See Also Murder

by Larry D. Sweazy

  The amulet fell to the floor and rolled out of sight.

  I had no time to waste. I let go of my purse, and scurried to Guy’s .38. It was my only chance. If I stopped, if I hesitated, Hilo would kill me. I was sure of that, as sure as I was that Raymond was dead as a mouse caught in a glue trap.

  I grabbed the revolver, pulled the hammer back, and pointed the gun directly at Hilo.

  Aim for the head, Marjorie. It was Hank’s voice in my memory. But this was no .22. I could taste revenge, hate, in my mouth, and I didn’t like it at all.

  I hesitated as Hilo staggered upward. His nose was tilted, broken, spewing blood. He rushed me like an injured bull, and I pulled the trigger.

  The bullet caught him square in the shoulder and stopped his forward motion. I pulled the trigger again, just to make sure I stopped him. That shot flung him backward, buckled his knees, and he fell to the ground.

  The garage smelled like gunpowder and blood. Sirens droned closer, drowning out the rain. I stood there, the gun pointed at Hilo just in case he stirred, tried to come after me again. My heart raced and sweat dropped across my lips.

  I was about to sigh with relief when I heard the thunder. But it wasn’t thunder from outside. It was inside the garage, coming from the rear of the Chevy. Someone was trapped inside it, beating on the lid to get out.

  I stepped over Guy, kept the gun trained on Hilo, who was nothing but a heap of flesh, groaning in pain, still alive.

  The trunk was locked. I hesitated again, then hoped that the keys were inside the car. I didn’t want to see Raymond in the state he was in, but I had no choice.

  I eased my way along the side of the car, peered in the window, the stench of death growing stronger with each breath, glad to see that the keys were in the ignition. I looked over my shoulder, made sure Hilo hadn’t moved, then reached in, grabbed the keys, and made my way back to the trunk. I popped it open as quick as I could.

  Peter Knudsen stared up at me, his hands tied together, furnace tape over his mouth, his feet free. I was so relieved that I could have cried, but I didn’t. I reached in and pulled the tape off his mouth.

  “Boy, Mrs. Trumaine, I sure am glad to see you.”

  “I’m glad to see you too, Peter. I’m really glad to see you.”

  CHAPTER 38

  I had never been to so many funerals, so close together in my life, and I hoped that such a turn would never come this way again. In our neck of the woods, this would be the crime of the century, a dark cloud in our history.

  Thankfully, one of those funerals hadn’t been Guy Reinhardt’s. He was going to recover, but the doctors still weren’t sure whether there would be any lasting effects from the concussion. I hoped not, Guy’d had enough troubles in his life.

  Hilo had lived, too, and would have to face the punishment for his crimes. I’m not sure that justice could ever be served, but at least he had been stopped. Hank said I should have shot him in the head when I’d had the chance. I didn’t want to live with that.

  In between the funerals, I had Hank to see to, of course. I waited a few days before I told him the truth of things. I struggled with that thought. Maybe he would have been better off not knowing, just slipped away with his memory blank. But in the end, I decided that I would want to know if it’d been me. Hank was quieter than normal for days after.

  And I had a deadline to face. Reluctantly, I called Richard Rothstein and explained my situation to him. After a long breath of silence, he said, “Well, Miss Trumaine, you may have another ten days. I always pad the indexer’s schedule with extra days just in case something like this happens, an act of God, whatever. That line of thinking has served me well. Thank you for the call. Oh, since you called, we have another book that you may be interested in indexing. A Guide to Shinto Spirits. Are you interested?” I hesitated. I didn’t know what a Shinto spirit was. Which, of course, was my main reason for saying yes—besides needing the money. There was always that.

  I was sure Burlene Standish was listening. But I said nothing as Richard Rothstein rang off, wishing me a good day as he went.

  And so, there I sat at my desk two days into Sir Nigel’s book, the deadline reachable, the dust settled. Hank was in bed, comfortable, still catching up on his rest, and Shep was at my feet. He perked up at the sound of a truck pulling past the gate, into our drive.

  I looked up to see the Knudsens’ red and white International Harvester making its way toward the house. Jaeger was driving, Betty Walsh sat in the middle, and Peter sat in the passenger seat, looking out the window. Shep was already out of the room before I could put the lid on my box of index cards. I smiled, eased away from my desk, and made my way past the bedroom. I didn’t worry much about the state of my appearance. The Knudsen boys had seen me in worse shape recently, but I was presentable, back to my daily routine of brushing my hair in the morning and putting on a fresh housedress.

  “Who is it?” Hank said, his face turned to me with concern.

  “Peter and Jaeger. Relax.”

  “I think that might take a while.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” I pushed off, and made my way outside. Shep followed me, circled Jaeger as he got out of the truck. Betty Walsh didn’t move, just smiled and waved. I returned the gesture.

