A Rare Murder In Princeton Read Online Free Page B

her hat down over her ears, and trudged home to Edgehill Street. Checking telephone messages, she found one from George saying that he would be home that evening and asking if she would like to go out to dinner.
    She called him back. “It will be nice to see you for a change,” she said.
    “Likewise,” George said. “I had no idea that I’d have so little time when you were here—”
    “Never mind,” said McLeod. “And we don’t have to go out. I’ll be glad to cook supper.”
    “Excellent,” said George. “Believe me, I’d love not to go out. You’re sure?”
    “I’m sure. What time will you be home?”
    “About seven, with any luck,” said George.
    McLeod hung up and thought about what to cook, decided on a pork chop and sweet potato casserole, made a shopping list, put her heavy coat and hat and gloves back on, and set out for the grocery store.
    She was peeling the sweet potatoes—the most tedious job involved in assembling the very easy pork chop casserole —when the doorbell rang.
    A very old, dark-skinned man stood at the door, holding his hat in his hands in spite of the cold. He smiled a dazzling smile at McLeod while she looked at him inquiringly.
    “You’re the new owner?” he asked.
    “No,” she said. “I’m a houseguest.”
    “I used to work for Mrs. Murray,” he said. He shivered and put his knitted cap back on. “I just wondered if the new people needed any help.”
    “What kind of work do you do?”
    “Yard work—I’m good with plants—and I’m a handyman, too. I was always fixing things for Mrs. Murray, building shelves and things like that.”
    He sounded like a home owner’s dream to McLeod. Although it did occur to her that he might be Jill Murray’s murderer, it was cold and he was old. She took pity on him and said, “Come in.”
    She got his name—Dante Immordino—and his phone number and told him that George Bridges was the new owner. “It’s so sad that Mrs. Murray was murdered.”
    “It was sad, molto triste, ” he said. “She was a very nice lady. Good to work for.”
    “You remember her well after all those years,” McLeod said.
    “I’ll never forget Mrs. Murray. She was a great lady.”

    BY THE TIME George got home at seven twenty-five she had made cheese straws and a salad. The casserole was in the oven and a bottle of wine was open.
    “Good Lord, the house smells great!” George said when he found McLeod fussing with a newly laid fire in the parlor. “Here, let me do that.” He took the tongs from her.
    “Why is it that no man on earth can stand to let a woman handle a wood fire?” asked McLeod.
    “Some gender roles are immutable,” said George firmly.
    While they sipped drinks and munched on cheese straws (“I haven’t had homemade cheese straws since my mother died,” George said), McLeod told him about Dante Immordino. “He used to work for Jill Murray and he sounds like just what you need to help with the yard—if it ever gets warm enough to work in the yard.”
    “I’ll keep him in mind. Do you know how to get in touch with him?”
    “He lives with his daughter. He left his telephone number. He said that he loves this house. The people that bought it after Jill Murray died didn’t use him and they let the yard go to rack and ruin. He said he missed working here.”
    “He sounds great,” George said.
     
    THEY ATE DINNER on small tables beside the fire, and George loved the pork chop casserole.
    “It couldn’t be easier,” said McLeod.
    “You always say that,” said George.
    “But everything I cook nowadays is easy,” said McLeod. She told him about her visit to Rare Books. “There sure are a lot of van Dyke papers,” she said.
    In turn, George told her a little about a crisis on campus involving the Alumni Office. Then they cleaned up the kitchen and climbed the stairs somewhat wearily and went to their bedrooms. It was still early, and after McLeod was in bed, she opened the biography of Henry van Dyke. It was