A Line To Murder (A Puget Sound Mystery) Read Online Free PDF Page A

folks.”
    The firm didn’t believe in emergency days off and had a weird policy about taking an emergency day, even if you would take it as a vacation day. They almost never allowed them. For some peculiar reason, management preferred us to call in sick even if it was a lie. I ached to get nasty if necessary. I needed to be angry at someone. She didn’t give me a chance.
    “Please tell them how sorry I am and let me know about the funeral. We’ll want to send flowers.”
    Jose had diarrhea, which I hoped was from nerves. He seemed perky enough, though, and scolded me as I cleaned the cage again and gave him more food. Then I watched Good Morning, America, and did all my ironing and mending. By midmorning, the chores were done; Jose was responding to the birds at my patio birdfeeder and I had no more excuses. I toasted some raisin bread and ate it with orange juice. Then I changed into dark pants and a gray T-shirt and jacket, turned the radio on and left shortly after eleven.
    The air smelled like fresh-cut grass. I started toward my car and stopped abruptly. Some dickweed had sprayed the word, “Enabler” on it. What the heck?
    I stood staring and a jogger came by. “If that’s shaving cream, better get it off right away. It can ruin your paint job.” He waved and ran on.
    I got a rag out of the trunk and wiped the car off, wondering what I was supposed to have enabled.
    Isca’s family lived in Buckley, a former coal mining town in the foothills of Mount Rainier. A ninety-minute drive. I tried to put the thought of someone targeting my car out of my mind and enjoy the drive. The sun was strong for spring, and the commuters were already at work. I left Tacoma, took River Road through Puyallup and connected onto Highway 410 near the pioneer town of Sumner. Almost immediately, the road climbed Ehli Hill, the site of Pierce County’s only Ku Klux Klan activity. I passed a winery that had been on the hill overlooking the Puyallup Valley since before wine became trendy and then by a pond where my family and friends fished when I was young. Sadly, developers had cleared away all the trees and ferns and trailers now crowded its banks. With the window half open, the car was pleasantly warm and the scents of growing things permeated the air. It should have been a pleasant drive.
    Buckley and its neighbors, Burnett, Carbonado and Wilkeson were all nineteenth century communities whose fortunes declined when the old growth timber dwindled and the coal mines and sandstone quarries closed. With the pride of a dowager queen, they each strived to preserve their heritage. Many of the vintage homes were well maintained and had spacious gardens. Horses, cattle and goats shared pastures with geese and the occasional llama. I liked all four of the towns.
    The Haineses’ place was a two-story clapboard house with bay windows and a wraparound porch set in the middle of a an acre of grass and gardens. Exposure to the elements faded its gray paint and roughed up the shutters some, but it fit comfortably in the neighborhood of similar homes, all built by Isca’s father who went into construction after World War II.
    A number of cars crowded the street, but Andy’s wasn’t one of them. What a creep . I parked a country block away, got out of my car and double checked the doors were all locked. Another person was headed for the Haineses’ and I fell in behind her.
    Isca’s brother, Parker, opened the door. He lived in Portland and I’d only met him a few times. Parker had his sister’s blue eyes and rosy complexion, but that day he looked haggard and pale. He was eighteen months younger than Isca and the two had been close.
    “Hey, Mercedes.” He gave me a brief, tight squeeze and turned away, his eyes were red and puffy. In the living room, Mrs. Haines sat on a couch, flanked by her husband and an elderly woman. The other seats were occupied. People milled about, and kids played outside. I went to the Haineses and leaned down to