Murder On The Mind

Murder On The Mind - Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

That evening, I spent over an hour out in the garage, rummaging through my boxes. The cold and damp seeped through my jacket. I was ready to give up my search when I finally found what I wanted. I scrounged some tissue used in packing my stuff, and wrapped the small object. I hoped Richard would like it.

I also tramped through the loft apartment again and decided I’d wait until my arm was completely healed before asking Richard if I could live up there. Once I got a job, we could work out some kind of rental agreement. I wanted my own space; I needed a place of my own. But I didn’t want to go too far, at least not yet.

That wasn’t the end of my evening, however. I had one more little mystery to solve. Without a word to Richard or Brenda, I set out on foot, headed down the neighborhood’s backstreets for Snyder. The brisk wind was at my back and the clouds overhead were heavy and threatening. I needed to talk—but not to Richard, or any other physician or academician at his old stomping grounds of UB. There were still so many things I didn’t understand about this crazy new ability I seemed to have acquired—like why had I been blessed with it? Only one other person understood my predicament.

I crossed the parking lot to the darkened bakery and pressed the buzzer at the side of the door, held it for long seconds at a time. After a minute or so, a light came on in the back of the shop, then a large silhouette shuffled toward the door.

“Stop already!” came Sophie’s muffled voice through the glass as she flipped open the lock. “Come in before you let in all the cold.”

“Where have you been? I came to see you the other day and they never heard of you.”

“You didn’t come at night. Alone.” Her tone was belligerent. Then she shrugged theatrically, as if that was explanation enough. “So, why’d you come now?”

“I need to talk to you.”

She nodded and motioned me to follow her into the back room once again. “Instant coffee all right?”

I nodded, taking my seat at the card table. She filled the same saucepan with water, set it on the hot plate above the sink. I remembered that, days earlier, the baker had sidestepped my question about electrocution.

“Don’t you think that’s a dangerous arrangement?”

She gestured. “This? I’m always careful.” She measured the coffee into cups. “So, you found the killer. I knew you would.” We’d never even discussed my case. How did she know? “How can I help you now?” she asked.

“What do I do next?”

“It’s in God’s hands now.”

“That’s not the answer I was looking for.”

“Who says I have answers?”

“I guess you don’t, because you seem to answer most of my questions with questions.”

Her eyes crinkled as her lips drew into a self-satisfied smile. Then she shrugged. “Tell me all about it.”

She listened patiently, serving the coffee as I told her about Sharon, Sumner’s and Claudia’s grisly deaths, and all the other prominent players in this little drama.

“You know who did it—you told the police. So what’s the problem?”

“The problem is Sharon should be punished for what she’s done and nobody seems to care!”

Sophie frowned. “You don’t think she’s being punished every time she looks at that child?”

“What if she takes her anger out on the kid?”