of the community.
“Tomorrow is soon enough.” She left him, returning to the living area through the arched opening connecting the two rooms.
Logan filled his plate and sat on a folding chair beside Donavan Bacon, a cook at the Lunch Box who had no shutoff switch when it came to alcohol. Bacon didn’t drink regularly but when he did, usually on Wednesday after his bowling league, Logan was often called to bring him home because drinking made him want to fight. Donavan greeted Logan warmly. He was such a nice man when he was sober.
After emptying his plate, Logan headed to the kitchen to deposit his glass in the sink. From the doorway he spotted Lou Reber in the hallway, heading up the stairs. He thought he’d left.
Likely to speak to the children who were sitting on the stairs, as he had done. But when Logan returned to the hall it was to see the children were not there and Lou was descending the empty staircase from the second floor.
Logan scowled, wondering why the man had gone upstairs when there was a powder room off the hallway.
“Hey, Logan. Rough day today, huh?”
“Sure was. Why were you upstairs?”
“Bathroom,” said Reber.
“There’s one down here.”
“Occupied.” He looped a thumb over his belt. “Did you know Sullivan?”
“Coached at the school with him.”
“Oh, that’s right,” said Reber. “I knew that. Dangerous to run on our roads. No shoulder.”
“He was on the cutoff. Wide dirt road. Shouldn’t be any vehicles back there.”
“Hunters use it.” He glanced toward the door. “I’ve got to go. You need a lift home?”
“Got my truck.”
“That’s right. You drive now. See you around, Logan.”
Logan watched him go, unsure what bothered him about Reber’s going upstairs.
He let himself out a few minutes later, but not before one of the ladies made him a plate for his father. In his truck, the aroma of food tempting his taste buds, Logan headed back up River Street to the steep incline on Cemetery Road. Ed would be buried there, probably next Saturday.
On Main he turned toward home, knowing that just beyond lay the funeral home and Ed Sullivan’s body. The autopsy was scheduled for the morning down in Albany, New York. The county had a contract with the medical center to perform such duties, and Dr. Brock Koutier, their coroner, had ordered it be done. As a result, the funeral would not be until next Saturday, giving the county enough time to transport Sullivan to and from Albany and then back up here to Owen’s for final preparation.
He slowed before the three large maple trees that stood as sentries between the road and Paige’s mother’s home. He pulled into the driveway between his dad’s and her mom’s properties, parked and then headed toward the kitchen door, but paused to breathe the cold air and glance toward his neighbor’s place.
The lights of the Morrises’ upstairs were all on and the porch light was off. Paige was home safe. He knew her bedroom sat on the west side of the house up front nearest the road, her daughter on the east and Mrs. Morris in the back near the stairs. There was a wide, flat roof that stretched over the ground-floor porch from the back of the house to the front, under Lori’s window. On the porch below, the rocking chairs creaked and rocked in the November wind. Paige’s bedroom had no roof beneath either of its two windows. He knew because there was a time when he’d thought about seeing if he could climb that big old maple tree out in front to her window and throw rocks at the glass. He’d decided against it. He wondered what would have happened if he had tried?
Movement caught his eye and he stepped off the road into the driveway. Something big moved down along the side of the house and into the shed that led to the backyard.
Was that Mrs. Morris? The figure had been too large to be Paige.
Propelled by an uncomfortable feeling, Logan walked to the shed, but found no one there or in the backyard. He knew their kitchen door was locked and the light off. The front door was also locked. He circled the entire house twice more and saw no one.
Had he seen anyone in the first place?
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