Killing the Blues by Michael Brandman Read Free Book Online

on Compton Street.
    Two were grand-style New England Colonials, each set on acre-plus lots, each in pristine condition. There was a slightly run-down Cape Cod, a colorful split-level, and a pair of two-story Craftsman houses. The mature plantings and lush foliage lent the neighborhood a quaint, woodsy flavor.
    The Miller house was one of the Craftsmans. It was carefully tended but weathered, sitting in the middle of a small lot. Rollo knocked on the door.
    He heard the sound of footsteps, and then an elderly woman peered through the curtains.
    â€œYes,” the woman said.
    â€œDonald Johnson,” Rollo said.
    â€œOh. Mr. Johnson. You’re early.” She opened the door.
    â€œYeah,” he said.
    The woman, who wore spectacles with thick lenses, gave Rollo the once-over. Despite some misgivings regarding his unsightly appearance, she stood back and allowed him to enter.
    â€œIt’s nice here,” Rollo said.
    â€œThank you,” she said. “I grew up in this house. My father built it himself.”
    â€œYou live here alone?”
    â€œEver since my sister passed.”
    She showed Rollo to a small first-floor bedroom, situated at the rear of the house, at one time a maid’s quarters. As advertised, it was clean, had a half-sized refrigerator and a small private bath.
    She showed him the rest of the ground floor, explaining that the upstairs would be off-limits to him. He was, however, welcome to use the kitchen. He would also have use of the sitting room and TV. The backyard would be his to enjoy as well.
    She asked if he might like to join her in a cup of tea.
    As she stood filling the kettle, Rollo sat gazing at the kitchen with its paintings of dogs, decorative ceramic tiles, and colorful floral arrangements.
    â€œYou garden,” he said.
    â€œWhy, yes. Yes, I do. Why do you ask?”
    â€œI like flowers. These ones are very nice. Maybe you could put some in my room.”
    â€œThat’s certainly possible,” she said.
    â€œYeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”
    She served the tea. She placed a jar of honey on the table. She brought out a box of Social Tea biscuits. She put some on a dish, which she set down in front of him.
    â€œHelp yourself,” she said.
    Rollo sipped his tea and ate several of the biscuits.
    â€œThis is nice,” he said. “Thanks.”
    â€œWhat brings you to Paradise, Mr. Johnson?”
    â€œSummer,” he said.
    â€œA vacation?”
    â€œA vacation from Kansas.”
    â€œYou’re from Kansas?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œAnd you’ll be doing . . .”
    â€œMostly, I’ll be reading,” he said. “Studying the Bible.”
    â€œI envy you your reading,” Miss Miller said. “Ever since this macular thing got me, my reading has been severely curtailed.”
    â€œThat’s too bad,” Rollo said.
    Agatha Miller looked closely at him. She found his off-putting appearance and his coarseness unsettling.
    â€œHave you any references, Mr. Johnson? You see, as a woman alone . . .”
    â€œI don’t have any, no. I never thought I’d need any,” Rollo said. “See, I was planning to stay at a residence hotel. Then I saw your ad. I’ll leave now, if you want.”
    Rollo waited for her answer. There would be consequences if she said he had to leave. He looked inward, listening for the voices, waiting for possible instruction.
    Agatha Miller considered the prospect of giving up the only rental opportunity that had, to date, presented itself.
    In the end, she overcame her reservations and surrendered to commerce. She needed the money.
    â€œThat won’t be necessary, Mr. Johnson. I’m sure we can work something out.”
    Relieved, Rollo said, “That’s good.”
    â€œYes,” she said.
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œYou’re very welcome, Mr. Johnson.”
    â€œCall me Donnie,” Rollo said.

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    M olly left the Civic