Jack Beale 00 - Killer Run

crammed with books, and a closed door that he guessed might be a bedroom. Next to the kitchen another door was open slightly, and he could see that it was the bathroom.
    One of the rocking chairs had extra cushions and pillows that made it look like a nest, and tucked into that nest under a crocheted afghan Agnes Phillips sat looking up at him. She was tiny and frail, and yet he could see by the twinkle in her piercing eyes and the way she stared up at him that she was still in full possession of her faculties.
    “Grammy, this is Lieutenant Malloy from the police,” said Mary. “He’s here to see you.”
    As he stepped toward her, he could feel that wonderful dry heat that you can only get from woodstoves. But before he could say anything, she said in that same strong clear voice that had called out when he arrived, “Malloy? I don’t know any Malloys. Are you new in town?” In that instant, he knew where Mary got her poise and confidence from.
    Hearing Agnes speak, it was impossible not to know that she was a born and bred New Englander and had lived here her entire life.
    “Mrs. Phillips, it’s a pleasure to see you again,” he said walking toward her while offering his hand.
    She continued staring at him, and he could tell that she was trying to remember him. Then, in that heavy New England accent she repeated herself, “You didn’t answer my question.”
    He stopped short. “Well, uh, I moved to Ipswich over twenty years ago. We met once before, when I first joined the force.”
    “Newcomer,” she mumbled in a low voice, confirming her suspicions. “So what do you want with me?”
    “Grammy, be nice,” interjected Mary. “I think your tea is ready. Lieutenant Malloy, would you like a cup?”
    He really didn’t, he preferred coffee, but he said yes.
    “I’ll be right back,” she said and disappeared into the kitchen.
    “I’m looking for some information.”
    “What kind of information?”
    “Did you ever know the Whitson family? I’m interested in Alfred.”
    Agnes looked up at him. Her eyes, though bright before, now seemed to light up even more. She sat back in her chair while continuing to stare at him. Then she said, “Sit.” She motioned to a chair on the other side of the stove. He sat.
    “Whitsons? What’s that Alfred done this time?”
    Rarely did Malloy allow himself to show surprise, but her question caught him off guard. “This time?” he blurted out.
    “Young man, take your coat off,” she said.
    As he did so, Mary entered the room, carrying a small tray with the tea. “Here you go,” she said. She placed the tray on a low table between them.
    “I didn’t know if you liked milk or lemon, so I brought both, and the sugar is here,” she said to Malloy. Then she handed a cup to her great-grandmother. “I have homework to do. I’ll be in the other room.”
    Malloy didn’t add anything to his tea. He picked up his cup and said, “As far as I know, he hasn’t done anything, but I would like to talk to him and he doesn’t seem to be around.”
    “So why talk to me?”
    “Well, like I said, we met once before, when I had just joined the force. I seem to recall that many people consider you to be the unofficial historian of the area, so I thought you might be able to help me.” He paused and took a sip of tea.
    She wasn’t about to let him off the hook, not even for a sip of tea. The look she was giving him demanded more of an explanation.
    “I want to find out more about Alfred.”
    She continued looking deeply at him. Then she began to smile.
    The next hour flew by in what seemed like five minutes. Agnes told him more about the history of the area in that hour than he had learned in twenty years on the force.
    “Could you tell me a little more about the twins?” he asked when she began talking about the Whitson family.
    “Alfred and Thomas. They were a pair, always into some kind of mischief. Thomas was the one always getting caught, while Alfred came across as the good son. Really, though, he was just as bad. They grew up with Trudy, my granddaughter.” She paused and then continued. “I remember how she always complained about them.”
    “Is she still around? I’d like to talk to her.”
    “No. Moved away quite some time ago. Lives out west somewhere.”
    “What happened to Thomas?” he asked, gently guiding her back to the twins.
    “Terrible accident. I remember that day as clearly as if it were yesterday. I was visiting my daughter when Trudy