The R.X. Problem by Katie Magnusson

Author:Katie Magnusson [Magnusson, Katie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Katie Magnusson
Published: 2016-04-14T05:00:00+00:00

“We will find Mr. Howell at home. Unless he’s changed in five years, he is a cantankerous misanthrope who prefers the company of his insects to people.”

“Insects?” That surprised me. “A collector, or an entomologist?”

Sherlock grinned. “Neither.”

I glared at him. “Sometimes you’re infuriating.”

He chuckled, “Though he is an expert concerning a particular type of insect, entomology is not really his specialty. He’s a sericulturist.” At my blank expression, Sherlock smiled. “He makes silk.”

Lee Howell lived in a small cottage with an expansion at the back. When there was no answer at the front door, Sherlock went around to the back one. “Mr. Howell?” he called as he knocked.

A short, bespectacled man in a green vest answered. “Yes?” he said with a frown.

“Sorry to disturb you, but I wonder if I could ask you some questions concerning the death of Hank Sharpe.”

Howell’s eyes narrowed, his voice a scratchy whine. “Why? I already spoke to the Sheriff, go ask him.”

Sherlock grabbed the door before it could close. “Forgive me, no doubt you do not recognize me, and I did not introduce myself. My name is Sherlock.”

It took a moment, but Howell gaped a little as recognition hit. “Ah. Richard’s son. Of course. Doesn’t change my answer.” He tried again to close the door, glancing at the hand rendering it immovable in surprise.

“Only a few questions, Mr. Howell. I need to know what you saw that night in your own words.”

“I don’t have time—”

“It’s not as though the cocoons are going to fly away,” Sherlock snapped before taking a breath and continuing in a wearily frustrated voice. “Mr. Howell, I have not had a pleasant day and I would very much like to get my father out of jail as soon as possible, so I’m afraid you’ve just acquired an annoyingly persistent guest. Answer the questions, and I’ll go away.”

Howell glared at him a few seconds before he finally huffed, “Oh, fine. Come in.”

We stepped inside to a room full of cages holding moths and butterflies in different stages of development. Howell was collecting discarded cocoons from the recently hatched adults. He went back to his work as Sherlock spoke.

“What did you see the night Mr. Sharpe was killed?”

“I saw your father shoot him.”

The condescension with which Sherlock regarded Howell didn’t seem to bother him. In fact, it looked like he was enjoying it. “You will have to be more specific.”

“It was about eight. I was walking to the saloon. There was a scuffle in the square, a man that looked like your father fired a shot, and Hank Sharpe fell.”

“How do you know what time it was?”

“There was a show that was supposed to start at eight. I left a few minutes before.”

“Describe the ‘scuffle’ in more detail, please.”

“Well, it was... er,” Howell faltered, “I saw Hank Sharpe in the square, and another man arguing with him. Someone swung at the other, and then there was a gunshot and Hank was on the ground. The other man ran.”

Sherlock took a single step

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