Death by Lotto by Abigail Keam

chairs.
    The building manager soon found me and handed over a disarrayed paper. “Is this what you want, lady?”
    “Yes, thank you very much. If you can direct me to some copy machines, I will give your paper back to you in a jiffy.”
    The man pointed towards the copy machines. I found the lotto numbers and made three copies before handing the Sunday paper back
    Quickly I compared the numbers to the scrap of paper Ethel had given Neff. The numbers were not the same.
    Ethel’s numbers hadn’t won.
    But since Suzy had told me that Jubal had not used Ethel’s regular numbers, there was a chance that her lotto ticket still held the same numbers as the winning lot.
    We had to find that lottery ticket . . . and fast.

13
    I called Merlene Crouch from my cell phone in the Avanti. Could we see her, as she was Miss Ethel’s housekeeper?
    After a few seconds of hesitation, Merlene agreed and gave me directions. We had to double back and drive to a potholed lane in Perryville.
    “What a dump,” belittled Neff.
    “Shush. She might hear you.” Silently I had to agree that the white clapboard house had seen better days. The left side of the house was sagging and desperately in need of paint. The windows were dirty plus some of the panes were broken and fixed with cardboard. The yard could have used a good cleaning as well.
    “What? She probably knows she lives in a dump too.”
    Shaking my head, I knocked on the sagging front door.
    A heavy woman in her late fifties answered the door. The left side of her face sagged a little like the house. I strongly suspected she had had a stroke and her face had never recovered fully.
    “Hi. I’m Josiah Reynolds and this is Walter Neff. Mr. Neff is a private investigator working for Ethel Bradley. We understand that you work for her. May we talk to you? We won’t take up too much of your time.”
    The woman stared at us with brown bloodshot eyes. There were dark circles under them.
    “Are you Merlene Crouch?” I asked, not sure if we were talking to the right person.
    “Aye. I am,” she said. She opened the door further. “Please come in.” She showed us into an old fashioned parlor with a collection of pink milk glass in several curio cabinets. All of the furniture was dark, heavy Victorian.
    She extended her hand to a lumpy velvet couch and chair.
    “Thank you,” I said. I took the chair, as it was a rocker.
    “Would you like something to drink?”
    “Whaddya have?” asked Neff.
    “No thank you,” I interrupted, talking over Neff. “We’ll only be here a moment.”
    “I see.” Merlene settled into another rocker. Hers even worked correctly. “What do you want to ask me?”
    “Miss Ethel said that you have worked for her a long time.”
    “That’s right. It’s been over fifteen years, I reckon.”
    Neff started to speak but I beat him to it. “Since you two have been friends for so long I’m sure Ethel has confided to you that she thinks strange things have been happening to her lately.”
    “We’re not friends. I work for the lady. That’s all. She hasn’t given me a raise in over five years. She don’t confide in me and I don’t tell her my woes neither.”
    “Oh.” I wasn’t expecting hard feelings.
    Neff gave a little snort.
    Merlene snapped her head toward Neff.
    Neff’s grin immediately disappeared. He leaned forward in his chair. “You know that Ethel plays the lottery every week.”
    “Aye. Everyone knows that.”
    “She seems to be missing her last ticket. Do you know anything about that?”
    Merlene bristled. “I hope you’re not accusing me of anything. I’m a Christian woman. My people are Mennonites. I don’t steal.”
    “He wasn’t accusing you of anything,” I claimed. “Mr. Neff just wanted to know if you knew anything about the ticket . . . like does Ethel often misplace things? Could she have put the ticket somewhere in the house?”
    Merlene’s shoulders relaxed but her eyes blazed at Neff. “She’s got a good memory,