Dying Echo A Grim Reaper Mystery - By Judy Clemens Page 0,32
come up?”
He stepped aside, still holding the bat, but not as a weapon. “I can’t imagine who would…” He shook his head, apparently unable to speak.
“Do you have a copy of your rental agreement?”
“Alicia’s? Sure. In the house.”
“May I see it?”
He considered. “You have ID?”
She pulled out her wallet and showed him. He tilted it toward the light that came from the street. It still had her maiden name, since she hadn’t had to renew her license during the few years she’d been with Reuben, so it matched with what she’d told the landlord.
He handed it back. “So, Casey Kaufmann, why do you want to see the papers?”
“Like you, I don’t believe Ricky killed her. I’m trying to find out who did.”
“You think she wrote it on the lease?” He obviously thought she was bonkers.
“I just want to figure out who she was. The cops can’t find her anywhere, and I think her past caught up with her.”
“You think someone from some other place killed her?”
“It makes more sense than my little brother doing it.”
He spun the baseball bat in his hand and looked up at the mountains. “All right. I’ll show you.”
“What about the cops?”
“What? Oh, I didn’t really call them. I’ve had enough police during the past week to last me a lifetime. They’ve been helpful, I suppose, and I haven’t had any problems with them, but still…” He led her to the side of the house and opened the door.
“You’re not afraid of me?”
“You look pretty harmless.”
A sharp laugh startled Casey, and she jumped. Death, standing in the open doorway, pushed a button on a digital recording device and played back the landlord’s words. You look pretty harmless. “Talk about words that shouldn’t go together. ‘You’ and ‘harmless.’ I guess ‘pretty’ is all right, when you get cleaned up. Not now, necessarily. But once in a great while.”
“So come on in, then,” the landlord said.
Casey followed him into the dark foyer, and he snapped the light on, temporarily blinding her. She squinted, and he led her through to a cozy sitting room. “I’m Gerard Brooks, by the way. Figure since I know your name, you ought to know mine. Have a seat. I’ll get the papers.”
The clock on the wall said it was after midnight. Not a polite time to be calling on people, but she knew she hadn’t woken him—she hadn’t been loud enough. He must have been awake already. Another person too unsettled to sleep. Too rattled by dreams, or things he’d actually seen.
The room spoke of wear and maintenance. Everything was neat and clean, but also patched and faded, as if it had been there since the house was built. Curtains covered the windows, but they were made of heavy burlap-like material—no frilly, or even colorful, window dressings. The carpet was worn almost bare in some spots, and the sofa where she sat felt like she was sitting directly on the springs. This landlord most likely wasn’t renting out rooms to get rich. He was renting them out so he could survive. Or at least keep his home.
“Not sure what you’re going to learn here,” Death said. “It’s not like she confided in him.”
“How do you know?”
“I guess I don’t know. I would just be surprised. If she wasn’t telling Ricky things, and she was sleeping with him, I don’t see why she would be telling her landlord.”
“Father figure? The whole thing about it being easier talking to strangers?”
“You would know. But wasn’t everybody here in town basically a stranger? She’d only been here a few months.”
“Here you go.” Brooks came back, reading glasses perched on his nose. Casey could see him better now they were inside and her eyes had adjusted. He looked like a typical middle-aged, white, American male. Balding, a little paunchy, but nice, too. Like Casey assumed her dad would look, had he lived to be that age. His clothes were in the same condition as the house—clean but worn. Dark blue sweats, a white, long-sleeved T-shirt, and leather moccasin slippers. Nothing new or fashionable. Just practical. And comfortable, as if he had been in bed when she’d arrived, even if he wasn’t sleeping.
Brooks dropped the papers onto the sofa. “These are actually copies. The police took the originals. I’m not sure how they can help you, but if it helps Alicia, I’m happy to let you have a look.”
It couldn’t help Alicia anymore, but Casey didn’t bother to say it. It could help Ricky, though, and if she needed