D is for Deadbeat Read Online Free PDF

ago.”
    â€œJohn?
No
, ma’am. He’s still in prison and I hope he stays there. I don’t mean to speak ill of the man, but you’ll find he’s what I call a problematic person.”
    â€œProblematic?”
    â€œWell, yes. That’s how I’d have to put it. John is the type of person that creates problems and usually of a quite serious nature.”
    â€œOh, really,” I said. “I didn’t realize that.” I loved it that this man was willing to chat. As long as I could keep him going, I might figure out how to get a bead on Daggett. I took a flyer. “Are you his brother?”
    â€œI’m his brother-in-law, Eugene Nickerson.”
    â€œYou must be married to his sister then,” I said.
    He laughed. “No, he’s married to
my
sister. She was a Nickerson before she became a Daggett.”
    â€œYou’re Lovella’s brother?” I was trying to picture siblings with a forty-year age span.
    â€œNo, Essie’s.”
    I held the receiver away from my ear and stared at it. What was he talking about? “Wait a minute. I’m confused. Maybe we’re
not
talking about the same man.” I gave a quick verbal sketch of the John Daggett I’d met. I didn’t see how there could be two, but there was something going on here.
    â€œThat’s him all right. How did you say you knew him?”
    â€œI met him last Saturday, right here in Santa Teresa.”
    The silence on the other end of the line was profound.
    I finally broke into it. “Is there some way I might stop by so we can talk about this?”
    â€œI think you’d best,” he said. “What would your name be?”
    â€œKinsey Millhone.”
    He told me how to get to the place.
    Â 
    The house was white frame with a small wooden porch, tucked into the shadow of Capillo Hill on the west side of town. The street was abbreviated, only three houses on each side before the blacktop petered out into the gravel patch that formed a parking pad beside the Daggett residence. Beyond the house, the hill angled upward into sparse trees and underbrush. No sunlight whatever penetrated the yard. A saggingchicken wire fence cut along the lot lines. Bushes had been planted at intervals, but had failed to thrive, so that now there were only globes of dried twigs. The house had a hangdog look, like a stray being penned up until the dogcatcher comes.
    I climbed the steep wooden steps and knocked. Eugene Nickerson opened the door. He was much as I had pictured him: in his sixties, of medium height, with wiry gray hair and eyebrows drawn together in a knot. His eyes were small and pale, his lashes nearly white. Narrow shoulders, thick waist, suspenders, flannel shirt. He carried a Bible in his left hand, his index finger closed between the covers, keeping his place.
    Uh-oh, I thought.
    â€œI’ll have to ask your name again,” he said as he admitted me. “My memory’s not what it was.”
    I shook his hand. “Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Nickerson. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”
    â€œNot at all. We’re preparing for our Bible class. We usually get together on Wednesday nights, but our pastor has been down with the flu this week, so the meeting was postponed. This is my sister, Essie Daggett. John’s wife,” he said, indicating the woman seated on the couch. “You can call me Eugene if you like,” he added. I smiled briefly in assent and then concentrated on her.
    â€œHello. How are you? I appreciate your letting mestop by like this.” I moved over and offered my hand. She allowed a few fingers to rest in mine briefly. It was like shaking hands with a Playtex rubber glove.
    She was broad-faced and colorless, with graying hair in an unbecoming cut and glasses with thick lenses and heavy plastic frames. She had a wen on the right side of her nose about the size of a kernel of popcorn. Her