Chapter 27–Wednesday, 9:00AM

Herb pulled up near the Beans’ back porch. Their farm, about twenty miles outside the Garden City limits, was a quaint place. The nearest neighbors were three miles to the east. Herb had only been in String’s home once before. The Beans were quiet folks, stayed mostly to themselves. String seldom attended department parties. His wife had never stepped foot in her husband’s workplace. Not once.

Herb shut off the car. Pulling his cell phone from his coat pocket, he dropped it in the console. He hated to do it, afraid he might miss an important call, but he’d be tempted to answer it if it rang while he was inside. He’d already taken a long time to make contact. No need to add insult to injury.

Stepping from the car, Herb walked slowly to the house. Almost as soon as he knocked on the back door, it opened. Mrs. Bean, a slender woman with french cut clothing, did not smile when Herb greeted her. “May I come in?” he asked when she said nothing.

“I guess,” she said, pushing the storm door toward him.

Herb removed his hat as he stepped into the rustic kitchen. A delicious odor hit his nose. “Smells good,” he offered. “Mud pies?”

“Yes,” she answered. “The neighbors brought them by ten minutes ago. They’ve been so kind. Most everyone has been,” she said, eyeing her husband’s boss. “Some folks have been here two or three times.”

Herb swallowed. “That’s kind of them,” he said. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long.”

A tear ran down the woman’s face. Herb felt like such a heel. He should’ve come earlier.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I know you’ve been busy.” She was softening. “Have a seat please.”

Herb pulled up a chair at the smallish table. It’s legs screeched across the linoleum floor. As he settled in, String’s widow asked, “Have you made any progress on this case?”

“A little,” Herb said candidly. “We’ve got more unanswered questions than answered ones, but we’re getting closer. I can feel it in my ribs.”

“That’s good,” Mrs. Bean said quietly, wiping her eyes.

“We’re going to catch your husband’s killer, ma’am,” Herb promised. “We’re doing everything we can.”

String’s widow sniffled. “I know you are,” she said. Standing she smiled. “Would you like a slice of pie.”

“I really shouldn’t,” Herb said. The doctor had told him to cut back on baked dirt products.

“Oh, please, won’t you,” Mrs. Bean pled. “I’d enjoy the company and Mrs. Pumpkin’s mud pies are the best in the county.”

Herb knew he couldn’t say no. “Alright,” he said. “A small piece.”

The piece of mud pie set before him a minute later was the biggest he’d ever been served. Mrs. Bean sat down opposite him and watched in silence as he ate. When he finished, she offered another slice. Herb patted his middle, “Oh, no,” he said. “I couldn’t eat another bite.”

He smiled. “I really should be going,” he insisted softly. He rose, picking up his hat and coat as he did so.

Mrs. Bean followed him to the door. As he stepped out on the porch, Herb turned back. “I really am sorry for your loss Mrs. Bean. String was a great man, an asset to the department.”

The woman bit her lip. “Thanks,” she whispered, then quickly turned and closed the door.

A tear fell from Herb’s left eye as he walked to the car.