Free Sins and Needles by Monica Ferris Page A

her back all he owed. They both knew better.
    But now there was a new element. Jan didn’t know the total of Aunt Edyth’s estate, but she knew it was millions of dollars, with maybe as much as ten million to share with Mother, even after her other bequests. As soon as it was hers, Uncle Stewart—the man with his hand ever out—would be right there. And this time he’d want a lot more than a couple of yuppie foodstamps.
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    S TEWART was at home with his youngest daughter, CeeCee, fourteen, when the police came calling. Actually, it was just one police officer, a six-foot man probably in his forties, wearing a baggy suit and too-tight tie. He was about Stewart’s height and probably thirty pounds lighter—Stewart had once come across the arch term embonpoint to describe a certain plumpness of person, and ever after used it to describe himself. This man was more big boned than a man of embonpoint.
    The cop was polite: “Good afternoon, sir. I hope I’m not taking you away from something important.” Or was that an insult? Hard to tell—his eyes were shiny flat surfaces and his mouth an unexpressive line. He showed an ID card and a badge, which Stewart only glanced at.
    â€œNo, nothing important,” Stewart said. Nothing at all, in fact, but an old movie he’d been trying to use as a distraction from the terrible news about Aunt Edyth. It was just starting to work when the doorbell rang. “Come in, come in,” he said quickly, remembering his manners. “Don’t mind the mess.”
    â€œNot at all, and thank you,” said the detective, his eyes darting all around the big living room with its several windows looking out at the lake. It was a beautiful room, in a beautiful house, even if the furniture was rather shabby. The scattering of belongings were mostly Stewart’s: an old shirt, his slippers, his box of Lorna Doone cookies, his boating magazines, his big bunch of keys that gave a satisfying jingle when carried in his pocket. He made a hasty stack of the magazines on the coffee table, then went to turn off the TV.
    â€œCeeCee,” Stewart said, “why don’t you go out in the yard and play for a while? I need to talk to this man.”
    â€œOkay, Dad.” CeeCee, a leggy, long-haired blonde with deep blue eyes, cast a speculative look at the detective and departed.
    â€œWon’t you sit down?” Stewart said to the detective.
    â€œWhy, yes, thank you.” The man took the upholstered chair, the one with little bits of stuffing coming up through one arm—their late cat had loved that chair. But it was a comfortable chair, nonetheless.
    Stewart sat at one end of the couch and said, “I suppose you’re here because of the death of my aunt, Edyth Hanraty.”
    â€œYes,” said the man.
    â€œMay I—I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” confessed Stewart.
    â€œI’m Sergeant Mitchell Rice,” said the man, reaching into a pocket inside his suit jacket and bringing out a business card, which he handed to Stewart. “Orono PD,” he added.
    Stewart looked at the card, which had a lot of information on it that he couldn’t read without his glasses. He rubbed it with a thumb—not embossed, he noted—and put it into his trousers pocket. “May I get you a cup of coffee or a soft drink?”
    â€œNo, thank you.”
    â€œWell then, what can I do for you?”
    Rice went into a side pocket and produced a ballpoint pen and the smallest notebook Stewart had ever seen. “An autopsy performed on Miss Hanraty has shown that her death was not from natural causes,” he said. “It is the opinion of the Hennepin County medical examiner that her death is a homicide, brought about by a human hand.”
    Stewart looked into Sergeant Rice’s inexpressive brown eyes. “You mean she was murdered.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Stewart looked away, wiping