Wicked Fix by Sarah Graves Read Free Book Online Page B

a load of laundry."
     
    Oh, for heaven's sake. Most of the time, Victor's
     
    idea of doing laundry was bundling it up for the maid
    to take. He'd hired a cleaning person from town three
    days a week, and a high-school kid to do his yard
    work, the minute he'd arrived in Eastport.
     
    And now suddenly he was Holly Homemaker.
     
    "What about the jacket he was wearing, and the
    slacks he had on?" Ellie inquired acutely. "Have you
    seen those?"
     
    "Uh-uh," Sam replied. "But ..."
     
    His face fell further. "But he took the trash out. I
    saw a fresh bag in the bin this morning. He'd put the
    top back on the bin but he hadn't tied it down, which
    was why I noticed."
     
    A grin lit his face briefly. "Dad still thinks skunks
    won't eat his trash if he just disapproves of them hard
    enough."
     
    Then the seriousness of the situation overtook him
    again.
     
    "Anyway, I had to shove the bag farther down in
    the bin, so I could get the top shut. And it was soft," he
    finished in a tone of terminal glumness. "Like maybe
    there were clothes inside it."
     
    He thought for a minute. "I could call Charlie
    Martin. Ask him to pick up the trash now instead of
    waiting for our regular day."
     
    Ellie split a scone, buttered it, and put it in front of
    him.
     
    "He will, you know," Sam finished earnestly to
    me. "He will, if I call and ask him."
     
    But as Sam said this, a rumbling sound came from
    the street. I knew it well: it was the sound I heard each
    Thursday morning, when once again I had forgotten to
    put out my own trash and had to scramble to get the
    cans lugged out to the sidewalk, and the wastebaskets
    emptied too, if I was lucky.
     
    Opening the back door, I watched the garbage
    truck roll by: red cab, big bull moose painted in green
    on the white compactor.
     
    And today wasn't Thursday. "Looks like some
    helpful person already has. Called him, I mean."
     
    Charlie swung out and started up the driveway to
    the trash bin, a low, lean-to structure built onto the
    shed out back of Victor's house. He was halfway there
    when the Maine State Police squad car rolled to the
    curb. Two officers got out and waved him over.
     
    I saw Charlie glance at my house as he listened to
    the officers. Then I closed the door so I wouldn't have
    to see any more.
     
    "Look," I told Sam. "Whatever trouble your dad's
    in, the way to help him is not by lying or trying to
    cover anything up."
     
    He listened disconsolately. Meanwhile in my head
    an awful refrain was repeating itself: motive, method,
    opportunity. I was pretty sure the state cops knew that
    old song, too.
     
    And from what I could tell, Victor had just spent
    the night putting together a new arrangement for it.
     
    "So," I told Sam, "you say nothing unless you're
    questioned by somebody who has the authority to do
    it. And even then, say you have to ask your mother
    before you can answer. Got it so far?"
     
    Sam nodded gratefully. Ordinarily, he doesn't like
    asking my permission to do anything, regarding it as an
    outworn, childhood habit that ought to be put behind
    him, like a snake's skin. But this time he looked relieved.
     
    "Tell the truth," I continued. "But no more than
    you've been asked."
     
    He nodded some more, so woebegone I almost
    wished for a hint of the bad old days: teenaged anger
    and open defiance.
     
    But not quite. "Got it?" I emphasized.
     
    "Uh-huh," Sam said. "I know," he went on earnestly,
    "about Dad's trouble with Tate. Dad didn't
    want Tate telling that he'd gotten sued in New York.
    He told me he knew people here would find out
    eventually. But he wanted them to know him better, kind of
    get used to him, you know. Before they heard about it.
    He was real worried about it."
     
    His shoulders slumped. "I won't say that to anyone
    but you two, though. Unless," he added sorrowfully,
    "the police ask."
     
    Typical Victor: knee-jerk secretiveness, bunker
    mentality. He'd have kept his New York troubles under
    wraps forever if he could, and