Jack Beale 00 - Killer Run

when he first met Alfred. All of a sudden the night seemed much darker.
    He twisted around and realized that the light from the kitchen had been turned off. At that same moment, Polly emerged holding a casserole dish in her hands and he got a whiff of those amazing aromas that he had smelled earlier in the kitchen. She used her elbow to push the door shut. Then she walked toward the table, bringing those heavenly aromas with her.
    “Dinner is served,” she announced as she placed the dish on the table.
    “And what is dinner? It smells amazing.”
    “It’s a new recipe I found. Roasted butternut squash from our garden in a cream sauce with pasta. I hope you like it.”
    “How could I not? You made it.”
    “You are so full of it. As long as you didn’t have to cook it, you’d say that.”
    “No, really,” he protested. “You’re cooking is amazing. I don’t deserve you.”
    Polly looked at Malcom. His eyes twinkled in the ever-moving light created by the flickering candles. It was so romantic, and if you believed in magic, clearly a spell had been cast. “You’re right. You don’t deserve me, but you’re stuck with me,” she said with a teasing lilt in her voice.
    The meal tasted even better than it smelled, and as dinner was finished and the wine bottle emptied their talk became silly, as conversations between lovers often do. The empty wine bottle, the dishes left on the table, and the flickers of the dying candles all held clues to the evening’s dessert.

CHAPTER 30
    THE RIDE HOME PASSED QUICKLY for Alfred. He kept up a conversation all the way back to Massachusetts. “Damn her,” he hit his hand on the steering wheel. Didn’t she understand? He didn’t need all the letters. He only needed the one. The one he had read on their wall. It was the key. He’d need the quilt as well. In his mind, he’d then be able to prove his theories, and vindication would be his. His family name would be cleared and their honor restored.
    By the time he arrived home, he had convinced himself that when they understood why he was doing what he was doing, they would embrace his quest and would even help him. But first, he had something to do. Things had not gone well with Malcom’s wife. He would have to fix that.
    * * *
    Polly was working in one of the front flowerbeds when the delivery man turned into the drive, stepped out, and handed her flowers. She didn’t notice the card that was stuck in amongst them, so she assumed that Malcom had sent them. Setting the arrangement on a table in the entry hall, she heard noises in the kitchen. “Mal, is that you?”
    “Yeah, what’s for lunch?” he said as he scrounged through the refrigerator.
    “They’re lovely.”
    He turned and she wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss.
    “Well, thank you,” he said, “but what’re lovely?”
    “The flowers.”
    “What flowers?”
    “The ones you sent. They were just delivered.”
    “I didn’t send any flowers, but with that reaction, I may have to do so.”
    She pulled away. “You didn’t?”
    “No.”
    Malcom followed her out of the kitchen to the hall. “You didn’t send these to me?” she asked, pointing at the flowers on the table.
    “No, I didn’t. Is there a card?”
    “I didn’t look. I just assumed they were from you.”
    “Here,” he said as he pulled a small pink envelope out from the center of the arrangement.
    She slid her finger under the flap of the envelope and pulled it open. Sliding the card out, she looked at it. After reading the card, she looked at Malcom and said, “You’re not going to believe this.” Then she handed him the card.
    Please accept my apologies for
    the way I acted when we first met.
    ―Alfred
    “That’s too weird,” said Polly.
    “Agreed. I need to go down that way again before the race, so I’ll stop in and see him, make sure things seem okay. In the meantime, at least the flowers are nice.”

CHAPTER 31
    A WEEK AND A HALF PASSED before Malcom had the chance to go down to visit Alfred. This time he wasn’t the only one in the shop. There were at least a half dozen others meandering around. One couple had very distinct French-Canadian accents and were switching between French and English as they leaned over a display case, excitedly pointing and gesturing at something inside. A middle-aged man in a tweed jacket was thumbing through some of the old books that were on display, and a young couple was looking at an old iron bed frame, while