Cutwork Read Online Free Page B

seen them at outdoor sales before, where a cash register wasn’t necessary but you needed something to keep money in. The lid was open but the box was upside down. Mike took his pen out of his pocket and very carefully turned it over.
    It was empty, of course. But the box had made a very nice protective cover for another footprint. Mike looked around but didn’t see that pattern anywhere else on the floor. There were some smears on the grass, but they were unreadable.
    Mike stood and said to the uniform standing outside the tent, “Ask if anyone remembers moving or tipping over the cash box. And get the guys with the camera back in here.”
    His thin mouth was pulled into a tight, satisfied smile. If the box hadn’t been tipped over by the crew, a major clue was right here.
    He looked at the print. He knew that kind of pattern. It came from one of those very expensive sports shoes young males liked—and it wasn’t a brand new pair. Shoes that had been worn awhile developed wear marks on their soles, marks as distinctive as a fingerprint. Mike had dealt with many young criminals and was pleased at how many of them didn’t realize this. They’d climb through a window from a grimy alley or freshly spaded flower bed and leave a sharp footprint on a windowsill or the floor.
    No, this wasn’t screwy after all. Only sad.

2
    Of all the unpleasant duties of police work, one of the worst is going to tell a family that one of its members has been killed. That, thought Jill, is probably why Mike shoved the job off onto me . She nearly shoved it off again, onto a patrol officer, then reconsidered.
    She had joined the police with the notion of becoming a detective. In Excelsior that couldn’t happen until one of the two investigators left. Jim was seven years from retirement, and Mike was looking for a job opening as sheriff in some quiet upstate county, one with a lake full of bass. He’d been looking for that position for a very long time, and there was no hint that it was going to happen anytime soon.
    Meanwhile, Mike was hot on the trail of a suspect—but hot suspects sometimes cooled off. Jill decided that having an experienced peace officer—herself—taking the initial measure of the victim’s family couldn’t hurt. And it would give her a chance to do a little investigating without Mike feeling she was walking on his turf.
    Excelsior was a small town, with a tiny police force. During the daylight and evening hours, there were only two squad cars on patrol—late at night, only one. But law enforcement rules dictate that making an official call took two officers. Since Jill could not take half the street force out of jurisdiction, she called the current graveyard-shift patrol officer from his bed to drive her in the spare squad car to Maple Plain. He was a lanky man named Nelson, and she filled him in on the drive out.
    The McFey house in Maple Plain was one of those elaborately windowed clapboard mansions the upper middle class was building. An itinerant wood carver never bought a place like this. Nelson agreed. “Maybe his wife has money,” he suggested.
    The house was pastel green with white trim and a for-sale sign on the broad, professionally landscaped front lawn. The door was opened by a thin teenaged girl in outsize overalls. She had a nose ring, spiky hair, and blue fingernails. Her pro-forma sulky look turned authentically wary when she saw their uniforms.
    “Is Mrs. McFey at home?” asked Jill.
    “Sure. I mean, I guess so. Is something wrong?”
    “Yes, I’m afraid so. Is Mrs. McFey your mother?”
    “Yes.” The girl’s eyes widened. “Is this about Coy?”
    “Who’s Coy?” asked Jill.
    The girl looked relieved. “Come in, I’ll get Mommy.” She led them into a beautiful parlor done in shades of brick, colonial blue, and cream. “Wait here.” She walked away and Jill noticed she was barefoot under the enormous legs of her denim overalls.
    They took their hats off and looked around, at the