The Judge Who Jumped (Daytona Beach Book 6) by Frank W. Butterfield

Author:Frank W. Butterfield [Butterfield, Frank W.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Published: 2021-11-22T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18

419 North Grandview

Daytona Beach, Fla.

Wednesday, June 2, 1948

A few minutes past 9 in the morning

Ronnie knocked on the screen door at Mrs. Reichert's. "Hello?" he called out.

The woman, herself, emerged from the front room, dressed almost exactly as she had been the day before. Her face was covered in tears. "Mr. Grisham?" she asked, weakly. "I thought you were the police."

"Is everything OK?"

She shook her head. "No. No, it's not." She wiped her face with her apron. "The colonel. He's dead."

Ronnie stepped back. "He is?"

She unlatched the door and pushed it open. "Come in. I don't want Hilda Kenner next door hearing everything."

Ronnie walked in. "What happened?"

She closed the screen and latched it. "I keep it like this or, otherwise, it swings open." She sniffed and wiped her face again. "Now, what were you saying?"

"What happened to the colonel?"

"I have no idea. He's upstairs, in his bed." She wiped away a couple of tears. "It's horrible. He looks horrible."

"Did you touch anything?"

"No. Why?"

"It's just good that you didn't." Ronnie looked up the stairs. "Is there anyone else here?"

"No. Dr. Silva and Mr. Grimes are both out. Dr. Silva left early for St. Augustine and Mr. Grimes is taking his usual morning walk on the beach."

Right then, there was a knock on the door. "Mrs. Reichert?"

Ronnie glanced over and saw a tall, handsome man standing on the porch outside the screen door.

Mrs. Reichert turned. "Yes?"

"I'm Detective Larson. You called about a suspicious death?"

"Yes." She unlatched the door and pushed it open. "Come in."

As that was going on, Ronnie had backed up a little while keeping an eye on the detective. The man was a looker, there was no doubt about that. If his theory about Dr. Kilyen and the DeLand examination board was correct, Ronnie was pretty sure he had enough evidence standing in front of him to prove his point. And the evidence was obviously an underpaid cop. He was wearing an old navy suit that was stretched across a pair of broad shoulders and was in danger of splitting at the arms at any moment. The hat desperately needed reblocking and his black shoes could really use a shine. But, otherwise, he was one handsome devil.

"Where is the body?"

She pointed. "Upstairs. Last door on the right."

"Did you touch anything?"

She glanced at Ronnie. "No."

The detective seemed to notice Ronnie's presence for the first time. With a slight frown, he asked, "Are you a tenant?"

"No," replied Mrs. Reichert. "He's—"

"Ronnie Grisham." He held out his hand with a big-ass smile that made him blush at exactly the same time.

The detective's eyes widened as he shook. "No kidding?"

"No, sir. I was just coming to talk to your corpse."

"Mr. Grisham!" exclaimed the landlady.

He tipped his hat and turned off his smile. "Beg pardon."

Larson looked him up and down and nodded. "I think what you said on the phone about the board is right. And so does my wife, for what it's worth." He then headed over to the stairs. He was about halfway up when he stopped, turned, and looked down.

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