Happy Father's Day 7 Truly a Floral Tribute by Vivian Farmer Chap 10 The once neat and cozy little house that had been Agnes's pride, if not her refuge, had, in the two days of Charlie's soul occupancy, become soiled. One of Agnes's bone china figures, a Royal Doulton, appeared to have been dropped or thrown against the marble of the hearth, where it lay shattered. There were scratches and lumps of mud on the coffee le where, dirty boots had rested. Newspapers were strewntal carelessly about the living-room and the kitchen was clut- tered with dirty dishes and burnt pans. It was as if Charlie, like a little boy in his mother's absence, had done all the things she had told him not to do. And on the floor, by the table at which he had drawn his last breath, lay dishes and cutlery, as if he had cleared a space on it with a sweep of his arm. Then there was Charlie. Hilda couldn't help but wonder why, even in desperation, Agnes had married the man. Oh perhaps he had been handsome when he was young, in a bold and flashy sort of way, butlocking at him now, his dead face puffy, unshaven, none of those good looks remained. Nor had they been there for many a year. There were the rampant signs of dissipation and now without animation, just the remains of a repulsive human being. Hildashivered with disgust. "Feeling alright old girl," Jeremy asked with concern. "Just revolted. What a poor excuse for a man." "Don't be too hard on him," Jeremy told her conversa- tionally, all the while reading her face for signs of physical distress. "He was no mental giant, after all, and he did feel that he got the worst of the bargain." Hilda gave Jeremy a sharp look. *You'redefending him!" she exclaimed. "Defending this worthless man." "Not exactly. Just suggesting that all is not as it seems at first glance," Jeremy chuckled. "Any way, | enjoy tor- menting you." "Oh! ...," Hilda searched for the right word. "Hey doc, the dead wagon's here," the young constable at the door called. "Want them to come in and take old Charlie for his last ride?" "Might as well. But | expect it will be his second or third from last ride, as | don't intend to keep him on ice forever." Jeremy gave the kitchen another look, "Tell the attendant to put him right on the table, I'll be doing the autopsy as soon as | take Hilda home." "I'l walk from here, Jeremy. It's a nice day, and the walk will do me good," Hilda decided. "You run along. | know you're just dying to know why Charlie died of drink so conveniently, today." Corporal Fairchild gave her a speaking look, "Why do you say that, Mrs. Hamstead? So conveniently, | mean." he asked, "Well, whoever killed Agnes will expect us to lay the blame on Charlie, and with Charlie dead, the case will be closed," she replied, as if amazed he had to ask. "It's all too pat... far too neat... far too beyond credibility." *And do you have a theory?" the Corporal asked with a grin. "Charlie might have bludgeoned Agnes to death, but he wouldn't have had the foresight to plan a poisoning. .... No he didn't kill Agnes, but someone hopes we'll think he did. And | doubt that Jeremy will find that he drank himself to death, at least not knowingly. He's drank for so many years that he would have passed out long before he had enough to die of alcohol poisoning." all her years of nursing leant her voice the ring of certainty. "Hilda's close to the truth," the doctor agreed. "Charlie would be more likely become unconscious before he could drink himself to death." Jeremy turned back to his appraisal of the body. "He's not been dead long. Even taking into account the temperature of the house, his body is still warm." He motioned to the two attendants who had come in with a gurney. "Take him away boys." In the bustle of getting Charlie's body onto the stretcher, the corporal giving instructions to his investigating team and Jeremy snooping around the kitchen to see that he had missed nothing, Hilda was quite forgotten. She followed her instincts and wandered around the living-room noting this picture and that ornament. She crossed the hall to what had been the family room, but had, after Frank left home, became his mother's sitting room. It was here that Agnes had spent her spare time, sewing, or playing the piano or reading. This had been her place of escape from Charlie and his cronies. She had had the back sunporch winterized and it was there that she had put the TV and a few chairs that in spite of seeing better days, were still comfortable. Charlie and his cronies had met there regular- ly. Ostensibly to watch whatever sporting event was on the television, but more as an excuse to sit and drink on into the night. Agnes would read, or sew or doze until the last of them had staggered off into the dark, then lock the doors and go to bed. Hilda looked around the room, then walked across to read the title of the books that filled the shelves lining one wall from floor to ceiling; gardening, the Classics, a few books of poetry, two shelves of light fiction, a variety of books of local history and scattered throughout, several murder mysteries by current authors. Without thinking, Hilda pulled one of the murder mysteries from the shelf, opening it at the first page. It was, for that genre, a well written puzzle. More of a brain teaser, with the murder incidental to the story. She glanced at the others and found Tribute cont'd pg. 12