Murder Takes to the Hills by Jessica Thomas

phony grin. “These days he seems to get more calls from his sister than he does from Harmon. That is enough to make anybody suspicious. What’s up?”
    “Nothing that won’t wait until we sit down and enjoy what’s left of the sun. What are you drinking?”
    Sonny opted for beer, Cindy for a scotch and soda, me for a bourbon highball. I played bartender while Cindy changed clothes and Sonny played with Fargo. We soon gathered on the deck, and I asked Sonny if his anonymous tip regarding the hit-and-run had proven fruitful. I wanted him relaxed before I brought up Cassie’s pirates. His opening crack about the phone calls hadn’t sounded entirely joking.
    “Yes, I think it is the vehicle,” he said. “Just as our anonymous phone call told us, we found it on a side street in Orleans. It has front-end damage, with what looks like blood and some fibers caught in the headlight…could be from Mr. Alves ’ clothing. We’ll know in a day or so.”
    “Did you find the owner?” Cindy sipped her drink and pronounced it just right.
    “Yes, and there’s no joy there. He lives in Eastham and swears the car was stolen. But he didn’t report it until yesterday, which is strange at best. We’re trying to verify his whereabouts at the time of the accident.”
    “How’s Mr. Alves ? Have you heard?” I rescued my cigarettes from Sonny’s side of the table and lit one.
    “Yeah. I was just at the clinic. Dr. Gloetzner says the old fellow still thinks he’s Napoleon, but he did manage to ask where he was and why he was there. So I guess there’s hope.”
    “I’m glad, he’s a nice old codger. His wife must be frantic.”
    “You’re not far wrong,” he admitted. “But their daughter is here from Worcester, so at least she has someone with her. Look, Alex, I’ve got to get going. Want to tell me why Nacho said you sounded a little frantic yourself this afternoon?”
    “Yes, but why don’t you stay for dinner? We have plenty.”
    “That sounds like a winner. I guess I’d better start up the grill, then.” When there was a grill in sight, nobody cooked but Sonny.
    We got ourselves rearranged and I showed Sonny and Cindy my new toy.   When I told Sonny I had a duplicate for him, he gave me that big brother look and simpered, “Oh, thank you ever so!”
    I told the two of them of my experiment downtown with the young couple and my inadvertent recording at the Rat. I had set it to start with Fred and Pauline to make him laugh, and he did, along with Cindy.
    Then the Blues Brother came on and again he was amused. “That’s Bert McMichaels ,” he chortled. “I’ll have to tell him to watch what he says around Fargo.”
    I explained the two men I had passed on leaving the Rat and what had been picked up while I had been inside. Then I hit Play again .
    The tape ended, and I turned it off triumphantly.
    “There! Doesn’t that prove Harmon’s initial guess? Those men are no more staging a charitable clambake than I am.”
    “It doesn’t prove a damn thing. I swear you get more like Harmon by the day.   Every person who stops someone to ask directions is setting up a million dollar dope trade.” He stood and walked out to put the chicken on the grill.
    Cindy went inside to finish dinner. She was obviously staying out of this.
    Sonny returned, freshened my drink, got himself another beer and came back out.
    “Alex,” he spoke carefully and softly. “I know you have been under stress lately, but you really are getting a little far out. You can’t reasonably expect me to arrest two men just because I don’t quite understand a conversation you shouldn’t have taped in the first place. Think about that young couple you taped at first. You said they wanted to get home and get Madison out of some lock-up. We assume Madison is a dog or cat, but what if he is their three-year-old son, locked in a cage under the care of a twelve-year-old, while they have a getaway weekend? Believe me, it has