Fool's Puzzle by Earlene Fowler (reading eggs books .TXT) 📕

had a tinny echo in the empty room. No one answered. I walked back toward my office. Since Eric obviously wasn’t working on the exhibit, there was only one other thing he could be doing. That stupid book.

“Eric?” I called again. “Marla?”

Going down the hallway toward my office, I noticed light under the woodshop door. I pushed the door open. An acrid odor rose up, stung my nose. Across the L-shaped room, a worktable lay on its side. An open quart of marine varnish spread into a hardening pool on the concrete floor. I went over and tilted the can upright. Sticky varnish clung to my fingers. Irritated, I headed around the corner to find some rags to clean it up.

I felt my mouth open when I saw Marla, but it was like one of those terrible nightmares where you’re struck dumb—I couldn’t squeak a sound. She was sprawled in front of the sink, one leg twisted under her. Blood soaked her yellow tee shirt. It swam before my eyes in a kaleidoscope pattern. The brad awl sticking out of her chest quivered in the red river of what had to be arterial bleeding. I reached out to stop the vibrating wood-working instrument.

“No.” My voice was a painful whisper. The awl seemed to move again. I stared at my hand. The awl wasn’t shaking. I was.

CPR, I thought—I should do CPR. I searched the wool in my brain for the numbers—fifteen to two, five to one—I needed a partner—where was my partner—she looked like that doll—clean the cold lips with alcohol—stings—terrible smell—like hospitals—like death.

Stop it, I commanded myself. You can do this. You’ve pulled calves, you’ve seen blood. A circle of gray started to close around my eyes. This wasn’t like cattle. This was a human being. How would I do the compressions, stop the bleeding? The awl would have to be pulled out. Acidy bile rose in my throat. I grabbed the edge of the sink counter. The cold tile shocked me back to reality. She might not be alive. Find out. I bent down, touched her neck gently. Then harder. Nothing.

I backed up. A rushing, jet-engine sound filled my ears. I ran for my office.

“Help,” I croaked to the 911 operator. “Please.”

“What’s the problem?” she asked calmly. Her tiny alien voice sounded planets away.

“Marla’s dead,” I said. “The Folk Art Museum. Mission Highway.” I felt my stomach roll. “Please. Somebody come.”

“The police are on their way,” her placid voice replied. I dropped the phone.

Get out, my brain said. Whoever did this is still here. Get to the truck. Run. I gripped the handles of my chair, head reeling. Run.

I stood up, swayed uneasily, fell back into the chair. Some things are more urgent than fear. Gripping my stomach, I puked into my trash can thinking absurdly as I gagged—watercress sure doesn’t taste a heck of a lot different the second time around.

3

“HERE, DRINK THIS.” Miguel, one of Elvia’s younger brothers, and a new patrol officer with the San Celina Police Department, handed me a gray thermos cup of coffee. He’d stopped by after hearing the address of the murder on his radio.

“Thanks,” I said, gripping the plastic cup with both hands.

“Watch it.” He grabbed my arm, pulling me out of the way as the coroner’s black van drove up next to us. His large hand enveloping my elbow was comforting. It still surprised me whenever I saw him, chesty and solid, in his blue uniform. He couldn’t be the same little boy I’d once read Goodnight Moon to fifteen times in a row because he didn’t want the light turned out.

“They won’t let me go home. Why can’t I go home?” I closed my eyes and shivered in spite of my sheepskin jacket. In the blackness I saw Marla’s bloodstained chest again, the waterfall of so much human blood. I opened my eyes.

“Sorry, Benni.” He lifted his hand and ran a square hand over his cropped black hair. “The chief said he wanted to talk to you himself.”

“So where is he?”

“The detective I asked said he was down in Santa Barbara when they beeped him. You know it takes about two hours to drive up. He oughta be here soon.”

“Can they do this, Miguel? Keep me like this? Don’t I have rights or som-ething?”

“They can pretty much do what they want.” He gave me an apologetic look, then narrowed his dark-spaniel eyes. “It’d be better for you to cooperate. Better be careful with this new chief. He doesn’t have much of a sense of humor. He may not find your smartass remarks so funny.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I danced from one foot to the other in an attempt to get warm.

“Yeah, well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“You said he’s not the real chief? What’s the deal?”

“He’s a temporary guy. Chief Davidson’s on medical leave. Hepatitis or his liver or something. Guess this Ortiz is from L.A.”

“Another transplant? They’re like ants, nothing stops them. Couldn’t they get a local to take the job?”

“I dunno. Maybe nobody wanted it.”

“Makes you wonder why he did.”

I sat down on the wide bumper of my truck. Police cars surrounded it, foiling any thoughts I might have of escape. No matter how tightly I pulled my jacket around me I couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop thinking. Marla dead. Where was Eric? Where was Rita?

They had to know Marla was dead. At least Rita anyway. I’d seen her drive away. Where was she going? What was she thinking, driving away like that? What had she seen? My stomach lurched considering the possibilities.

“I’ve got to get back in the field.” Miguel’s deep voice jarred me back. “You going to be okay?”

“No, but there’s nothing you can do about it.” I watched him zip up his heavy jacket and fought the urge to beg him to stay.

“Want me to call Elvia?” he asked.

I handed back the empty cup. “No, it’s too late. I’ll call her tomorrow. Thanks for the