A Little Yuletide Murder Read Online Free PDF Page A

know, reading. He likes to read. He’s very intelligent.”

Chapter Four
    Judging from Robert Brent’s loud, angry voice, which was clearly heard in the living room, he wasn’t keen on coming downstairs. But Patricia prevailed. Five minutes later, he followed her into the living room. He wore jeans, ankle-high military-style boots, a blue sweatshirt with gold figures on it that looked like some sort of military ranger group’s, and a blue baseball cap worn backward.
    “Robert, you know Sheriff Metzger and Mrs. Fletcher,” Patricia said.
    His response was to glare at us.
    Mort said, “Thought you wouldn’t mind coming down with me to town, Robert. You know, just to have a little chat about what happened to your dad.”
    Robert looked at his mother, who smiled demurely and nodded.
    “Won’t take very long,” Mort added. “Of course, if you’d rather not, we can talk here.”
    “About Jake Walther?” Robert asked.
    Mort looked at me before saying, “Sure. We can talk about Jake. Talk about anything you’d like.”
    “I’m not being arrested or anything, am I?” Robert asked. “I didn’t do anything. Jake shot my father.”
    Mort’s chuckle was forced. “Of course you’re not being arrested for anything, Bob. Like I said, you could help me understand a little bit more about what happened. I’d be right interested in hearing about Jake Walther and why you think he might have shot your father.”
    “Not might have shot my father,” Robert said angrily. “He did it.”
    “You saw him do it?” I asked, surprised at how adamant he was.
    Robert ignored my question and said to Mort, “I don’t mind going with you. Are we driving in your car?”
    Mort nodded. “Unless you’d rather come in your own.”
    Robert shook his head. “I’ll come with you.” He looked at me. “Are you coming, too?”
    “Yes,” I said. “Sheriff Metzger drove me out here and will bring me home. But I won’t be with you when you and the sheriff have your talk.”
    That seemed to satisfy him.
    While the conversation was taking place, I observed Patricia Brent. Living in a semirural part of the country had put me in contact with many farmers, men and women who live off the soil and were not unduly touched by the world’s modem thinking. They tend to be a stoic lot. I don’t mean that in a disparaging way. It’s just that it has been my experience that such people are not glib, much to their credit. There is too much glibness in the world as far as I’m concerned.
    But at a time like this, when a loved one has been found murdered, you would expect even the most dour of individuals to display some emotion, some sign of deep pain and hurt. Not so with Patricia. She was as calm and placid as though we were there picking up her son to take him to a basketball game. I had to remind myself to not be judgmental. Each of us handles grief in his or her own way. When my husband, Frank, died years ago, I fought to retain my composure and to deal with the death of this man I loved very much in a rational and controlled manner. Did people look at me the way I was looking at Patricia at this moment, wondering why I was not displaying the emotion they expected of me? Of course, there were countless moments alone when I broke down and allowed my grief to pour out in a torrent of tears. Perhaps that’s what would happen the moment we left. Patricia Brent would go to her room, close the door, and cry her heart out.
    “Ready?” Mort asked Robert.
    “I have to get my coat,” he said.
    “Good idea,” Mort said. “Nasty day out there, and gettin’ worse.”
    Robert returned from the vestibule, wearing a black-and-red wool mackinaw.
    “You take care, Mrs. Brent,” Mort said, touching Patricia on the shoulder. “Just give yell if there’s anything I can do for you.”
    “And that goes for me, too, Patricia,” I said. “Please don’t hesitate to call if I can help you with funeral arrangements, or anything else.”
    “You’re