Miser
an excerpt

Neil Miser followed the sheriff's directions to the Terry house, but it wouldn't have been hard to find on his own. The last lot on Trumpeter Lane, the two-story yellow house was set back from the street and two squad cars stood in the front drive. Neil parked his Jeep on the side of the road, tilting slightly toward the ditch that allowed for water runoff during the annual rainstorms that hit the island.

He got out of the car and walked around the rim of the ditch. Halfway to the porch, the front door swung open and a blonde officer stepped out. She held up one hand and said, "Sorry, sir. This is a crime scene."

"Officer Carson, I presume?" He held out a hand. "Neil Miser. The sheriff should've told you I was coming."

She ignored the hand. "Identification?"

Neil hesitated and then pulled his wallet out. He flipped it open to show his driver's license in the small window. She looked at it without much interest, compared his face to that in the license, and then said, "No PI license? No badge? What's your interest here?"

Neil sighed. First Deputy White, now another cop on the force who didn't like him. It was so unfair; they'd only just met, after all. "Is Rucker here?"

"Stand down, Emily," Cal Rucker said. "He's a friend." The sheriff stepped out of the house. He put a hand on her shoulder and nodded at Neil. "You find the place all right?"

"I just followed the honking of the geese."

"They're swans," Emily said. "Trumpeter swans."

Neil squinted and gestured at the house. "Is he in here?"

Cal motioned for Neil to follow him and went back inside. The front door led into a dark parlor, furnished with antiques and hidden from prying eyes by a pale yellow curtain. The lights were all off, so the light filtered through the windows made everything look sickly and sepia-toned. To Neil's right, the room branched into a fancy dining room that probably hadn't been used very often. Dirty plates and beer cans lined the coffee table in the living room, all on a chair that was angled to face the television.

Emily followed them into the house and stood by the front door. She hooked her thumbs on her belt and cast a judgmental eye over the mess. Neil tried to ignore the holier-than-thou image she projected and focused on the house. "Where was he?" Neil asked quietly, respectfully.

"Upstairs. But I don't think we'll need your help on this one."

"Oh?" Neil followed Rucker to the stairs that ran up the back wall of the living room.

Rucker half-turned as he climbed the stairs. "Got this one figured out on my own. But I'll give you a chance, make sure you're not getting too rusty."

"You're a prince, Ruck."

"I do what I can."

Three doors branched off the upstairs landing. Two of the doors stood open and Neil could see a small, unfurnished bedroom and a bathroom. Rucker led him down the hall to the last door. He turned the knob and pushed the door open. "I'll wait for you out here."

Neil stepped into the bedroom and stopped just over the threshold. The bedroom wasn't large, and the bed took up most of the free space. An open door revealed the master bathroom. A window to the left of the bed was open to the early morning light. Neil moved to the left and looked at the floor. A pyramid of empty beer cans stood between the night stand and the wall. A pile of dirty clothes had been kicked in the corner.

The body was on the left side of the bed, on top of the covers. He still wore his pajamas, and he was facing the window as if he'd wanted to see one last sunrise. A flower of blood marred his temple and two red rivers had tracked down the side of his face.

"Well?" Rucker asked from the door.

Neil looked up at the sheriff, and then looked back to the bed. "Alfred Terry, I presume. Seventy years old. Dead from a gunshot wound to the temple." The gun was resting next to his hand. "Self-inflicted from the looks of it. As for cause..."

Rucker held up a finger. "Wait. I gotta be fair. You recognize the name?"

"Terry?" Neil said. He thought for a moment and then shook his head.

"Alfred Terry, sole survivor for Edna Mae Terry. Passed away three weeks ago at the age of seventy."

Neil nodded. "I vaguely remember seeing the name in the paper." He looked back over the bedroom and said, "Make sense now. Widower. Tried to make life work without his dearly beloved..." He gestured at the beer cans. "Looks like he wasn't trying too hard."

"Cleaning probably wasn't high on his to-do list," Rucker said.

"He was alone for as long as he could stand, and then he decided to join her."

Rucker nodded. "I can't decide if it's romantic or sad."

"That means it's probably romantic."

They left the bedroom and headed downstairs. Officer Carson was still standing sentry in the front door and eyed Neil as he came into the living room. He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but she was unphased by it. When she spoke, she kept her eyes fixed on him even though the question was posed to Sheriff Rucker. "If you don't mind me asking, what is his business here?"

Rucker looked at Neil and gestured for him to explain.

Neil sighed. "I'm a suicide investigator."

Carson frowned. "Pardon?"

"When the police investigate a death and determine that it's a suicide, the case is closed. There's no one to arrest, nothing criminal to work out. But there are always questions for those left behind. People want to know why it happened, not just how."

"Isn't that what suicide notes are for?"

"The majority of suicides don't leave a note. I think it's something like eighty or eight-five percent don't leave any kind of message. They're either incapable of writing, or they have no one to leave a note for, like Alfred Terry upstairs. Most of the time, they just can't express what they're feeling. Think about it. You're about to kill yourself, they're the last words you're ever going to write... might be hard to figure out just what to say."

She didn't seem convinced, but seemed to relax slightly. "You get paid for this?"

Neil shrugged. "Sometimes. It depends."

"Nice job."

Neil sighed.

Rucker intervened. "Emily, you've been on-duty all night. Why don't you head on out, I'll wait here for the coroner."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah. Go on home."

Carson reluctantly pulled herself from the door and finally took her eyes off Neil. He waited until she was off the porch before he turned to the sheriff. "Damn it, Rucker. Can't you hire at least one officer who doesn't hate me?"

"Sorry. They only give me so much room on the application form and I've decided to use it to find out if they can fire a handgun."

Neil scoffed. "You need to get your priorities straight."

They moved out onto the porch in time to see Officer Carson's car pull out onto the street. Rucker ran a hand over his bald head as he watched the car disappear. "Give her time. She'll warm up to you."

"Like Deputy White?"

"Randy's a special case. I'm as much to blame for that as you are."

"Yeah, but you sign his paychecks. So..."

Rucker smirked. After a moment, he said, "Hillary coming back today?"

"I think so."

"Good."

Neil shook his head and chuckled. "You're a dirty old man."

"But at least I'm honest about it."

Neil stepped off the porch and said, "I'm going to leave before the coroner shows up."

"Henderson's not a bad guy."

"I know," Neil said. "But he's creepy as hell."

Rucker scoffed. "Said the suicide investigator."

"It should mean more coming from me," Neil said. He waved over his shoulder as he walked to his Jeep. He climbed behind the wheel, carefully pulled away from the ditch and headed back to civilization.