"We'd better tell the old man he needs to get hopping. Court starts at nine o'clock," Dean said as he piled silverware on the kitchen counter. He was happy to be out of the dining room where Brandon Westlake and Pumpkin Green, both distraught over Billy Langstrom's death, were pressing Dean for details. While Dean remained distressed over the accident, he knew he must concentrate on the Women's Club debate just hours away.

"I don't know which of you is more nervous," Cynthia said, elbow-deep in a sink full of breakfast dishes. "Fred's changed his bow tie three times and you're bouncing around here like a November turkey."

"This debate business was no problem when I didn't have an opponent."

"It might have helped if you'd done your homework, master Dean. You don't want all those ladies to make you stand in the corner if you don't have the right answers." Cynthia noticed him picking at his fingers, a sure sign he was a bundle of nerves. She turned and gave him a big hug, wet hands held aloft. "Do you want me to come and give you moral support?"

"Lord, no! Fred's lady friends will provide all the support I need. You'd just make me self-conscious."

"Fred's back to being upset over this jury business. Perhaps you'd better speak to him. He's as nervous as when he first received the notice to serve."

Dean climbed the stairs to the old man's room. Joseph Dawkins was there, seated at Fred's computer. "Where's my stepfather?" Dean asked.

Dawkins didn't look up from the screen as he continued to pound away on the keyboard. "Up in my room. I need some privacy here."

Arrogant son of a bitch, Dean thought, but he didn't waste time on a retort. He climbed the stairs to Joseph's third-floor room. Fred was stretched out on the bed, fully dressed and looking like a funeral home customer. "Time to wake up, Rip Van Winkle. Put your teeth in and let's get going."

Fred opened his eyes. "Just trying to get my thoughts in order," he grumbled.

"If I put a rose in those folded hands, they'd carry you out of here feet first," Dean said.

"A fellow can't even close his eyes around here. Between the Dawkins boys and that Westlake fellow, I don't even have a room to call my own." He pushed up on one elbow and rubbed his eyes. "I got some news on the place where the bones were stored. It's owned by three guys who live in Denver. They started the storage business as an investment. A local realtor manages it and rents out the spaces for them."




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