Murder in Burnt Orange by Jeanne M. Dams Page A

lookin’ like he’s doin’ well—fine clothes and all.”
    Hilda frowned. “But I thought you liked him. Why would you, why does anyone think he has done these wicked things?”
    â€œI did like him, when I worked for him. He wasn’t a bad boss, as bosses go. Not good at managin’ money, was all, and that led to the trouble, and put a lot of us out of work, when the factory went bust. Anyway, nobody’s sayin’ he done ’em. Mixed up in ’em, is what they say.”
    â€œWhat does that mean? And who says so?” Hilda was skeptical. Gossip was interesting, but not necessarily reliable. She wanted facts, details.
    â€œBut that’s the point, see!” Norah broke in, impatient with the slow pace of the narrative. “The man who was braggin’ he knew all about it, claimin’ it had somethin’ to do with banks and Sam Black and I don’t know what-all—that fella was Bill Beeman, and he was burned to death last night at Malloy’s Dry Goods!”

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    O tiger’s heart wrapp’d in a woman’s hide!
    â€”William Shakespeare, Henry VI, Part 3
    Was burned to death,’ ” Hilda repeated. “Then you do not think it was an accident?”
    â€œDo you?” Norah’s tone was scornful.
    â€œNo, I do not see how it could have been. The rain, the late hour—no, I think someone tried to make it look like an accident. But that person was not very smart or he would have made it more—more true, more—”
    â€œConvincin’?” supplied Sean, with a grin.
    â€œThat is the word. It is not at all convincing, the way it was done.”
    â€œBut we’re thinkin’,” Sean continued, “what if the plan was different, and the rain spoiled it all? See, it had to be on the Fourth if fireworks was to be blamed. So probably they was goin’ to do it outside somewheres, and earlier, while everybody else was settin’ off their rockets and such. They didn’t know it was goin’ to pour down like Niagara Falls. After the weather we’ve been havin’, who would have thought we’d have that sockdolager of a storm?”
    â€œAnybody who’s lived around here for a while,” retorted Norah. “Heat like that always brings a thunderstorm sooner or later, and this one was overdue.”
    â€œBut nobody knew it was goin’ to happen just when it did,” Sean argued. “And by the time the rain started, it was too late to change plans. So they waited for a while for the rain to stop, but it never did, and finally they had to move the whole shebang indoors. And that’s kind of an argument for it bein’ Sam behind it all, if you think about it. He’d only lived here a few months when his factory failed, and then he left town, and he just came back, from what I hear.”
    â€œHmm,” said Hilda. “But why would Mr. Black do such a thing? Or have someone do it?” she added as both Sean and Norah began to protest. “And why would he choose Malloy’s as the place to do it? He did not have a quarrel with Uncle Dan, that I have ever heard.”
    And neither of the O’Neills had an answer to that.
    It was still raining when Sean and Norah left, not pouring, but a steady drip, drip that looked like it meant to keep up all day. Hilda fretted. She peered out the parlor window. Between the raindrops that made their way steadily down the glass, she could see the maple tree in the front yard, its branches drooping with the weight of the wet leaves. The grass was turning green again, and from some shelter birds were chirping their approval of the weather.
    Hilda did not agree with them. Oh, yes, it was wonderful to have cool air to breathe again, but she wanted to talk to Andy, and how was she to manage it?
    She looked at the clock. Patrick would not be home for at least an hour, probably more. The fire had closed the store for the day, but