CHAPTER 8
I awoke late the next morning—perfect timing for calling Sumner’s widow. I checked on Richard’s availability first. Funny, my brother didn’t seem to have a lot to occupy his days.
According to the newspapers, Claudia Sumner had been visiting friends in Florida at the time of the murder. Since she’d found the body, I wanted to talk with her while her memories were still fresh. When we spoke, I’d mentioned my former employer’s name, carefully avoiding the fact that I no longer worked for them. Without that ploy, she’d never grant me an interview. Our appointment was set for one. In the meantime I hauled out the phone book. I wasted an hour trying to call the parents of the kids born January tenth. No luck.
Next I called the funeral home. No, they would not discuss the church guest list or any arrangements on the Sumner funeral. Instead, they referred me to their attorney.
Richard and I hit the road about twelve forty, giving us a twenty-minute window to get across town. We hadn’t gone far when I pulled down the visor, inspecting my hair in the attached mirror. Maybe I should’ve asked Brenda to concoct some kind of bandage to cover my unusual haircut. I’d explained to Mrs. Sumner about my ... accident ... so that when she saw me she wouldn’t wonder what kind of nut case had come to visit her.
“What’s the matter?” Richard asked, glancing over at me. “Are you nervous?”
I flipped the visor back into place. “Yes.”
“Why? You interviewed six or eight people on Monday.”
“Yes, but none of them was the victim’s wife, and none of them found the guy hanging in the garage.”
“Just what do you hope to learn?”
“I don’t know. What I really want to do is get in that garage—”
“To see where it all happened?”
“Not the murder. Just the aftermath.”
Richard made no further comment. He still didn’t believe me. The logical part of me didn’t blame him. The brain-damaged part of me was annoyed as hell.
“Look, after we finish here, I’ll take you where I go and we’ll get you a haircut,” he said. “Maybe they can trim it up so that you don’t look like a—”
“Psycho?”
Richard smiled. “Nonconformist.”
“Thanks,” I said, meaning it. The visor came down for another look. Definitely nonconformist.
Sumner’s house appeared no different than it had before, except for the uniformed security guard posted at the bottom of the driveway. Mrs. Sumner had found it necessary to hire someone to keep the hounding press at bay.
Richard waited in the car while I checked in with the guard, who waved me through.
I walked past a late-model Altima. Mrs. Sumner’s or a friend’s? After climbing the concrete steps, I thumped the door’s brass knocker. Seconds later it opened a few inches on a chain, as though she’d been waiting behind it. All I could see were a pair of sharp, gray, schoolteacher eyes.
“Mrs. Sumner, I’m Jeffrey Resnick. I called earlier.”
“Can I see some identification?”
“Of course.” My old insurance ID worked again.
She scrutinized the card. “I must confess I don’t recall Matt having a policy with your company.”
Then again, maybe it hadn’t.
YOU ARE READING
Murder On The Mind
Mystery / ThrillerAfter a brutal mugging leaves him with a fractured skull, insurance investigator Jeff Resnick reluctantly agrees to recover at the home of his estranged half brother, Richard. At first, Jeff believes his graphic nightmares of murder are just the wor...
