Murder, She Wrote Domestic Malice by Donald Bain Read Free Book Online Page B

said as Edwina and I took chairs on either side of a table on which books and magazines were piled high. Edwina also declined the offer of refreshments.
    “Is it cold out?” Myriam asked, pulling her sweater closed. “I haven’t been out of the house today.”
    “It’s pretty chilly,” I said, “but I tell myself I can smell a breath of spring in the air. Nice weather should be here soon.”
    Myriam gazed around the room as if she didn’t know how to start, her eyes resting briefly on a small dent in the wall that might have been made by an object being thrown. Edwina asked about the children. “How are they doing? Are they here with you now?”
    “They’re doing okay, I suppose,” she said, starting to pace. “I don’t think it’s really hit home with Ruth. She’s the youngest, just twelve. It’s hard to read Mark. He’s filled with anger. He’s over at his friend’s house. Thank goodness for that family; they’re so understanding.”
    “Ruth is such a sweet old-fashioned name,” Edwina commented. “Is she named in honor of someone?”
    Myriam chewed on the inside of her cheek. “She was named after Josh’s grandmother. I would have liked something a bit more modern, but Josh insisted, so Ruth it was. I call her Ruthie most of the time. She’s such a little girl for such a serious name.”
    “Where is Ruthie?” I asked.
    “She’s upstairs with my mother. She’ll be down in a moment.” She hesitated, then continued. “My mother arrived early this morning. She drove here from Bangor last night.”
    “It’s good that she wasn’t too far away,” I offered.
    Myriam didn’t respond.
    “And how about you, Myriam?” Edwina asked. “How are you doing?”
    Myriam plopped in a chair and exhaled loudly. “Me? What can I say? Josh is gone, shot dead by some crazy person.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how I’m doing. I don’t know what to feel. I still can’t believe it.”
    “Do the police have any leads?” I asked.
    “Not that I know of. Of course, there’s always me.” Her laugh was sardonic. “Our wonderful sheriff grilled me for hours. The kids were questioned, too. How unfair to subject them to such trauma. They’d just lost their father in a horrible way, but the sheriff didn’t seem concerned about that.”
    “I understand how you feel,” I said, “but Sheriff Metzger has his job to do.”
    “He’s an insensitive bully,” Myriam responded.
    Of all the words I might come up with to describe Mort, “bully” wouldn’t be on the list. I fought an urge to defend him; it wasn’t the appropriate time or place.
    “The shelter has a child advocate,” Edwina said. “We can arrange for the children to get some counseling, if you like. It would be helpful for them to talk with someone about their father, help them work through their feelings. Will you consider it?”
    “I’ll think about it,” Myriam said.
    Footsteps were heard on the stairs, and we all turned to see Myriam’s daughter, a thin girl enveloped in a heavy sweater, followed by an older woman. Myriam got to her feet and held her arms out for her daughter. Ruth ran to her embrace, hugging her mother tightly. Myriam turned her around. “This is Ruth,” she said to us. “Say hello to the ladies, Ruthie.”
    Ruth murmured a greeting, never taking her eyes off the floor. She had a pale face with a pink nose, probably from crying. Her long brown hair had been fashioned into two tight braids, a hairstyle more suited to a younger child.
    Myriam’s mother reached the bottom of the stairs and stood, hands on her hips, her head cocked as though to ask who we were. Myriam was a tall woman, about five feet seven inches, but her mother was taller, at least five-ten. She was immaculately dressed in a pale green sheath. She wore heels, and her jewelry was plentiful and looked expensive. Her hair and makeup had obviously been professionally tended to.
    “This is my mother, Mrs. Warren Caldwell. Mother, this is