Killing Cassidy by Jeanne M. Dams Read Free Book Online

extricated ourselves from the car with the little grunts that movement seems to elicit at our age.
    â€œWell, of course. What were you expecting, Davy Crockett?”
    â€œMore or less, I suppose.”
    We stood arm in arm looking at Kevin’s home.
    It was set well back from the road, down a winding drive, in a little clearing. All around the house were oak and maple trees just beginning to put on their autumn dress. Now and then a leaf would drift down lazily through the golden dust motes to land amid the brilliant red and orange and lavender and white chrysanthemums of Kevin’s flower garden.
    The house, a snug bungalow, was made of pine logs, warm and golden in the sun. The windows and door hung straight and true. A couple of rocking chairs on the front porch welcomed visitors with soft cushions. Crisp red-checked curtains hung at the windows, which shone with cleanliness, even a month or more after Kevin had last been able to care for them. On one side of the house rose a fieldstone chimney, well built and in excellent repair, with a couple of cords of firewood neatly stacked nearby. At the back a sort of lean-to shed protruded. I didn’t remember that part, but then I hadn’t been out here in years.
    There were a few weeds in the gardens, but the flowers bloomed riotously. Tomatoes and zucchini and acorn squash and kale and cabbage and brussel sprouts and cucumbers, along with chives and basil and oregano and dill and other herbs I couldn’t name, grew in a profusion that would have provided Kevin with plenty of food to put up for the winter. From somewhere around back came the heady scent of Concord grapes, and an apple tree by the front porch was heavy with russet-and-green fruit.
    â€œIt’s a friendly house,” said Alan.
    â€œIt was.”
    â€œI suppose those are the steps he fell down.” He pointed to the porch steps. “Odd. There’s a handrail, and the whole affair looks quite sturdy.”
    â€œHe took great pride in his house and always kept it in good repair. Oh, Alan!” I put my head against his chest and cried the first real tears I had shed since I had heard of Kevin’s death.
    â€œFeel better?” he said a few minutes later when I’d reached the sniffles-and-tissue stage.
    I blew my nose.
    â€œI suppose so. It was just the thought of this sweet house waiting for him, and the garden, and he’ll never taste those grapes, or sit in front of another fire in his stove. That’s what that nice chimney’s for: the Franklin stove, not an open fire. Kevin was so proud of that stove, Alan. He installed it himself, very carefully so there was no danger of fire. It kept the whole place toasty warm. And it pleased him that he wasn’t using up fossil fuels. He didn’t even cut down live trees, mostly, just used the ones that were felled by storms, or else he culled saplings that didn’t have enough light in the woods to grow properly.”
    I sniffled again. “He truly loved all creation, I think. His cats—oh, my word, Alan, I never thought about his cats! He always had a lot of them. I just hope—”
    â€œYou got no call to fret about them cats, ma’am.”
    We both whirled. There had been no sound to warn of anyone’s approach.
    â€œI wouldn’t let no animal starve, ’specially the professor’s. Them cats is safe with me.” The voice was raspy and more than a little belligerent, and the man who’d come up behind us matched the voice. He was even bigger than Alan, but his weight ran to fat rather than muscle. His grizzled beard was long and unkempt. His checkered wool shirt, hanging over a capacious belly, was torn and dirty. He stood looking from one of us to the other, a rifle dangling casually from one hairy paw. The rifle pointed to the ground, but the giant’s attitude clearly indicated that it might be raised at any moment.
    â€œYou got some business around