Death Foretold by David S. Pederson

Author:David S. Pederson [Pederson, David S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781636790855
Publisher: Bold Strokes Books
Published: 2021-08-01T17:40:43+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Late afternoon, Sunday, September 14, 1947

After two egg salad sandwiches, two orders of chips, and three malted milks, one for me and two for Riker, we climbed back into my car and drove to Webster’s boardinghouse. It was a ramshackle three-story gothic-style building, with a wraparound porch, gingerbread trim, and attic dormers. The clapboard siding was covered in peeling gray paint. The trim was a slightly lighter shade of gray and had probably once been white.

“Are you coming in this time, or do you want to wait here in the car again?” I said as I shut off the engine and applied the brake.

“I’ll come in. Like I said, Mrs. Webster doesn’t know anything about Birdy’s or that part of my past. It will be nice to see her again, actually.”

“Right, let’s go then.”

We got out of my car and walked down the cracked sidewalk to the gate, where Riker paused to look up at the old, spooky-looking house. “It’s been a long time,” he said. “Brings back memories both good and bad.”

“I can imagine. Shall we?” I said, opening the gate.

“Sure,” he said, letting out a deep breath. We went through the gate and across the walk, and climbed the worn steps up to the porch, which seemed to sag beneath our weight. I rang the bell twice as Riker stood next to me, fiddling with his hat. After several minutes, a tall woman in a high-collared dress, partly covered by a starched white apron opened the door. Her long hair was streaked with shades of gray and silver and gathered at the back of her neck. Her nose was large and prominent, and her eyes dark. She appeared to be in her late sixties or early seventies, but she stood straight, her shoulders back, proud and statuesque.

“Yes?” she said in a deep, unusually pitched nasal voice.

“Mrs. Webster?” I said.

She slowly looked from me to Riker, taking us in.

“I am she. But I’m not interested in buying whatever it is you’re selling—vacuums, encyclopedias, brushes, whatever it is, I don’t need it, I already have it, or I can’t afford it. I’m baking today, and I don’t have time for salesmen.”

“Actually, ma’am, we’re not selling anything. I’m Detective Barrington, this is Detective Riker. We’d like to speak with a young fellow named Scotty. We’ve been told he lives here.”

She gave us a suspicious look. “Scotty? Why do you want to speak with him?”

“We just want to ask him some questions, Mrs. Webster,” Riker said.

“About what, may I ask?” She stared at Detective Riker, looking him up and down. “Did you say your name is Riker?”

“Yes ma’am, Grant Riker.”

“I know you, don’t I? I remember you. Little Grant Riker.”

Riker nodded and gave her a gentle smile. “Yes, it’s me. I’m glad you remember me. It’s good to see you again, Mrs. Webster. It’s been a few years.”

“Before the war,” she said.

“Yes, a long time.”

She moved her head up and down slowly. “You’re a police detective now?”

Riker looked embarrassed. “You may recall I enlisted in the Navy, and I joined the police force when I got out.

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