Free Gone Crazy by Shannon Hill

think God Almighty could stop Harry.
    “We have a complication,” he chortled.
    “Oh God,” I moaned. “What is it?”
    “Vera did not die of the mushroom poisoning.”
    I went for honesty. “Huh?”
    “Insulin. Enough to kill an elephant, well, metaphorically that is.”
    That explained the injection. Insulin comes in various forms, which act at different speeds, and an overdose is a pretty sure kill. I’d caught a suicide up in Charlottesville who’d used insulin. A nurse. It’s one of their favorite ways to do it. “She wasn’t diabetic, was she,” I stated.
    “No, she was not. I am already inquiring as to the status of the pancreatic health of her offspring and in-laws.”
    Sometimes, Harry tires me out. “Are they sure it’s insulin?”
    “As certain as they ever are of anything. She was in organ failure from the mushrooms, but the insulin most certainly finished her, although if they’d waited even another few hours the mushrooms would have done it. Fascinating, if you think about it.”
    I let Harry ramble. This could play out a lot of ways. One person could’ve gotten impatient for the mushrooms to do the work and hastened the end with the insulin. Or, and this was just as likely, two different people killed Vera using two different methods, and probably in total ignorance of what the other was doing. No matter what, we had obviously made someone nervous enough that they’d burned down the house and its contents. Someone had broken in a window and, from what I’d heard from the State Police, dumped enough gasoline to burn down five houses before tossing in a match. So they were very uneasy about what had been in the house. But what was it? Evidence of mushrooms or of insulin overdose? Or something else entirely?
    I was starting to get a tension headache. I said good-bye to Harry, and let my hand lie where Boris could rest his chin upon it. “Well, sweetie,” I said, “we’re gonna have to go back to Paint Hollow.”
    Boris emitted a tiny feline sigh, his tail switching. I sighed too. There had to be a better way to go about this than heading back into Collier territory, but dang if I could see it.
    ***^***
    My uncle’s death interrupted my efforts to get Aunt Marge to let me out of her or Roger’s sight for more than ten minutes. Nothing against Tom as a cop, but the Colliers were getting on my last nerve, and I hated to think of them lurking down in their hollow free and clear when murder had been done. Even worse, the fire had left us at loose ends. So when Aunt Marge came out to the garage, where I was working with hand weights as much as my doctor’s restrictions allowed, I was thinking of a million things besides my sick uncle. In fact, I was mostly thinking that I really had to find a place of my own.
    “Lil, dear,” said Aunt Marge. She was managing to wear a smocked caftan-like thing and make it look elegant. “I just heard. David Littlepage has passed away.”
    I set down the hand weights very carefully. We’d gone up to see him the previous day, and he’d been pale, gray, almost translucent. That complexion was a dead giveaway, if you’ll pardon the expression. “Oh damn,” I said. “How’s Jack?”
    Aunt Marge gently shooed me and Boris towards the house. “Bearing up, of course. Poor boy, he’s all alone now. He should be back at the house this evening, if you think we should call.”
    “Tomorrow,” I decided. Give Jack a chance to breathe. “That’s soon enough. Where’s the funeral?”
    “Here in Crazy, of course.”
    I stumbled over my own two feet. “Here?” I squawked. “Where’ll we put them all? There’s not even a hotel!” I managed to diplomatically not add that her cousin’s daughter couldn’t fit everyone into her bed-and-breakfast. The Country Rose is very quaint, and very small. “I can’t believe they’d stay down to Gilfoyle.”
    “I’m sure there’ll be arrangements,” she soothed. “Now come drink your fruit juice.”
    When Aunt