Jack Beale 00 - Killer Run

husband, Malcom, just died. She has closed the Inn and isn’t seeing anyone.”
    “Yes, I know.” Max wasn’t giving up that easily. “I spoke with her yesterday and she told me. We, uh, I never met Malcom, but from what she said he sounded really special. Jack was the runner who found him in the woods.”
    Before Max could say anything else, the woman opened the door fully and stepped to the side. “Please, won’t you come in?”
    They both stepped into the hallway while the woman closed the door behind them. “I’m sorry. My name is Anne. Polly and I have been friends ever since they opened the Inn. Mal …” When she started to say his name, she got a hitch in her voice. She stopped, dabbed at the corner of her eye with a wadded up tissue, swallowed, and took a deep breath before starting again. “I’m sorry. Malcom was a very special person to all of us. So full of life. It’s hard to accept that he is gone.”
    Max handed the bag to Jack, stepped toward Anne, and gently gave her a hug. The simple gesture said more than words. The embrace only lasted a moment, but that moment was enough, and as Anne stepped back, she said, “Thank you.” Then, with a much firmer voice, she continued, “I’m sure that Polly would have wanted to see you, but, she’s not here right now. She’s only just left, and I’m not sure when she’ll be back. You’re welcome to wait if you like. I could get you some tea or coffee.”
    The disappointment was obvious in Max’s face as she turned toward Jack and took the bag from him. Offering it to Anne, she said, “Thank you, but we don’t want to intrude. If I can leave this with you, we’ll get going.”
    Anne took the bag from Max. “Of course, but are you sure you don’t want to stay? I’m sure that Polly would want to see you.”
    “No, we should get going. Have funeral arrangements been made yet?”
    “I think the funeral will be on Saturday. I’m not really sure. If you’ll give me your number, I’ll let you know.”
    “That would be so nice of you. Thank you.” There was a note pad on the table that had the Inn’s guestbook on it. It had little purple flowers on one side, and Max wrote her number on it and handed it to Anne.
    Max turned and opened the door. Jack walked out first, followed by Max, then Anne. The sky was brilliant blue and the sun bright and warm on their faces, a stark contrast to the somber, cool darkness inside the Inn. “It was nice meeting you,” said Jack to Anne, offering his hand to her. Max gave her another hug goodbye, and Anne promised again to call them about the arrangements. “Our thoughts and prayers to Polly,” said Max before she climbed into the car.
    “Thank you. She’ll be sorry that she missed you.”

CHAPTER 67
    ALL NIGHT LIEUTENANT MALLOY had been thinking about what Polly had told him about the stolen quilt. As he drove through the predawn darkness, he took another sip of his morning coffee. He hated this time of year. The days were too short, and even on clear, sunny days, the browns and grays of the leafless trees always made the world seem gloomy. The parking lot of the police station was still bathed in the orange glow of streetlights, which gave it an otherworldly atmosphere. He pulled into an empty space but he didn’t shut off his car right away. It had finally heated up and for once he was warm. Besides, he still had some coffee left.
    He pulled out his notebook and flipped through the pages until he came to the notes he had jotted down when Polly had called him. Murder is never easy to deal with, but when it’s so seemingly random and senseless, it is all that much tougher. “What a small world,” he thought to himself. “The guy who finds him had been a guest at the Inn less than a month ago. What are the chances?” He’d have to talk to him again.
    Then there was Alfred. Who was Alfred? She said he had an antiques store in town. There were many, but his name didn’t ring a bell. From her description, his appearance was distinctive, so he shouldn’t be too hard to find. Malloy snapped his notebook shut, tucked it into his pocket, took the last sip of his coffee, shut off his car, opened the door, and stepped out into the cold, dark world. He didn’t bother zipping his coat shut as he hurried across the lot. Instead, keeping his hands pushed deep into his pockets, he used them to hold his coat closed. He hated the cold.
    As the station door slowly shut behind him, he was hit by one last