Candy Cane Murder (Hannah Swensen #9.5)(107)

“C’mon,” he said, grabbing Dora by the arm and yanking her to her feet. “Let’s get out of here.”

“But, Kyle,” protested Dora, in a whisper. “We haven’t gotten the medicine.”

“I’ll come back tomorrow and get it,” he growled, pulling her toward the door.

“But the doctor said he needs it tonight,” she whispered, even more softly.

“Shut up!” he growled, shoving her. “I’ve had just about enough of you. Now git!”

Bowing her head and curving her body protectively around the baby, Dora obeyed, shuffling down the aisle toward the door in her bedroom slippers. Kyle followed, turning to glare at Lucy before slamming the door open and leaving. The door had just closed behind them when the pharmacist called out “Boott” and plopped the little bag of medicine onto the counter.

Jumping to her feet, Lucy grabbed the bag and raced after them. Running toward the glass door, she could see them standing outside, face to face, on the sidewalk. Dora was apparently pleading with her husband, begging him not to leave without the prescription. Kyle was becoming increasingly frustrated and Lucy could see him raising his hand, ready to smack Dora on the head, as she pushed the door open and went flying across the icy sidewalk, right into Kyle.

Recovering her balance, she watched in horror as he slid in CANDY CANES OF CHRISTMAS PAST

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slow motion toward the curb just as a small, gray sedan driven by an elderly woman came skidding sideways across the street. The woman’s mouth was an O and her eyes were wide with shock as Kyle stumbled, then momentarily regained his feet and finally fell beneath the car which rolled right over him before coming to a stop. Only Kyle’s arm was visible; his hand twitched a few times and then was still.

Speechless, Lucy turned to Dora, who was still hugging the baby.

“Thank you,” she said, looking Lucy straight in the eyes and taking the prescription. She glanced at the tag stapled to the bag and pulled herself up to her full height. “Three ninety-nine,” she said, her voice clear as a bell. “I guess I’d better go inside and pay for this.”





Chapter


! Eight #

Lucy just couldn’t get over it. She felt sick every time she thought of the accident, which she replayed over and over in nauseating slow motion in her mind. But as awful as Kyle’s death was, she had to admit it had its upside. Now Dora and the children could begin a new life without the constant fear of his violent outbursts. And Dora’s recovery had been amazingly quick, she didn’t seem to have the least shred of grief for her late husband. In fact, the elderly driver of the car that hit him was far more shaken than Dora and had to be taken to the hospital for observation. Not Dora, though. She refused the sedatives offered by the doctor and when the EMTs expressed their condolences she only said, “Well, he had it coming. The wages of sin, I guess.”

Lucy soon discovered there was also a positive side to Bill’s accident with the stove, too. Since he couldn’t work on the house with his bandaged hands he was free to mind Toby while she went on a fact-finding mission at the appliance store. She felt almost giddy the next morning as she hopped down the porch stairs and slid behind Auntie Granada’s steering wheel, without having to break her back wrestling Toby into the car seat. Then she was off, flying down Red Top Road with the radio blaring Donna Summers and BeeGees tunes, mixed in with Christmas carols. She hummed along, CANDY CANES OF CHRISTMAS PAST

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tapping her foot to the beat, and before she knew it she was making the turn onto Main Street.

Proceeding at a more sedate pace she passed the library, the Community Church and the town hall. Slack’s Hardware and the Appliance Mart were in the next block, but her eye fell on the sign for Sherman Cobb’s law office. Funny, she thought as she braked and turned into the parking area beside the little white clapboard building, she’d never noticed it before. But now here it was, right in front of her, and there would never be a better time to ask him about Emil Boott.

When she entered the office’s neat little waiting room she was greeted by the receptionist, a tall woman about her own age with long brown hair. The plaque on her desk gave her name: RACHEL GOODMAN.

“Hi,” she said, “what can I do for you?”

“I’d like to talk to Mr. Cobb,” said Lucy.

“I’m afraid he’s not in,” said Rachel. “His partner, my husband Bob, is available.”

“I’m afraid I need to speak to Mr. Cobb,” said Lucy.

“Bob is a very good lawyer,” said Rachel, smiling. “And I’m not just saying that because he’s my husband. He really is.”

“I’m sure he is,” said Lucy, laughing. “I’m not here about a legal matter. I’m doing some research on local history and Miss Tilley, the librarian, suggested I speak to Mr. Cobb.”

“I see,” said Rachel. “Well, he just went out for his morning cup of coffee. He should be back in a few minutes if you want to wait.”

Lucy looked at the comfy plaid couch, the brass lamp and the stack of magazines on the pine coffee table and decided she could spare a few minutes. “Thanks,” she said. “I think I will.”

She tucked her gloves in her pockets and unbuttoned her coat, making herself comfortable on the sofa. Before she’d become a mother she never would have believed that the op-358