I stopped in front of the fireplace. It had been built by someone who evidently knew what he was doing. It was made of rock with an oak mantel. An old and faded linoleum covered most of the floor.
“You’re right, Jackie. This house has a lot going for it. It could be made into a nice home with enough imagination and money.”
“But, why would anyone cover beautiful oak wood like this with a cheap linoleum?” Jackie asked, pointing to the wood boards where the covering didn’t reach.
I shook my head. “At one time, maybe it was just too hard to keep a wood floor looking good. After all, this was a farm house. Maybe the linoleum was a lot easier to keep clean.”
Pat nudged it with the toe of her shoe. “Must have been here a long time. See how it’s loose on this side?”
I knelt down and ran my hand over the brittle covering. Several nails fell out and the linoleum cracked.
“Oh, look what I’ve done!” I said, as a piece came loose in my hand.
“It was covering up a stain of some sort,” Pat murmured, squatting down beside me.
Ulysses nosed the splotch, the hair along his back rising. He growled deep in his throat.
I aimed my camera at the floor. Daisy needed to see the good and the bad of her purchase. Maybe she would know how to restore a marred floor.
“Come, Ulysses,” I said, heading for the door. “I think we’re finished here. Everyone ready?”
“Yes, I am,” Jackie said. “Let’s go to my house for a cup of coffee and a sandwich. I’m famished.”
“No, wait.” Pat’s voice sounded strangled. “Didn’t you say Mr. Saunders was murdered here? Could this spot on the floor be blood?”
I shook my head. “That was a long time ago. Fifty years or so. Surely it couldn’t be blood.”
Pat cleared her throat. Her voice sounded shaky. “Gerald took several classes in forensics and from what he said, I think it’s very hard to completely get rid of a blood stain on wood.”
I stared at the dark area. With sunlight shining through the clouded windows, the thought of murder seemed alien. It didn’t belong here in this old farmhouse on a lovely autumn day, but according to history, violence had happened here, maybe right in this area where we were standing.
If this was the opinion of Pat’s policeman son, I’d accept it. The stain could very well be blood–human blood.
Ulysses still stood at alert, ears up, nose twitching. We three stared at each other. Was this where Mr. Saunders had lost his life?
“Let’s go,” Jackie said. “I’m out of here.”
This is an excerpt from my work-in-progress, working title of Yesterday’s Moon, the fourth in the Ned McNeil moonlight series.
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