Page 40 of Deathmarch

“Store-bought,” Rose said in a tone of confessing a crime, tucking a loose lock of long red hair behind her ear. “You know how hard it is to get fresh pig blood.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mom.” He took a big bite to prove it. “It’s a feast.”

Rose waved off the compliment. “Your grandmother is rolling in her grave.”

When she bustled back to the stove, Harper looked after her. That had to be the shortest complaint ever about the tragic unavailability of black pudding ingredients at the average American grocery store. She was clearly preoccupied. He was afraid he knew by what, and steeled himself for a tirade about Allie.

But instead of some very pointed words, when his mother brought two more slices of toast to the table, she exchanged a quick smile with his father.

What’s that about?

Harper opened his mouth to ask when he noticed that his father’s green plaid shirt wasn’t buttoned right. One button was without a buttonhole on top. He almost remarked on that when his brain finally put two and two together.

Some detective.

Holy crap.

Had he interrupted his parents when he’d walked in earlier?

In the kitchen??

Maybe he was wrong about what was preoccupying his mother.Oh God, don’t think about it.

Harper cleared his throat. He couldn’t look his father in the eye as he asked, “So, Old Man Lamm?”

“A crying shame, that man’s death.” Sean Finnegan, tall and wide shouldered, sat somberly at the head of the table like a chieftain of old, his full head of hair barely graying, the only lines on his face drawn by the laughter of years passed. “Well, any man’s death, but Lamm especially. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Kept to himself. Never did one bad thing to anyone.”

“Do you know if he had money? Like big money. Family money.”

“Blue-collar family. Most of the men worked at the paper mill, and the women stayed at home.”

“Who would you say was his closest friend?”

Sean Finnegan thought about that while he ate his black pudding with a hearty appetite. “The men he went to war with. He used to hang out at the VFW Hall with your grandfather. Stopped a little while back.”

“What’s a little while?”

“Around when we did that big renovation at the bar. About the same time your grandfather died.”

“Twenty years ago?”

Sean Finnegan raised his head, mild shock on his face. “Has it been that?”

“It has,” Harper’s mother put in from the kitchen, smiling, thinking about God knew what—not the VFW Hall, for sure.

“Why do you think he stopped going?” Harper asked.

“The people he served with started dying off. Driving over and seeing fewer and fewer of his friends each year had to be depressing.”

“How many of his old buddies are left?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Harper’s father shrugged. “Frank Carmelo, for sure. They were neighbors, growing up. Friends since they were in diapers. Only had a spat once. In love with the same girl. Had a nasty fight about it. Frank was a tough guy too. Survived POW camp. Anyway, your grandfather had to pull them apart more than once. Why?”

The washer beeped in the laundry room. Rose Finnegan dried her hands on a dishcloth and headed out there.

“I think Lamm might have had some secret prepper club going with a few other people,” Harper said when she was out of earshot.

Not that his mother was a gossip, but it was police business, an active investigation, everything on a need-to-know basis.