Alafair Tucker 01 - The Old Buzzard Had It Coming

Fifteenth Arkansas Volunteers in the War Between the States, and he was by far the most educated man from Muskogee to Tulsa. Shaw stood when he came toward them.
    Dr. Addison held up a tiny object between his thumb and forefinger for their inspection. “Twenty-two slug,” he said. “My guess is it was fired from a derringer—some small lady’s gun. Point blank into the mastoid.”
    “So you think it is as it appears,” Alafair said. “Somebody put a gun to his head as he lay drunk and pulled the trigger.”
    Dr. Addison sat down in the chair that Shaw had vacated and leaned back, crossing one leg over his knee elegantly. He slipped the distorted bullet into the inside breast pocket of his coat. “Obviously someone did just that, Alafair,” he replied. “The question is, is that what killed the man?”
    A surprised sound escaped Shaw, and Alafair leaned toward the doctor, interested. “Do you mean that he was already dead when he was shot?” she asked.
    The good doctor shrugged. “Who is to know, my dear? There are signs in the body that suggest that Mr. Harley Day froze to death, and was already speaking to his Maker when his would-be killer wasted his bullet.”
    “So it wasn’t murder!” Alafair burst out, infinitely relieved.
    “I didn’t say that,” Dr. Addison hastened to disabuse her. “All I can say for sure is that Mr. Day was already in the process of freezing when he was shot. I cannot tell which event ended his life. I can only tell that one occurrence followed hard upon the other.”
    “Well, well,” Shaw mused. “I doubt if our gunman intended to make a simple empty gesture by purposely shooting a dead man in the head. Whether Harley was already dead or not, someone intended murder.”
    “And it could be that murder was indeed done,” Dr. Addison admitted.
    Alafair didn’t comment. Her moment of hope had flown.
    ***
    The rest of the day proceeded in spite of Alafair’s disappointment. Scott returned from town and received Dr. Addison’s report. As Shaw had predicted, Scott was little troubled by the question of when the bullet entered Harley’s skull. Alafair desperately wanted to stay and watch as the investigation continued, but duty intervened. Shaw took her home, and together they did the afternoon milking before he drove off to pick up the children from their various pursuits and she brought in the laundry and began supper.
    To supplement the leftovers from Sunday’s dinner, Alafair prepared the brace of rabbits that Gee Dub had shot a couple of days before. She had taken them down earlier from the eaves off the back porch, where they had been hanging, and cleaned them over a tin washtub, and now she washed them and cut them into joints. She dipped them into beaten egg and flour, sprinkled them with a little salt and pepper, and fried them in a mixture of butter and lard in her cast iron skillet.
    It didn’t escape Alafair’s notice that while the other children spent the entire evening in excited speculation about the intriguing end of their neighbor, Phoebe withdrew into a troubled silence. As far as Alafair could tell, only Alice seemed to notice her twin’s mood, but uncharacteristically refrained from teasing her about it.
    The girls were well drilled in their after-supper duties. Alice and Ruth drew the water from the pump by the back door while Mary brought up the fire in the stove to heat the dishwater. Martha hauled out the dishpan from the pantry, and Phoebe led the younger girls, Blanche and Sophronia, in clearing the table. Alafair seated herself in a chair by the kitchen door with her mending in her lap, presiding over the cleanup.
    “You haven’t had much to say this evening,” Alafair observed to Phoebe. Phoebe shot her mother a surprised and wary glance. How do they know, her expression said, these mothers, when something is on your mind? “I’m feeling a little draggy, Ma,” Phoebe managed.
    Alafair eyed her. “Are you feeling poorly? Come over here.”
    Obediently, Phoebe let her mother feel her forehead and cheeks. “No fever,” Alafair pronounced.
    Phoebe straightened. Her eyes wouldn’t meet her mother’s. “I’m not sick, Mama. It’s just that time of the month. I’m a bit wan.”
    “You feel like you need to lie down? Fronie, stop that.” Her eyes returned to Phoebe’s face after her brief aside to Sophronia.
    “No, Mama,” Phoebe assured her. “I can finish clearing.”
    Alafair studied Phoebe in silence as the girl made