Murder on the Eightfold Path by Diana Killian Page A

Hammer Horror films.”
    “Yes. Among other things.”
    “The crazy one.”
    Elysia made a disapproving sound.
    “Mother, she invited the National Enquirer into her home to interview the ghosts she thought lived there. That’s pretty crazy by any definition.”
    “You do have such a long memory for other people’s . . . foibles. Anyway, Maddie believed the house was haunted.”
    A.J. decided to overlook the “foibles” crack although her tone was crisp as she responded, “Then she should have called an exorcist or whatever they’re called. Because it looked like either a publicity stunt or that she was stark, raving bonkers. Or both.” She examined Elysia’s uncommunicative profile. “What makes you think this Medea is your Medea?”
    “When was the last time you met someone named Medea?”
    “There must be women around named Medea. Especially in Greek communities.”
    “Be serious, pumpkin. Anyway, I recall Medea writing me a few years back to tell me she was getting married. And she does rather fit the profile of the kind of woman Dicky used to . . . romance.”
    “Crazy old ladies?”
    “So amusing, Anna,” Elysia murmured, sounding not the least amused.
    A.J. considered the ceiling of the Land Rover as they raced along. “Maybe Medea knocked Dicky off when she found out he was two-timing her?”
    The Land Rover suddenly reduced speed. “It’s hard to imagine a less violent soul.”
    “Even so, the spouse or lover is usually the prime suspect. And your old mate Medea certainly always seemed a little . . . unpredictable.”
    “But I don’t think they were still married.” Elysia’s eyes were in the rearview as a police cruiser drew behind. “Try to act natural, pet,” she said out of the side of her mouth.
    “Why?”
    “The coppers are after us.”
    A.J. gulped. “How much more natural can I act than sitting here?” She did her best to appear to be innocently and leisurely enjoying the spring landscape as it slid by at a much more sedate pace.
    She couldn’t help worrying. Had there been some development in the case? Was there now an APB out on Elysia’s car?
    Neither had much to say for the next few miles, and then the cruiser suddenly put on his lights and zoomed ahead of them.
    Elysia relaxed. “Bloody coppers,” she muttered as the cruiser disappeared in the distance.
    “This is such a disaster. Because we were in that apartment illegally I can’t even tell Jake about the other intruders searching it.”
    “You could. He’ll probably throw you in the hoosegow, but if you feel it’s your civic duty . . .”
    “Don’t you see that if Jake knew about those two it would take some of the heat off you?”
    “I wish that were true. But the fact of the matter is that, given Dicky’s occupation, it’s no surprise that people are attempting to search his apartment. The only surprise is we didn’t run into more people searching it.”
    She had a point. A.J. reflected how alarming it would be to find out that someone with access to your deepest, darkest secrets had died—perhaps leaving those secrets where anyone might stumble over them.
    She watched unseeing as trees and barns and road signs flashed by. A sign for a winery, a sign for Yards Creek Soaring glider rides, a sign for Yoga Meridian.
    “Do you mind?” A.J. said on impulse. “I want to check something out.”
    Elysia threw her a curious look but nodded. They drove down Blairstown’s Main Street. Though a little larger than Stillbrook, Blairstown had the same quaint, old-fashioned vibe to it—which wasn’t surprising given that the area had been settled all the way back in the 1700s.
    “Did you know they filmed scenes from Friday the 13th in Blairstown?” A.J. murmured as they passed the bright blue historic building Roy’s Hall. “They always pick peaceful places like this for horror movies, don’t they?”
    “Still waters run deep.”
    As the Bard said? A.J.’s attention was caught by another sign advertising