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you boys today,” I said. “I would’ve made some lemonade if I’d known you were coming.”

  Jaeger stopped before me and nodded. “We won’t take too much of your time, Miss Marjorie. I know you’re busy.”

  Peter joined Jaeger, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother. It was like looking at Erik and Lida through binoculars. I could see their profiles, their gaits, hear their voices, but it was all distant. Peter looked me in the eye, smiled, then looked to the ground.

  “Peter’s going away soon,” Jaeger said. “The lawyer and the judge made a deal with the military. He has to pass some tests, a physical, but they don’t think it’ll be a problem getting him in the Air Force. As long as Peter keeps his nose clean, he won’t have a record. But the first foul-up, then off to the clink he goes.” Jaeger glanced over to Peter with a hard glare.

  “That won’t happen,” Peter said.

  “You’re lucky, Peter,” I said.

  “I know,” he answered. Jaeger nudged him with his elbow, and Peter offered me a package.

  I stared at his hand, at the little box wrapped in tissue paper, and stared at them questioningly.

  “We’ll understand if you don’t want it,” Jaeger said.

  Peter nodded. “We both think our mother would like you to have it.”

  My heart caught in my chest. I knew the amulet was in the box, and I hesitated. I had never wanted to see that thing again, but now I had no choice. I couldn’t be rude. I took the box from Peter but didn’t open it.

  “My mother always believed in the powers that it was supposed to have,” Peter said. “All the boys came back from overseas after the war, no matter whether Uncle Roy stole it or not.”

  Jaeger nodded. “It kept you safe, Miss Marjorie. It protected you from Hilo the whole time you had it.”

  “Do you really believe that?” I asked.

  Jaeger shrugged. “I’m just glad you and Hank are still here, Miss Marjorie, that’s all. I’m just glad you didn’t get hurt.”

  “Me, too,” Peter said, with a shy smile. “Me, too.”

  I hugged and thanked them both and watched the three of them drive off, glad that they still had their lives ahead of them, glad that there was still a Knudsen on the next farm over.

  I tossed the box from one hand to the other, certain that I would never open it, never look at the amulet again, then glanced down at Shep and patted his head. He wagged his bushy tail, and I was almost certain that the border collie smiled at me.

  “Come on, Shep, we’ve got an index to finish and a deadline to meet. Let’s go see what the headhunters are up to now.”

  Shep barked, circled after me, and followed me into the house, happy to
be inside, watching over Hank and I. And I was glad of it, too.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Of all the things that I have learned as an indexer, the most important, I think, is that no two indexers will ever write the same index. The act of indexing is as much a science as it is an art; therefore, the learning never ends. I’ve had many teachers as an indexer, too many to list here, whether they were true mentors, project editors, copy editors, proofreaders, or readers offering ideas about access points into the varied texts I’ve had the pleasure of indexing. I thank them all.

  I’d also like to thank Mary Beth and Greg Maack for their generosity, hospitality, and encouragement over the years. Our afternoon spent in your kitchen, learning how to make lefse, will not soon be forgotten and is greatly appreciated.

  Liz and Chris Hatton and their border collie experience contributed greatly to my understanding of herding dogs. Thank you, Ceilidh and Duffy. I will be happy to be put in my place on Sunday afternoon. It is always a pleasure to thank Cherry Weiner, my longtime agent. She never gave up on Marjorie because she never gives up. Thanks, too, to Dan Mayer for taking a chance on me, and on Marjorie. I’ve wanted to write this book for a long time. Finally, thanks to Rose. We never knew where this journey would take us, but I’m really happy that you want to continue on to see what happens next.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Larry D. Sweazy (www.larrydsweazy.com) has been a freelance indexer for seventeen years. In that time, he has written over eight hundred back-of-the-book indexes for major trade publishers and university presses such as Addison-Wesley, Cengage, American University at Cairo Press, Cisco Press, Pearson Education, Pearson Technology, University of Nebraska Press, Weldon Owen, and many more. He continues to work in the indexing field on a daily basis.

  As a writer, Larry is a two-time WWA (Western Writers of America) Spur Award winner, a two-time, back-to-back, winner of the Will Rogers Medallion Award, a Best Books of Indiana Award winner, and the inaugural winner of the 2013 Elmer Kelton Book Award. He was also nominated for a Short Mystery Fiction Society (SMFS) Derringer Award in 2007 (for the short story “See Also Murder”). Larry has published over sixty nonfiction articles and short stories, and is the author of the Josiah Wolfe, Texas Ranger western series (Berkley), the Lucas Fume western series (Berkley), and a thriller set in Indiana, The Devil’s Bones (Five Star). He currently lives in Indiana with his wife, Rose.