Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 01 - Murder by the Old Maine Stream Read Free

book.”
    My hands clutched the wheel. Only the fact that I intended to leave in four days kept me from firing back at him, from alienating my deceased father’s only brother. Then I noticed the twitch in his left eye. A family trait? That used to happen to Dad. I figured out at an early age that it had to do with tension, and I remembered clearly the first time I realized that. It was right before we moved to the New York City all those years ago.
     
    TWO
     
    Aunt Ida and I had stayed in contact mainly though letters. My father tolerated this. I suppose he felt he had little choice. In the beginning, I’d given him Aunt Ida’s letters to read, but he handed them back immediately. Not interested, he’d say. Eventually I stopped offering. He must have been curious though. He had such a large family in Silver Stream—parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, his brother.
    But only Ida wrote to me.
    Ida loved to write. I tolerated it, especially as I got older. I tried to talk her into email a few years back, but she considered that in the same league with intergalactic travel, so at some point we’d switched to monthly phone calls. I decided not to mention texting.
    Ida lived in my great-grandmother’s house, an old Victorian set back in the woods, with original gingerbread trim, and a wide front porch with a hanging swing. The whole thing looked like it wouldn’t be out of place on a birthday cake. I loved it. The rooms were large, with overstuffed furniture, dark wood tables freshly lemon-oiled, lace on every available surface, and a definite hint of lavender in the air.
    Ida had put me in Great-grandma Evie’s old room. Said she’d cleaned it especially for me. Evie, my father’s grandmother, had married the oldest Lassiter brother. Her room was frilly, a girly room from long ago with lace curtains, knick-knacks, and a ruffled, flower-patterned bedspread on the double bed. Great-grandma Evie had crocheted the lace canopy that draped over the top of the dark mahogany frame, and it had been carefully mended over the years.
    It was Friday, my second day in Silver Stream. I planned to leave Monday after the reading of the will, or maybe early Tuesday morning. In the short time I had, I wanted to see the house I used to live in, the one Uncle JT now owned, visit as many relatives as I could, see if I could find out why Dad left, and get a few shots of Mary Fran’s husband and his lady friend. Feeling better than I had in weeks, I hopped into the shower. It was a short shower. The water went from lukewarm to cold after a minute or two. I toweled off quickly, shivering the whole time. September was chilly in Silver Stream.
    I put on my only pair of Laurel Canyon jeans, an extravagance I will never allow myself again, and a blue ribbed turtleneck that matched my eyes, then hurried downstairs, following the scent of something wonderful baking in the oven. One of the CSI shows that Ida’d recorded was playing on the small kitchen television. I had a feeling Ida wouldn’t approve of the job I’d taken for Mary Fran, but I’d have to tell her anyway.
    “Ida. Blueberry muffins.”
    I threw my arms around her as she set the last muffin in a Tupperware container. “You treat me like this, I may never leave.”
    “Wicked good muffins, just for you.” She smiled and hugged me back, then put her show on Pause. At eighty-four, Ida was still going strong, a little overweight with grey hair secured in a bun at the nape of her neck, wearing coral polyester slacks and a flowered blouse in the same color family.
    “Maybe you shouldn’t leave. You could live here with me. This is a big house for one woman. What’s holding you in the city?”
    “My life is there, Aunt Ida. Everything I know.”
    “But you have no job. You were fired, something I don’t understand at all.”
    “I wasn’t fired. I told you I was excessed. It’s called downsizing. Big difference.”
    She looked doubtful and I didn’t blame her. I was