    “If you’ll get some glasses, we’ll smooth your ragged edges with a bit of good wine.”
    “Oh, you are an angel,” I told her, getting two of my best wine-glasses from the upper cupboard. “You have no idea how welcome you are, with or without the libation—but right now I’m gladdest to see you with it. Even Stretch knows you’re welcome—never barks when he knows it’s you.”
    We took our glasses and the bottle across the