The Trouble With Murder Read Online Free PDF

at the curb and we disembarked. Donald was, as
always, neatly dressed like an accountant. Donald isn’t an accountant, but he
always looks like one: button-down shirts, sweaters most of the year, khakis,
and dark-rimmed glasses.
    He cast a fond, loving glance at
the Lincoln before disappearing into the house. I went into the garage.
    The garage was a three-car tandem
design. Two spaces were occupied by my mother’s cherry red Saab and Donald’s
daily driver, a Ford Edge. If it were me, I would have parked the Lincoln in
the garage. Monstrosity or not, the thing is a classic, and sitting exposed on
the street year after year isn’t doing anything good for the value. Although, I
have to admit, the paint is as shiny as the day it had been applied.
    At present, only the Edge was in
residence. Donald works from home three days a week, including Fridays, and my
mother was at her office. Despite her condition, she takes her job seriously,
which is about the only thing she takes seriously, and she rarely misses work.
    The tandem space was used as
storage for yard equipment, an extra freezer and refrigerator, miscellaneous
items, and a 1963 Cushman Trailster.
    The Trailster had belonged to my
paternal grandfather. He’d purchased it after developing a fondness for Cushman
products during World War II. During the war, Cushmans were airdropped into war
zones for use by the soldiers. My grandfather swore a Cushman Airborne saved
his life. When he was no longer able to ride the Trailster, he’d passed it to
my father. By that time, scooter travel had long been out of vogue. Mostly the
scooter had been stored, though occasionally my father had taken the thing out
for a ride. A few times, he’d even taken me.
    My grandfather had taken
exceptional care of the scooter, but my father, who hadn’t had a caring bone in
his body, had been rough with it. During his tenure, it hadn’t been properly
stored or maintained. Neither had he been a cautious rider. The Trailster had
been wrecked more than once. The way I feel about my father has always
prevented me from pouring any kind of love or attention into the scooter. But
because it is a classic, and because I have a few fond memories of my
grandfather, I can’t bring myself to get rid of it, either. So it sits, covered
in the corner of the garage.
    I removed the dusty cover and
stared down at the yellow scooter, scuffed and marred from misuse. A piece of
the front fender was missing, the left handle grip was badly cracked, and one mirror
was bent. The driver’s seat was worn from use, and the material on the
passenger seat had a long tear in it. The entire thing was dusty, and there was
dirt caked onto the lower parts of the frame. Apparently, it hadn’t been washed
before it was last stored.
    Grabbing the handlebars, I walked
the thing out into the sunlight of the driveway. The design of the Trailster is
more motorcycle than scooter, with its high handlebars and top-mounted gas
tank. And, actually, because of the limited definition of “scooter” by Colorado
law, the Trailster is considered a motorcycle.
    I twisted the gas cap off and
checked the gasoline. By no small miracle, it was still crystal clear and odor free.
I went inside and pulled my backpack out of the closet. Then I stuffed my purse
into it and slung it on. I got the vintage, open-faced, brown leather helmet my
father had always worn out of its storage place and wiped it off, doing the
same with the goggles. My father had always wanted a son. He had never forgiven
me for being something else, but occasionally he had taught me all the boy
things he’d wanted to teach a son. On even rarer occasions, he’d treat me like
a daughter and act as if it was okay that I was his. One such occasion included
presenting me with a pink, flowered helmet and taking me for a ride on the
scooter. The day had ended in blood and tears (both mine), like so many before
and after it. I still have the pink helmet, but I don’t wear it.
    I fit