Back at Petunia's, Dad and I huddled over coffee to talk out what we'd learned. Mom did her usual take care of us act while my pug lingered, looking for scraps. Dad's messy eating habits notwithstanding, I wondered how many of his cake crumbs hit the floor because he was actually clumsy or in an effort to hide the truth-he loved feeding Petunia who scrambled with her efficient and noisy snorfling to capture every last molecule.
I was distracted enough by the case to let the tiny bits of doggie contraband slide. "Is there any way the Pattersons are behind Lester's death?" I'd had my suspicions about their influence over Reading for a while now, and the fact one of their own had been dispatched without much sorrow from the family made me wonder. Yes, they'd lost another Patterson not so long ago, but it seemed more of a stink had been kicked up over the death of young Mason despite his distasteful personality than that of who had to have been his uncle.