Murder in the Milk Case Read Online Free

Worse, I hadn’t told Detective Scott about my argument with Jim Bob. That alone would give me enough motivation to be at the top of his suspect list. Even Max didn’t know, because I didn’t want to tell him until I found out if what Jim Bob had said was true.
    The phone rang. Unfortunately, the caller was my mother. I love my mother, but I like to be prepared for the conversational assaults that often occur when we talk.
    “Hi, Ma.” My voice was tense, and I tried to relax.
    “Well, I would have thought you would call me first,” she said. “I had to hear all the gory details from Gail’s sister’s neighbor. After all I’ve been through with you, and this is how you repay me? By not telling me things?”
    “Sorry.” I stared at the ceiling. I tend to avoid telling my mother most anything because it’s just too hard to deal with the aftermath. Questions, sarcasm, accusations—I never know how she’s going to react. Still, I could tell she was worried about me.
    “I’m fine. I’m just not thinking clearly.” And that wasn’t the half of it.
    “Well, I guess you have good reason to not think—for once. If I’d found a murdered person, I wouldn’t think, either. I mean, the pictures left in your mind would—”
    “Yep, I’m just fine,” I said. “Sitting here on the couch.”
    “Where is Samantha?” she asked.
    “In her room eating cookies and potato chips.” My stomach growled, and I sat up quickly, an action I regretted. Spots in my vision made it difficult to hear my mother, an oddity for which I had no explanation.
    “Cookies and potato chips? At the same time? In her room?”
    I glanced at the clock. Three. “Yes.”
    “Well, I never! Do you do that all the time? Land sakes! That child will have clogged arteries before she’s twenty if you keep that up.”
    This coming from a woman who sells doughnuts for a living. I braced myself for the onslaught of lecture number one thousand, three hundred and fifty about How to Care for Children. While waiting for the tirade to end, I slowly made my way to the kitchen and heated up some coffee. Then I went to the pantry and reached behind the cans of baked beans where I’d hidden my emergency stash of chocolate. Finally, armed with a large dark-chocolate bar and a strong cup of coffee, I sat at my round oak kitchen table with the phone resting between my head and shoulder, still listening to her with only partial attention. When my mother is on a rant, I only need to grunt now and then to keep up my end of the conversation.
    “. . .although I suppose the children are fine so far.” She took a deep breath. “Was it really Jim Bob?”
    For anyone who isn’t used to her, my mother’s machine-gun conversational techniques can cause mental whiplash. I’ve just learned to anticipate the rapid shifts in topic.
    “Yep, it was Jim Bob.” I stared at my coffee, trying not to remember the knife in his stomach.
    “Brutally murdered?” she asked.
    “Um. . .yes.” Is there any other way to be murdered?
    She clucked her tongue. “Well, I’m not surprised.”
    I wasn’t, either, but I wondered just what my mother knew about him. I was sure she didn’t know he’d threatened me.
    “Your name will be in the paper tomorrow, you know,” she informed me.
    I grunted. Relieved by the change of topic, I jammed another huge piece of chocolate in my mouth, followed by a gulp of coffee.
    “Were you wearing nice clothes?”
    “Why?” I asked with my mouth full. Isn’t it enough that I always wear clean underwear because of her constant dire warnings that I might be in a tragic accident and the rescue workers will see my underclothes?
    “Why?” My mother’s tone indicated I had lost my mind. “You can’t be serious. Didn’t someone take your picture?”
    I licked my fingers. “Not that I know of.” In my stomach, coffee met chocolate in what could only be called a pitched battle. “Look, Ma, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s too