A Murder of Crows by Jan Dunlap Read Free Book Online Page A

matter? As Luce had reminded me, Prudence had just learned that her husband was dead. Of course, she was out of control. As a counselor who dealt with students and their families, I’d seen the whole gamut of reactions to stress and crisis. In fact, Red gave Prudence the same advice I offered in those situations: take it one step at a time.
    And Prudence had immediately responded, which, I had to say, wasn’t always the case with my students. Gee, maybe I should ask my favorite waitress for some pointers in that department the next time I saw her.
    Assuming that Red had her memory back by then, that is. Until that happened, no one would be asking Red much of anything, I guessed.
    Including the police trying to place suspects at Millie’s Deli on Saturday.
    Ouch. Bad timing for a concussion.
    I watched two dull-colored American Goldfinches fly in and land on the feeder’s perches. Without the usual collection of summer birds around, they had the feeder all to themselves for the moment. I wondered if they would stick around for the winter or fly south before the end of fall.
    Talk about timing.
    “Salmon or tilapia?” Luce asked.
    “Salmon,” I said, “with that really tasty glaze you put on it.”
    She lifted a shapely blonde eyebrow at me.
    “And which glaze would that be? I’ve only tried about six different ones in the last month, and as best as I can recall, you said they were all very tasty.”
    I gave her beautiful lips a big smacking kiss.
    “They were,” I agreed. “But the one I’m thinking of had a half-cup of teriyaki base, a pinch of ginger, a tablespoon of rice wine vinegar, a clove of garlic, and, I believe, one-third cup of oyster sauce.”
    Luce laughed. “If I had your memory for details, I’d never have to write down another recipe.”
    “Speaking of memory,” I said, “don’t you think it’s a little odd that Red just happened to fall down the stairs and lose her memory on the same day that Sonny Delite was murdered, especially when the police might need to question her about who was in the deli the day before?”
    She pulled the clip that had held her hair back during her work day at Maple Leaf and shook it loose down her back. “Are you suggesting that Red knocked herself out on purpose?”
    “No,” I replied.
    At least, that hadn’t been my first idea.
    My first idea was that Prudence had attacked Red in another surge of crazed fury over Sonny’s death and sent her tumbling down the stairs. My second idea was that Prudence did it deliberately to keep Red from talking to the police about Sonny, the husband she adored, but also claimed was a liar and a cheat. If Red and Prudence were such good friends, it certainly was possible that Red would have information about Sonny that the police might be interested to learn. Prudence had, after all, told me she would have done anything for Sonny. Could that include guaranteeing that nobody spoke ill of him, especially to the police investigating his unexpected demise?
    I mean, his murder?
    Now that Luce had proposed another way of looking at Red’s fall, though, I couldn’t help but wonder if my wife might have a point. Maybe it wasn’t Prudence who wanted to keep the police from questioning Red.
    Maybe Red didn’t want the police to question Red.
    And why would that be?
    “You’re such a suspicious man, Bobby,” Luce said, demonstrating once again her eerie talent of reading my thoughts. “I’m going inside to start dinner. Let me know when you solve the case, Sherlock.”
    A lone House Finch landed on one of the feeder’s perches and gave me the once over.
    “So I’m not Sherlock Holmes,” I told the bird. “Doesn’t mean I can’t play detective, does it?”
    The finch cocked its head.
    “I know, I know. I’m just a high school counselor, for crying out loud . Geez, everybody’s a critic.”
    From inside the house, I could hear the crinkling noise of butcher paper being unwrapped from what would soon become our dinner.