The Matriarch by Sharon; Hawes Page A

what did you do?” Charlotte asks.
    “Nothing. What was there to do? The church would probably explain our story away with some kind of mumbo jumbo and treat us like idiots. We did nothing. We didn’t tell anyone about it either.
    “To answer your question, Charlotte,” Dott goes on in a low, serious voice, “yes, I do think there’s evil in the world, and maybe even a demon or two.”
    “Bullshit,” Frank says, unable to keep still any longer. “That devil stuff is pure crap.”
    Dott smiles at him. “Maybe so, Frank. I’m simply telling you my experience with a man I saw as evil.”
    Frank looks over at Cassidy who appears confused but is smiling at the two women. He sees a flash of light outside, and Louie shoots out from under the table, barking.

    I hear a car door slam, followed by the sound of someone climbing the porch stairs. I get to my feet just as that someone raps on the screen door. Louie starts for the door, and I follow him. At the door stands a sweating, chunky man in the tan and navy uniform of the sheriff’s department. I grab Louie by his collar. The man has a fading athletic build, and his gut suggests a fondness for beer.
    “Mr. Murphy in?”
    Frank arrives at the door. “Manny? That you? Oh, Al.” He sounds disappointed as he pushes the screen door open and waves the man in. They shake hands. “This here’s my nephew, Cassidy. Deputy Smith, Cassidy.”
    “That’s Schmidt,” the deputy says. He flashes Frank an irritated look. He takes his hat off and inclines his head toward me. Deputy Schmidt has sun-streaked hair cut short and close to his head, almost like a helmet. I see a white scar that plunges down his tanned forehead to join the deep frown line between his ice-blue eyes. “I’m the acting sheriff now,” he says. “While Manny is down with the flu. Albert D. Schmidt.” He extends his hand, and I take it.
    “Hello, Al,” I say, smiling. Louie growls, low in his throat. “Sit,” I say, and the pup complies.
    A picture comes into my head: friends sharing this summer evening together—normal, peaceful, benign. This idyllic scene hangs in my mind, suspended in time for a brief moment. Somehow I know, as Albert D. Schmidt takes a breath to speak, that picture is going to change. It has
already
changed.
    “Manny wanted me to stop by,” the deputy says. “He figured you being such good friends with the Russos.” He makes a show of shuffling his feet and fiddling with his hat.
    Louie growls again; he knows a phony when he sees one. Whatever this asshole is going to say, both Louie and I know his emotion is less than sincere.
    “Mr. Russo …” the deputy says, “he was killed earlier tonight. Murdered.”
    I’m silent, stunned.
    The kitchen door is open, I hear a cell phone ring, and see Charlotte pull her phone from her pocket and put it to her ear. Dott is staring at us, motionless.
    As Charlotte murmurs into her phone, the deputy is scanning Dott and us as if waiting for his words to register. He seems to grow taller—to actually loom—and the corners of his mouth turn up ever so slightly.
    “How could that happen?” I ask.
    “Well, it looks like his wife did it,” Deputy Albert says. “She called it in. Looks like the little lady hacked him to death with a meat cleaver.”
    I hear Uncle Frank gasp and see him slump to the floor.
    “You could have softened that, Chrissake,” I say as I kneel to my uncle. “Hacked? ‘The little lady hacked him to death?’ Real thoughtful choice of words there, Al.”
    “You asked me, didn’t you?” The deputy’s face flushes red. “You don’t wanna know, don’t ask.”
    I rise, one hand on Louie’s collar, while the other forms a fist.
    “Whoa there, Cass,” Dott cries, hurrying over to us. She puts a big hand on my arm. “We’ve got to see to Frank.” She slides a firm arm around my waist, and I hold myself rigid, aching to belt this smug lawman.
    Dott crouches and puts her fingers to Frank’s throat,