for my earthly coffin. Send my supper on time, which
is five, not six or six-thirty.” Gertrude clumped off
toward the converted toolshed, her place of selfimposed exile since she had long ago declared she
wouldn’t live under the same roof as Joe Flynn.
“Ah,” Joe said, a hand under Judith’s elbow, “your
mother seems in fine spirits today.”
“I can’t tell the difference,” Judith muttered. “She’s
always mean to you.”
“It keeps her going,” Joe said, hanging his jacket on
a peg in the hall. “Beer would do the same for me.
Have we got any of that Harp left or did Mike drink it
all?”
“He didn’t drink as much as Kristin did,” Judith
replied, going to the fridge. “But I think there are a
couple of bottles left. Kristin, being of Amazonian proportions, has a much greater capacity than other mortals.” She glanced up at the old schoolroom clock,
which showed ten minutes to five. “You’re early. How
come?”
“I found Sir Francis Bacon,” Joe responded, sitting
down in the chair that Gertrude had vacated. “How the
hell can you lose an English sheepdog? They’re huge.”
“Where was he?” Judith asked, handing Joe a bottle
of Harp’s.
“In their basement,” Joe said, after taking a long
swallow of beer. “He was trying to keep cool, and in
the process, managed to get into the freezer. He found
some USDA prime cuts and ate about a half dozen,
which gave him a tummy ache. Then he went behind
the furnace and passed out. He was there for two days.”
“Sir Francis is okay?” Judith inquired, after pouring
herself a glass of lemonade.
“He will be,” Joe said. “They trotted him off to the
vet. I hate these damned lost pet cases, but the family’s
loaded, it took only a couple of hours to find the dog,
and they paid me a grand.” He patted the pocket of his
cotton shirt. “Nice work, huh?”
“Very nice,” Judith said with a big smile. “All your
private detective cases should be so easy. And prof-
itable. Maybe we can use some of that money to have
Skjoval Tolvang make some more repairs around
here.”
“How old is that guy anyway?” Joe asked with a bemused expression on his round, florid face.
“Eighties, I’d guess,” Judith replied, “but strong as
an ox. You know how hearty those Scandinavians are.”
“Like our daughter-in-law,” Joe acknowledged,
opening the evening paper, which Judith had retrieved
earlier from the front porch.
