Cross Talk (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 11) by Patricia McLinn

Author:Patricia McLinn
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: traditional western mystery series, female sleuth, mystery romance humor series, cozy mystery dog, western murder mystery series, TV journalist mystery series, mystery novels best sellers
ISBN: 9781954478039
Publisher: Patricia McLinn
Published: 2022-05-06T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Magnus Boesch lived in a one-bedroom apartment complex on the west side of Sherman.

By complex, I meant five buildings, each with four units. The sign out front bragged of a playground and parking. When you highlight parking in Manhattan, that’s a true perk. When you highlight parking in Wyoming, that’s a stretch.

Still, they weren’t awful.

If I’d known about the place when I arrived in Sherman, I would have jumped at it over the house I rented sight-unseen and unaffectionately called the Hovel.

These apartments had a vaguely redwood appearance with stonescapes in front instead of lawn. Magnus Boesch’s unit was on the second floor. He opened the door after one knock.

He had straight hair that flopped over his forehead and must have made him look boyish long after he was. He maintained a marked chin, but with jowls descending on their side of it.

He smiled at us.

An automatic response, I suspected, to two presentable females. I also suspected he considered it a boyish grin.

I introduced us, making no mention of Melissa Oxley.

He invited us in without hesitation.

From the entryway, we could see the whole unit, including the bedroom and bathroom through their open doors, and out the small balcony to a view of the parking.

As I said, not awful. Yet quite a come-down from the Fyall House we’d driven past.

That building was a clay-colored brick cottage with a second story tucked under a sharply slanted roof — not cottage as in Newport, Rhode Island’s mansions, but not a seaside shack, either. A wrap-around porch added to its presence but didn’t hide it was significantly smaller than its neighbors, which ranged from Italianate to Queen Anne to a few Colonial Revivals.

That neighborhood was far more interesting than this.

“Has the news been announced about Melissa—?” His eagerness slid out unattractively.

“If you mean is identification official, no. Which is why we’re here to talk to you unofficially.” And without a camera. “We’re hoping for the insight and background only you can give so that when law enforcement does officially release the identity, we can give our viewers a full picture of her.”

He considered for half a second. Under the hunk of hair on his forehead, his eyes took on a calculating sheen. “The sheriff’s department said not to tell anyone, but since you already know it’s Melissa…”

“Exactly.”

He gestured to the would-be leather sofa, while he took the chair opposite. All new, but not good quality.

Before I needed to ask anything, he said, “I had no idea she was that unhappy, but she wasn’t a real steady person, you know?”

“I— I’m not sure.” The falter in my voice was artistic, if I said so myself.

“She was always a little … well, backward might be too strong—”

She didn’t move easily through the world.

“—but she didn’t know how to get on with people. Awkward, like. Not comfortable. Her mother didn’t see it, always went on and on about how marvelous her memory was, knew all the movies, the stars, the news. But she was … wasn’t one for, you know, having a guy come after her and them getting married.

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