Cancelled by Murder Read Free Page A

Sunni Smargon would not be free to leave her post. I gave a mental wave to her and most likely all four of her officers on duty today, and after a few more blocks of stunt driving through debris and overflowing gutters, I pulled into my rock-strewn driveway.
    *   *   *
    Aunt Tess had willed her home to me, and teased that she might not have, if I weren’t the only living relative she had left. And one who looked like her, tall, dark-haired, and thin, to boot. I’d spent my late teenage years in her loving care after my parents died, and was happy to come back and make her last weeks as comfortable as possible. It was still hard to think of her without tearing up.
    I’d recently had the exterior of the house repainted in the same pale yellow Aunt Tess loved, and with Quinn’s help, I’d updated the interior with some of his own handcrafted pieces.
    When I opened my car door in the driveway, it was pulled from my hands by a gust of wind. I exited hunched over, the hood of my jacket over my head, and used two hands to shut the door. I climbed the front steps with my head down, unlocked my door, and practically fell into my living room.
    My landline was ringing, a good sign—North Ashcot wasn’t disconnected yet. I dumped my purse and briefcase on the carpet, threw off my dripping jacket, and checked the caller ID display. Linda Daniels from her 617 area code in the heart of Boston, checking in again.
    â€œI didn’t think I’d get through,” she said. “Your storm is all over the news, not a half hour after I thought you said you were clear. Are you okay?”
    I gave her a quick rundown, kicking off my soaking wet shoes while I talked. “So far, no big problems,” I assured her. “What’s it like there?”
    â€œAll we have is some fairly heavy rain. They’re saying the eye is going to turn south.” She laughed. “Or north.”
    I walked the phone over to my front windows, where torrents pelted against the glass. “I wish you could hear this.”
    â€œYou said you didn’t want anyone to make a fuss over your first anniversary in North Ashcot, but I guess Mother Nature is overruling you. She must know how much you love the sounds of storms.”
    â€œI do, but I’m hoping it will be calm by next weekend for the parade,” I said, immediately regretting my reference to our upcoming celebration. “For your trip, that is,” I added.
    Too late. Big-city Linda chuckled as she always did at the idea of a small-town event. I remembered a time when I couldn’t imagine it, either—settling back into a town with a population of three thousand. Some days I missed the urban environment I’d lived in with Linda, my coworker at Boston’s main postal facility. Every evening we had a choice of entertainment—passive, like watching a play at one of the many theaters; or active, like dancing the night away at a club. As for restaurants, name an ethnic group and its cuisine was showcased somewhere among the tall buildings.
    I knew Linda’s sarcastic tone came partly from wishing I’d return to Boston, where our daily contact was a highlight of our busy lives.
    â€œOh, right, the big parade is next weekend, isn’t it?”Linda asked, as I feared she would. “Of course. It’s in honor of the famous Henry . . . who was he again?”
    â€œHenry Knox, as you know very well. As if Boston doesn’t have its share of Revolutionary War monuments and heroes.”
    â€œYou want to compare Paul Revere with Henry Knox? The statue at the Old North Church to the little plaque in the park on Main Street?”
    â€œNever mind.” It was useless to try to convince Linda that just because Paul Revere’s midnight ride was more famous than Henry Knox’s journey across the state to deliver needed artillery to the battlefields, that didn’t make him more important