Rest In Fleece: A Knitorious Murder Mystery Book 8 by Reagan Davis

Author:Reagan Davis [Davis , Reagan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781990228001
Publisher: Carpe Filum Press
Published: 2021-03-30T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

“Mrs. Bickerson will see you in her office.” The summer intern points down a long hallway and smiles.

I thank the intern and take a deep breath, hoping one day Mrs. Bickerson will forgive me for what I’m about to do—ask if she thinks her husband could be a murderer. If I’m lucky, one day she’ll even speak to me again.

I knock lightly and wait. No response. I crack open the door and peek in. Mrs. Bickerson is at her desk with her head in her hands. I open the door enough to poke my head inside.

“Come in, Megan.” Mrs. Bickerson summons me with a wave.

Her closed-mouth smile is tight, and her eyes are puffy and red.

“Hi, Mrs. B,” I say softly, sitting across from her and trying not to stare at the small mountain of wadded up tissues in front of her.

“Hi, Kilian.” The dog rests his only front paw on my knee while I rub the top of his head. Recalling Adam’s recent experience with Kilian, I wrap my dress around my legs and tuck my feet under my chair, as far from Kilian’s line of fire as possible. “Who’s a good boy?”

“Kilian is the best boy,” Mrs. Bickerson agrees, her voice thick from crying. “You’re a nicer boy than your daddy, aren’t you, Kilian?” She sniffles. “Yes, you are.”

I get the impression Mysti’s death isn’t the only thing Mrs. Bickerson is crying about today.

Kilian wanders back to his dog bed in the corner, and I unclench my legs, letting them relax into a more natural position.

“I’m sorry about Mysti,” I say, and watch tears well up in Mrs. Bickerson’s eyes. She nods and pulls a fresh tissue from the box to dab her eyes. “Is there something else going on?” I ask. “Aside from Mysti?”

“Boris,” she says with a frustrated groan. “As usual.” Her voice hitches on the last word. “Oh, Megan, he was awful,” Mrs. Bickerson warbles, her voice almost unintelligible because of the sobs. I place a gentle hand on top of her hand. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Do you know what Boris said when Mysti was murdered?”

“I have no idea,” I reply.

“He said, and I quote,”—Mrs. Bickerson pulls herself up to her full seated height, puts her hands on her hips, and tucks in her chin toward her neck—“A real psychic would’ve seen it coming.” She does a decent impersonation of her husband. “Then he laughed!”

“Oh my,” I commiserate. “I’m sorry he wasn’t more sensitive to your feelings.”

“He was less than insensitive, Megan,” Mrs. Bickerson confides, sounding exasperated. “Insensitive I can handle. But I can’t handle happiness. He was happy someone murdered that girl. Since we found out, he’s been all smug and self-satisfied. Gloating because at least everyone’s money is safe now that she’s gone.” She once again impersonates Mr. Bickerson.

“Everyone reacts to death in their own unique way,” I suggest, trying to comfort her.

“I don’t think I can stay married to someone who celebrates the death of a fellow human being.

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