Page 83 of Death on Riddle Road
“You have to eat,” Clara called out, shifting from standoffish to concerned.“Sheila will bring you some dinner.”
****
If anyone elsehearing Clara’s statement about me bringing Teague dinner thought home-cooked meal, I was confident he didn’t.
I’m not a terrible cook, but have a limited repertoire.Especially spur of the moment.As much as he likes it, I didn’t think he’d appreciate seven-layer dip and tacos while he was working.Not only is it dangerous (drips and stains), but it’s the sort of dish you eat over a long period of time, not during a compact dinner break.
I picked up a salad at Shep’s Market, then headed to our favorite Chinese place for takeout, having called on the way.
As usual, there was a line.Three people ahead of me and two back from the counter I spotted Emil Dorrio.
In that instant, I became the penultimate customer.
Urban Parhem walked up and stopped just behind me.
We exchanged slightly awkward hellos.
After an even more awkward pause, I asked abruptly, “Are you familiar with Kentucky Manor?Out on Riddle Road?”
“Oh, the hospice care.”His eyes sharpened.He knew about the murder.And guessed at our involvement.
“Right.Named for the ultimate riddle of life and death?”
No humor showed through as he said, “Not at all.”
“Someone was riddled by bullets?”
“I don’t know why you would assume that,” he said stiffly, not back to our previous friendly footing when he would have already answered.
But no matter what our footing, he didn’t have cause to stick his nose in the air considering some of North Bend County’s history.
“The road’s name stemmed from another meaning of the word,” he said, “involving removing ashes from a fire.Wood stoves generally have a riddle plate, which facilitates that process, though some still use a sieve.There was a small woodstove manufacturer located there a century or so ago, and they — of course — made riddle plates.”
“Of course.”
“Though,” he allowed with a faint thawing as his interest caught fire, “it could, by some, have seemed appropriate as a reference to the funereal riddle.”
“Funereal riddle,” I repeated, trying to place why the term sounded familiar.
“A young woman is attending her mother’s funeral.She encounters a man there whom she has not previously met.He’s charming and handsome and she wants to know him better, but she is otherwise occupied with the events of the funeral.When her duties are over, he’s gone.Her solution is to kill her sister.Why?”
I’d heard this before, thanks to Kit.
“He was the grim reaper.But, really, charming and handsome?And why doesn’t she kill herself if she wants to know him well?”
A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth.“They say that if you can answer that riddle quickly, you’re a sociopath.”
“That never made sense to me, either.Why would a sociopath get the riddle right?”
We’d advanced during this exchange.Emil had picked up his order and now turned for the door.As he passed us, without making eye contact, much less acknowledging either of us with even a mumbled hello, he ripped the stapled receipt off the bag, balled it up in his hand, then dropped it on the floor.
“Typical,” Urban said under his breath.He bent over to pick up the receipt.When he straightened, he asked me, “Why are you frowning?”
“Am I?”
“You are.”
I shook my head.“I guess at Emil being a litterbug.Or maybe it’s like with a baby — some gas.”
