Free Killing Cassidy by Jeanne M. Dams Page B

on mall developers with any chance of winning don’t come cheap.”
    â€œI don’t see why you think it’s important, but we could ask her, I suppose.”
    â€œIf there’s no other way to find out. Would there be public records?”
    â€œIf the protest group has officially registered as a not-for-profit organization, I suppose there might be. Though if Kevin gave her the money and she then plowed it into the protest fund, it would probably just be listed as her contribution.”
    â€œIt’s worth looking into, on Monday when the records office opens. Where would it be in an American city?”
    â€œCounty courthouse, I imagine. I really don’t know a thing about it, but that’d be the place to start looking. And this is the county seat, so it’ll be easy, if boring.”
    â€œPolice work,” said Alan didactically, “is often boring. Almost all of the time, in fact. The other fraction of the time it’s entirely too exciting. When, for example, one deals with unbalanced people carrying rifles.”
    Sighing again, I added Jerry’s name to my list. If there was too little to say about either Darryl or Mrs. Schneider, there was too much about Jerry.
    â€œRifleman; excellent shot,” I wrote. “Alan, I still insist that has nothing to do with anything. Kevin wasn’t shot.”
    â€œWhy are you so partial to our gun-toting friend? Who, I might add, has attitudes toward women that usually infuriate you.”
    â€œI don’t know, exactly. Yes, he’s a male chauvinist, and he’s not very clean or very bright. Not the sort I’d usually want for a friend. But I feel sorry for him. And he likes cats.”
    â€œNeither of which consideration disqualifies him as a suspect.”
    â€œNo. What else should I write down?”
    â€œBelligerent. Nearest neighbor. Received gifts from Professor Cassidy. Perhaps money? Probably mentally disturbed. Large and apparently strong. Dislikes authority figures.”
    I dutifully recorded it all. “All right, all right. But if you get all that, I get this.” And added: “Devoted to Kevin; his faithful protector.”
    Alan read the whole account over and shook his head. “It’s little enough for a day’s work. Should we try to seek out one of the other possibilities?”
    â€œNot if I get a vote. We’re too muddled. We need to let the thing sit for a while. Anyway, the stores will still be open for another couple of hours, and I want to hit that mystery bookstore!”
    Alan grinned, ostentatiously checked his wallet, and followed me out the door.
    The London mystery bookshops don’t always carry a great selection of American authors, and when they do, the books cost a lot more than they would in America. I was way behind on Barbara D’Amato and Carolyn Hart and Jane Langton and Carole Nelson Douglas and a score of others. By the time we left the store I had enough reading material to last me for weeks.
    â€œIt’ll cost a young fortune to ship those back to England,” Alan complained.
    â€œNot to mention several pounds of tigers in various forms.”
    He said no more.
    Right after dinner I started on a book by an author new to me. It was set in a nursing home and concerned skulduggery among the staff, who were, sometimes with the help of money-grubbing relatives, defrauding the elderly residents left and right. Despite the fact that it kept me awake until the wee hours, I woke bright and early Sunday morning with a brand-new idea.
    â€œAlan, we have to see Ms. Carmichael in the morning. First thing.”
    â€œVery well. If we can get an appointment, of course. Am I allowed to ask why?”
    â€œNot yet,” I said smugly. “I have an idea, that’s all. I want to see if it pans out before I tell you about it.”

8
    W E went to two church services that Sunday, an excessive number in my opinion. We were up early enough to