Still Life With Crows Read Online Free PDF Page A

“interesting” raised the hairs on the back of Tad’s neck.
    “And just what ‘certain category’ are we talking about here?” The sarcasm was creeping back into the sheriff’s voice.
    “Serial homicide.”
    “Funny, I’ve only seen one murder so far.”
    The figure gradually turned back. His cool gray eyes settled on Sheriff Hazen. In a very low voice he said, “So far.”

Five
    W inifred Kraus paused in her cross-stitch to gaze at the very strange sight out her parlor window. She felt vaguely frightened. A tall man in black was walking down the middle of the road, carrying a leather valise. He was several hundred yards away, but Winifred Kraus had sharp eyes and she could see that he was ghostly-looking, thin and insubstantial in the bright summer light. She was frightened because she remembered, as a child many years ago, her father telling her that this was the way death would arrive; that it would happen when she least expected it: just a man strolling down the road, coming up the steps and knocking on the door. A man dressed in black. And when you looked down at his feet, instead of shoes you’d see cloven hooves, and then you’d smell the brimstone and fire and that would be it and you’d be dragged screaming into hell.
    The man was approaching with long, cool strides, his shadow eating up the road before him. Winifred Kraus told herself she was being silly, that it was just a story, and that death didn’t carry a valise anyway. But why would anyone be dressed in black at this time of year? Not even Pastor Wilbur wore black in this heat. And this man wasn’t just wearing black, but a black suit, jacket and all. Was he selling something? But then where was his car? Nobody walked on the Cry County Road—no one. At least not since she was a little girl, before the war, when the drifters used to come through in the early spring, heading for the fields of California.
    The man had paused at the spot where her rutted and dusty drive met the macadam of the road. He looked up at the house, right at the parlor it seemed, and Winifred automatically laid aside her cross-stitch. Now he was stepping into her lane. He was coming to the house. He was actually coming to the house. And his hair was so white, his skin so pale, his suit so black . . .
    There was the low rap of the doorknocker. Winifred’s hand flew to her mouth. Should she answer it? Should she wait for him to go away? Would he go away?
    She waited.
    The knock came again, more insistent.
    Winifred frowned. She was being an old silly. Taking a deep breath, she rose from the chair, walked across the parlor into the foyer, unlocked the door, and opened it a crack.
    “Miss Kraus?”
    “Yes?”
    The man actually bowed. “You aren’t by chance the Miss Winifred Kraus who offers lodging to travelers? And, I’m given to understand, some of the most excellent home cooking in Cry County, Kansas?”
    “Why, yes.” Winifred Kraus opened the door a little wider, delighted to find a polite gentleman instead of Death.
    “My name is Pendergast.” He offered his hand, and after a moment Winifred took it. It was surprisingly cool and dry.
    “You gave me quite a start, walking up the road like that. Nobody walks anymore.”
    “I came by bus.”
    Abruptly remembering her manners, Winifred opened the door wider and stepped aside. “I’m sorry, do come in. Would you like some iced tea? You must be dreadfully hot in that suit. Oh, forgive me, there hasn’t been a death in your family—?”
    “Iced tea would be lovely, thank you.”
    Winifred, feeling a strangely pleasant confusion, bustled back into the pantry, poured a glass over ice, added a fresh sprig of mint from the planter in her windowsill, placed the glass on a silver tray, and returned.
    “There you are, Mr. Pendergast.”
    “You are too kind.”
    “Won’t you sit down?”
    They sat in the parlor. The polite man crossed his legs and sipped his tea. Close up, Winifred could see he was younger