A Murder In Passing by Mark de Castrique Read Free Book Online Page A

shared the common bond of military service. He’d been a captain in World War Two and he said that had been the most meaningful time of his army career. He’d been closest to his men and the phrase “Band of Brothers” didn’t do justice to the unwavering loyalty forged in battle. Now Captain was the unofficial commander of Golden Oaks and the darling of an overwhelmingly female population smitten with any man still breathing.
    I spotted him sitting on a sofa and holding court with two ladies on either side and three at a nearby card table, their chairs angled to face him. The flat screen TV mounted on the paneled wall displayed some generic morning talk show. No one was watching. Captain was talking. I slipped up behind him and heard a sentence fragment referencing General Eisenhower.
    â€œCaptain Ron Kline,” I whispered dramatically. “Please report for duty.”
    His curved shoulders snapped back and he reached for his walker. One of the elderly women beside him twisted around to see who had interrupted their conversation. The rest of the ladies seemed alarmed at Captain’s sudden movement. They hadn’t heard me and probably thought Captain was having a stroke.
    He got to his feet with surprising agility, whipped the walker around one hundred eighty degrees, and gave me a brisk salute.
    I returned it and added a wink. It was our special way of greeting. “Are you up for a walk?”
    Captain backed up far enough so he could see all five of his admirers. “I’m sorry, ladies. A mission beckons.”
    One of the women at the table eyed me suspiciously. She looked familiar but I couldn’t recall her name.
    â€œDon’t you let anything happen to him,” she ordered.
    Captain waved his hand. “Don’t worry, Joanne. I’ll take good care of Sam.”
    The others giggled like school girls.
    Joanne wouldn’t be mollified. “I’m serious, Mr. Blackman. Hanging out with you can be dangerous.”
    I recognized her as part of Captain’s CIA. That stood for Corridor Intelligence Agency, a group of residents Captain organized to patrol the halls and keep an eye on the community’s well-being. I knew Joanne was referring to the terrible incident when a resident became our client and was murdered after speaking with me.
    â€œI just have to get Captain’s advice on something,” I said. “I figure he knows more about women than I do.”
    Even Joanne giggled. “If he doesn’t,” she said, “you ask any of us. We’ll set you straight.”
    Captain looped around the sofa and stopped beside me. He stood half-a-head shorter, no more than five foot four. Old age probably had knocked a good three inches off his height.
    â€œI fancy a stroll outside,” he said. “This store-bought air is like breathing pablum. No zest.” He lunged forward with his walker and headed at a brisk clip for a side door.
    We exited onto a garden patio. Concrete pathways radiated out in multiple directions. They were painted to look like flagstone but the surface was smooth so as not to trip the unsteady steps of those whose balance had grown a little shaky. Flowerbeds displayed a brilliance of late spring blossoms and their natural perfume permeated the warm air. Zest, indeed.
    Captain filled his lungs. “Makes you feel alive. I hope there’s a sense of smell in heaven.”
    â€œThen you think we’ll have to take showers?”
    He frowned. “I hadn’t thought about that. Could be a problem. Those two women on the sofa keep complaining they’ve got no one to scrub their backs.”
    â€œSounds like an opportunity in the here and now.”
    â€œI’ll give them your number. My pension can’t support another paternity suit.”
    We continued down one of the walkways. I was content to let Captain set the pace and decide when to ask what I wanted. The garden wrapped around the