Love 'Em or Leave 'Em Dead by Bubany Midge;

Author:Bubany, Midge;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: North Star Press of St. Cloud
Published: 2017-05-20T16:00:00+00:00

20

I SUGGESTED TO PATRICE we stop at the Logan residence before we headed over to Grady’s parents’ home to make sure the kids hadn’t returned in our absence or that there hadn’t been a burglary before or after Tamika was clobbered. When deaths were announced in the obituaries, families might become a target of burglars who watch and wait for the opportunity to break into the grieving family’s house.

Patrice conducted a hurried search of places where she knew valuables were kept and rapidly came to the conclusion that nothing had been stolen or disturbed. When I asked if she was sure, she placed her hands on her hips and delivered me a look that would make small children pee their pants.

“Just trying to do my job, Patrice.”

“Let’s go,” she said.

Minutes later, Patrice and I stood on the icy front steps of Lloyd LaMere’s small two-story home located in the middle of the block. As soon as Patrice hit the doorbell, it set off the yipping of small dogs, which grew louder as they moved closer.

“I hate small dogs,” Patrice said.

“Someone’s home. I see the television flickering. Wonder if they can hear the doorbell over the TV blasting.”

The LaMeres had a storm door with the screen still in it. Through a translucent curtain on the inside door, I saw movement. The door opened, and a small elderly woman with silver ringlets and kind eyes stared at us. Patrice flashed her badge and said, “Mrs. LaMere?”

The woman placed a hand on the appliquéd poodle on her sweatshirt. With a sweet smile, she said, “Yes?”

“Hello. I’m Sheriff Patrice Clinton from Birch County. This is my detective, Cal Sheehan. Do you know Grady LaMere?”

“Yes, what’s wrong?”

“May we come in to ask you a few questions?”

She hesitated but opened the door.

Two white toy poodles with crusty eyes ran circles around Mrs. LaMere, continuing to bark shrilly. Patrice and I removed our shoes just inside the door. The dogs ran ahead a few feet, turned to give us hell for intruding into their territory, then repeated the behavior.

An elderly gentleman wearing gray work pants and shirt, like my grandpa used to wear, was seated in a recliner with his back to us. He was watching Duck Dynasty. The volume was turned up so loud it would not be surprising if neighbors two houses down could hear Uncle Si’s conversation with Phil.

The odor of urine overpowered the scented plug-ins I spotted in two different outlets. The two dogs must pee in the house, I thought with disgust.

Knickknacks, mostly religious statues, filled two antique glassed-in cases along the left wall. Wedged between the cases was a print of Grace taken by Eric Enstrom in Bovey, Minnesota, in 1918. My Grandma Sylvia had a copy in her dining room.

“Lloyd, we have company. It’s the cops. Turn down the TV.”

“Huh?”

She grabbed the remote from the edge of his chair and muted the television. “The cops are here.” Her voice carried a tone of frustration for having to repeat for the old man.

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