Free Vultures at Twilight by Charles Atkins

weepy gay man. ‘We were having problems. I thought . . .’
    â€˜You thought what?’ she prompted.
    â€˜I thought he might have gone away.’
    â€˜Was that something he did?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Then why would this be different?’
    â€˜We were having problems,’ he repeated. ‘At least Philip was.’
    â€˜You said that before,’ she commented tersely. ‘Please be less vague.’
    â€˜He said he might go to the Cape. He wanted some time alone.’ He looked up and met the dark-eyed gaze of the intense detective. And it hit him; he was a suspect. He looked at Kevin, who seemed sympathetic, but ineffectual in the face of this woman who had already tried and convicted him.
    Finally, he spoke. ‘I think I would like my attorney.’
    Detective Perez nodded, and with what could have been a spark of compassion in her voice. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that would be best.’

EIGHT
    A da fumed as she reread the bottom-line figure on Mildred Potts’ handwritten offer that had arrived in the morning mail. ‘Twenty-five thousand dollars! She should be shot!’ Sitting at her kitchen table she reviewed the evaluation, wondering if a zero had been omitted.
    It wouldn’t have been so bad if either Mr Jacobs or Mr Caputo had gotten back to her. Neither had returned her calls, after assuring her that they’d get her at least a verbal quote within twenty-four hours. It was now Thursday and the twenty-four had turned into forty-eight. Caputo, she’d been told by his answering machine, was on the road and wasn’t expected back till the middle of next week. And he can’t leave a cell phone number? And Tolliver, who had seemed so pleasant . . . not a word. His secretary, probably sick of her calls, but promising ‘he’ll get back to you just as soon as he can.’
    She wanted out of this mess, and the nasty calls from Evie’s heirs. Each one more eager than the next to have the estate liquidated. She was sick of them, the subtle threats, and the not-so-subtle attempts to flatter and ingratiate. It nauseated her. Is this what it’s all about? Relatives fighting over the remains? Is this it?
    At least that Potts woman had gotten back to her. It would almost serve them right if she accepted the offer. She wouldn’t, of course, but the thought gave her a needed chuckle. The worst part was now she had to get quotes from another dealer or two.
    She thought of Delia Preston from Nillewaug, who had provided her with a list of antique dealers. ‘I keep lists of everything and everyone,’ she’d remarked. Bet she gets a kickback , Ada mused as she fished through her bag for Preston’s card.
    A knock came at the door. Followed by the bell.
    â€˜Coming,’ she said, hoping it was Lil, but still checking the peephole. She’d lived in New York too many years to dispense with that basic caution. She was shocked to see her grandson, her attention riveted to an angry black-and-blue over his right eye. ‘Aaron,’ she said, opening the door. She hugged him tight, noting his black knapsack on the ground, how thin he felt, and the fact that it was too cold to not be wearing a jacket. ‘What happened?’
    He shrugged and winced. ‘I ran into a wall.’
    She grabbed on to his shoulders. He was a good head taller; she stared into his dark hazel eyes. ‘Tell me the truth, Aaron Matthew. Who did this?’
    â€˜Grandma.’ He stepped back. ‘What do you think happened?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ she said, formulating a number of hypotheses, most of which involved her son-in-law, Jack Gurston. ‘But come in. And why aren’t you wearing a jacket?’
    â€˜You talked to Mom?’ he asked, ignoring her question.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜What did she tell you?’
    â€˜That you and your dad weren’t seeing eye to eye on some things.’