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trailer.
    “ That was preparing us?” I asked Mother acidly.
    She shrugged. “Being direct is always the best approach, I always say. Rip that bandage off! No sense lingering on the unpleasant.”
    She was right, so I left her unpleasantness behind and went inside, where I found Chaz on her knees in the small kitchen area, leaning over the sprawled-on-his-back, pajama-clad Mr. Walter Yeager. The girl was shaking her grandfather gently, as if he were only in a deep sleep.
    Holding up her cell phone as she stood poised in the doorway, Mother said, “I’ve already called the police.”
    I put a hand on Chaz’s shoulder. “The paramedics will be here right away.”
    Mother quipped, “Perhaps not…I made it clear the old gent was already dead.”
    Chaz flew to her feet and pointed a black-nailed forefinger at Mother, shouting, “Me grandad said you was a muppet, yeah? Maybe you did this to ’im!”
    Mother’s big eyes blinked behind the big glasses. “Muppet?”
    “A loony bird, innit?”
    I quickly moved between the two. “Mother,” I said, “maybe it would be best if you go outside and wait for…whoever is coming.”
    Mother frowned at me. “What does she mean by ‘a muppet’? Like Kermit or Miss Piggy…?”
    “Mother…outside. Please.” I thought no good would come of explaining to her that a “muppet” meant a crazy person in Brit speak.
    Mother nodded. “All right, dear, I’ll stand outside and flag down the police car.”
    “Do that.”
    Chaz, her cheeks streaked with black mascara, lips trembling, turned to me and asked pitifully, “Can’t you do anything , Bran?”
    I walked over to poor Mr. Yeager; he sure looked like a goner, but I said anyway, “I’ll try.”
    I knelt and went through the motions of chest compressions—like I’d seen done on TV shows—and hoped I wasn’t doing the man any more harm. (I had once gone to a mall where CPR classes were being offered, but got distracted by a shoe sale.) Thankfully, before I attempted mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, the sound of a siren reached my ears, and I ceased my useless efforts.
    Within another minute, two police officers came through the front door of the trailer. The blue uniform in the lead was Scott Munson, tall and gangly, while on his heels came plainclothes officer Mia Cordona, a dark-haired beauty who had once been a close friend of mine; she was in a black tailored suit, and neither cop wore a topcoat, though both their breaths were pluming in the pre-Christmas chill.
    The two officers were well known to Mother and me—and vice versa—and, perhaps understandably, something akin to dread flashed across their faces when they saw us.
    Then Munson barked, “Get out of the way!” and Mia corralled us three women in the living room of the trailer, which was separated from the kitchen by a half-wall.
    Chaz and I sat on a nubby tan couch, while Mother took a rocker that squeaked. Mia produced a small tape recorder from her coat pocket, and began firing questions.
    “And you are…?” Mia asked Chaz.
    “Charlotte Doxley. I…I’m ’is gran’daughter ….” Chaz began to sob.
    “She came from England a few months ago to live with Mr. Yeager,” I offered.
    Commotion at the front door halted our interview as the paramedics arrived.
    Chaz, her red-swollen eyes darting to the kitchen, started to rise from the couch, but I held her back gently. “Let them do their job…. Your grandfather’s in good hands, now….”
    She swallowed hard and nodded.
    Mia pressed on. “Who found the body?”
    Mother, rocking in the recliner that squeaked, raised her hand like a student in the back of class and piped up, “That would be me , dear.”
    Mia turned hooded eyes toward Mother. “As briefly as possible, Mrs. Borne….”
    Mother, rocking, squeaking, looked shocked. “Why, Mia…I’m always succinct. I never waste words. Brandy, don’t I always say, why use two words where one will do? Why give a big speech when a concise