The Season of Killing by Leigh Mayberry (reading books for 4 year olds .txt) 📗

it in her pocket. Meghan removed her smartphone and started taking pictures of the five faces looking at her from the living room.

She stood beside Lester at the door. Their snow-covered boots melted into the floor mat on the linoleum section that separated the rest of the carpeting.

“You, name?” she said. The young man shivered. They left open the door — a cold current of air-filled the living room.

“Um, Jack Boyd,” he said.

So began the interviews, photographs, and collection of relevant and not so relevant information. As Meghan and Lester interacted with each of the people inside the house, slowly, she saw a trend.

She counted sixteen people altogether. They talked to her and Lester in an open forum. Instead of separating them individually, she addressed the big concern as a group. Meghan felt since they traveled together, they ate together, slept in groups, sharing living expenses and their lives, they knew each other’s secrets.

It pleased Meghan that the group didn’t have anyone under the age of eighteen. That meant she didn’t have to address parents or guardians to have conversations. It helped they dealt with young people who weren’t hungover because of alcohol. Recreational marijuana, in Meghan’s opinion, created an atmosphere of accidental metaphysical tête-à-tête. In her professional law enforcement experience, drunks became combative, defensive, and belligerent. Marijuana users wanted to talk about life events. Meghan had a houseful of talkative and non-combative witnesses.

They had volumes of data, a collection of pictures, and a few suspects after two and a half hours of conversations. It was the break Meghan wanted. She needled the prime suspect a little more.

“So, Norman, can you come outside with us for a few minutes?” she asked.

Meghan and Lester left the house. They stood in the dark while snow fell around them. Lester had a look that suggested she impressed him. Meghan took it in stride. After a few minutes, the front door opened.

Norman wore full snow gear and descended the steps. He pushed through the drifting snow and stood facing them. His back to the house, Meghan watched the living room windows as the curtains parted. Now she had names to go with the faces, and she knew who watched them keenly through the windows.

“We know your grandmother had a lot of cash in the house. We know someone killed her when they went looking for the money.” She saw his face drain of color, a pale shell with the rosy hue on the cheeks and nose where wind chafed him. “We need your help, Norman. We have a few leads, and now with the house fire, we have more than a few suspects.”

“Um,” he started. Norman swallowed. “You mean, Gram’s house got burned up because someone did it?”

Meghan waited. She heard a genuine question and nodded solemnly.

***

Freddie cleared the other workers from the office the moment he realized Meghan and her team got displaced. When they got back to public works, the cot, air mattress, and the collection of bedding returned to the area. There was a fresh pot of coffee to welcome them.

Meghan sat at the desk, feeding names and dates of birth into the email she sent Anderson. She clicked the email from the mayor out of curiosity and read it with mild amusement.

“Apparently, the airlines canceled the last flight into Kinguyakkii on Saturday because of the storm. Duane’s stuck in Anchorage until the airlines authorize flights again. He wants to know if anything is going on,” Meghan said.

“Nope, business as usual,” Lester said.

“I like it. Short and to the point,” she said, sending a reply.

“What do you think is going on in that house now?”

“I think Norman isn’t our guy. I don’t think he faked that look when we told him about the arson.”

“I agree.”

“He might have known about the cash. We’re going to have to make friends with a few more people in town if we want answers. We need to check around to see if anyone is making any big purchases.”

Lester nodded. The door opened in the alcove leading into the office. They waited while boots stomped on the floor. Eric emerged and shed his coat and hat.

“What did I miss?” he asked.

“Not much.”

“Well, I confirmed Hilma didn’t make it to bingo on Friday. She’s a big spender. Cards are $10; pay-out on Fridays and Wednesdays are $300 a game. Saturdays are $500 pay-outs. Himla hasn’t won a game in about four months.”

Gambling was illegal in Alaska. To circumvent the government system, companies offered alternatives to feed additive behaviors. ‘Pull-tabs’ were the equivalent to a ‘scratch off’ lottery ticket. Both tickets cost at least $1 and went up from there. In most urbanized settings throughout Alaska, anywhere tobacco products sold in small venues, someone could purchase ‘pull-tabs,’ and it wasn’t a lottery ticket. Meghan didn’t want to argue that people spent entire paychecks on ‘pull-tabs’ just like any other gambling enterprise. However, she didn’t have to deal with gambling in Kinguyakkii.

Bingo was the game of choice for most Alaskans in rural communities. The buy-in per ticket was steep. Most people who had nothing else to do on given nights filled the auditorium to play bingo. She didn’t want to do the math. She didn’t want to think about the cash that organizers had to handle every day. So far, no one wanted to rob a bingo hall. Even with high pay-outs, the bingo organizers, often religious organizations, claimed the overflow per game. The house always won in bingo.

“Did you find out who owns the house?” she asked.

“It belongs to Edmond York.”

“He’s here,” Lester said. “I saw him this morning come in for work.”

“Let’s have a conversation with—” Meghan stopped. She saw the relay speaker on the wall near the door leading into the main shop. She thumbed the intercom system. “Edmond York, can you come to