Murder Gets a Life by Anne George

Author:Anne George
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 1999-04-12T22:00:00+00:00

“How was Ray this morning?” I asked as I got in Sister’s Jaguar and the seat belt grabbed me. When the car was brand-new, I made the mistake of getting in with a Styrofoam cup of coffee in my hand. Sister swears the car still smells like Folgers.

“He was still asleep when I left.” Sister backed out of the driveway. “He called the police last night about the turkey. A man came by and looked and said it was probably kids.”

“Sheriff Reuse seemed to be taking it a little more seriously.”

“He is. I gave him that note somebody put in my pocket, the one that said Chief Joseph sent his regards to my son, and he thinks somebody’s trying to scare us off. Now if we could just figure out what they’re trying to scare us off of.”

“And still no word from Sunshine?”

“Nope.”

“Maybe she’s hiding out at her Uncle Eddie’s house. I think she lives there at least part of the time, anyway. It’s the home address she gave at Jefferson State.”

“How’d you find that out?”

“Frances Zata. She’s working out there part-time. Incidentally, Sunshine’s grades are pretty good, too.”

Sister looked interested. “Is it legal for Frances to be telling you this?”

“If I had a computer, I could probably get it myself without going through her.” I looked in my purse and found the bank deposit slip on which I had written Eddie Turkett’s address. “He lives up close to you. You want to go check it out?”

“That’s probably where the sheriff was going.”

“I’ll bet he wasn’t. I’ll bet he was going out to Eddie’s office in Trussville.”

“What’s the address? We’ll just ride by.”

A ten-minute drive through hot, deserted streets brought us to the top of Red Mountain. The valley was hazy, still under the influence of the inversion. Sister turned onto Redmont Crest and checked the mailboxes.

The houses up here sit far back on well-kept lawns. Sister’s house is in this neighborhood and is similar to the others. They have no backyard since they are on the crest of the mountain. A couple of the more adventurous homeowners have had their houses built on poles so the houses seem to float out over the valley. That would make me nervous as hell. When I step out of my back door, I want to step on the ground, not into thin air.

Eddie Turkett’s house was not one of the modern ones. It was a large dark red brick, two stories, probably built in the 1920s and perfectly maintained. The huge lawn of St. Augustine grass didn’t seem to be wilting in the heat, and the two old oak trees that sat on either side of the driveway had been there when Jones Valley was settled. Across the front of the property was a black wrought-iron fence, the kind with little spears on it at intervals.

The street was deserted so Sister stopped. “Look, Mouse. Lightning rods in the trees. That’s what I should have gotten for that big oak of mine I’m still trying to save.

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