A Midsummer Night's Scream

thing I know about him is that he always liked to get everything cleaned up early on Friday. He once told me he liked spending most of his weekends driving around in his car and visiting small towns.“
    Mel already knew that Sven Turner was forty-seven years old, and where he lived. The janitor hadn’t been robbed and the information was all on his driver’s license. Mel had already left a message for the local cop on that beat about going to Turner’s home.
    “Thank you, Ms. Havana. If you think of anything else we should know about Mr. Turner, please let me know.“ He handed her his card with his office telephone number.
    She, in exchange, gave him hers and said, “Please let me know how he’s doing, if you would. And would you get our van back to us? We’re shorthanded with Sven gone and need it for what I hope will be a short-term replacement.“
    “As soon as it’s been checked for fingerprints.“ As Mel left her office, Police Officer Don Jones rang through on Mel’s cell phone.
    “Detective VanDyne, your office gave me your number. I’ve called on Sven Turner’s sister and need your help. Or rather, she does.“
    “I’ll be right there. I have the address.“
    It was in an old but fairly well-cared-for neighborhood near the college. When Mel arrived, Officer Jones was sitting on the front porch. Mel guessed Jones was probably in his late thirties and wondered why he was still on a routine neighborhood job. He was a tall, slightly overweight man, with a nice smile and very well-shined shoes. His uniform was perfection. Not a wrinkle to be seen.
    Jones had risen hurriedly and opened the front gate. “Let me fill you in. I know Sven slightly. I know his sister better. She’s homebound. She lost her lower legs several years ago to diabetes. I check on them from time to time.“
    “How’s she taking the news?“
    “Badly. She’s dependent on him to cook for her. She’s a single woman. We’ll need Meals on Wheels and someone to clean and shop for her.“
    “Can she dress herself, get in the shower and bed by herself ?“
    “I’m not sure. You need to talk to her.“
    “Come in with me, then.“
    Hilda Turner was in her chair in the living room, which was spotless. Mel guessed this had probably been their parents’ home. The wallpaper and carpet spoke of age. There were pictures of family members on side tables. She’d obviously been crying. Apparently Officer Jones had brought her a box of tissues and a wastebasket.
    “I’m Detective VanDyne, Miss Turner. I’m sorry about your brother.“
    “Someone from the hospital told me a little bit about what happened to him. But not much. Could you tell me more?“
    “He has broken bones in his skull and they’ve injured his brain. I don’t know how seriously. The bones have been removed. He’s still not conscious. I have to be honest with you—he could recover but not be entirely ‘there,’ if you know what I mean.“
    She looked a little confused.
    Mel was forced to be blunt. “He might have permanent brain damage.“
    She started crying again, then made a bitter laughing noise. “What a pair we’ll make.“
    “I’m going to get social services to visit you,“ Mel said. “They’ll take care of you until we know more about your brother’s condition.“
    She pulled herself together and said with dignity, “I’m not going on welfare.“
    “You will need help for at least a while. And it’s not charity. It’s what you pay taxes for. While I’m here, could I take a look at your brother’s room? I don’t know very much about him and it might help me find out who did this to him.“
    “Nobody but me knew him. He was terribly shy. Yes, you may look in his room if it would be useful.“ She pointed the way.
    Jane spent Monday morning working on her book. She was enjoying writing this one much more than the first one, because she’d planned ahead instead of sitting down at random intervals and winging it over a long period of years. That technique had caused her an enormous amount of tedious rewriting. There had been times she hadn’t even looked or thought about the book for weeks. Then she had to reread it all over again just to remember what she’d already done.
    Of course, that time, she didn’t know she needed to turn it into a murder mystery until she’d attended a mystery conference nearby and had the good luck to meet an encouraging successful writer, and an editor who urged her to send in the final draft.
    She