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

He slipped a heavy arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “Hang in there. It’ll be over before you know it.”

After he left, I walked over to one of the detectives who’d interviewed me. He rested his forearms on a small mountain of a stomach as he chicken-scratched in a palm-sized notebook.

“Excuse me,” I said.

His eyebrows were bushy canopies over mud-colored eyes.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Harper?”

“I was wondering when I can lock up and go home.”

He sighed heavily. “Like I told your friend, Officer Aragon, the chief wants to view the scene and talk to you himself. None of us are going to be leaving until he gets here.”

“Can’t I tell him my story tomorrow?”

“Sorry.” He stuck the battered notebook inside his jacket and lifted a meaty hand in apology. “Orders.”

“Well, that’s just great,” I said. I walked back and sat down again on my bumper where, out of anxiety and a certain amount of irritation at bureaucratic pettiness, I flicked small rocks at the license plate of one of the patrol cars blocking my escape.

I gave myself ten points every time I hit the plate. Minus ten if it careened off the dented bumper. The moon inched across the sky at the same rate the chief was apparently driving up the interstate. I watched the detectives send a patrolman for coffee twice; the second time he had doughnuts. A blond uniformed officer with a crew cut offered me a cup both times. The first time, I accepted. By the time they offered the second, my stomach gurgled a definite no.

I was up to two hundred points when an older, sky-blue Corvette with an off-white rag top roared into the parking lot. I hoped it was the chief because I’d already decided that at four hundred points I was going home. Even if I had to walk.

A tall, fortyish, Hispanic man in round wire-rimmed glasses stepped out of the car. He ignored me as he walked past, ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and disappeared into the museum.

Frustrated, I picked up another handful of rocks and tossed one.

“That could be construed as vandalism against city property,” a familiar voice said with a chuckle. “California Penal Code 594. It’s a serious crime, Mrs. Harper, right up there with giving a false name to a newspaper.”

“So call a cop.” I turned to smile at Jack’s best friend and old college buddy, Carl Freedman. I moved over and patted the bumper. “Have a seat. How’d you get through? I would have thought you’d be the last person they’d let talk to me.”

“I told them I was a new investigator with the County Coroner’s office.” His tanned face crinkled as he flashed a cocky white grin.

“And they fell for it?” I asked, though I believed it. With his gold-blond hair, pale chambray-blue eyes and unabashed manner, he could sweet-talk the letter “g” out of the alphabet. His Hollywood smile had caused more than one woman to compare him to Robert Redford, something he played up so often, Jack used to call him the Sundance Kid.

“You’ve worked on your dad’s paper since you could spell your name,” I said. “They should all know you by now.”

“I can still fool some of the rookies.” He draped a wiry arm around me. “Need a friendly shoulder?”

“In exchange for what?” I leaned my head back against his arm. “Why are you here, anyway? Since when does your father let you cover the important stuff?”

“Since big brother is in Hawaii and Dad’s got the flu,” he said in a light voice.

“So what took you so long to get here, Jimmy Olsen? It’s after two o‘clock.”

“Had a game of pool, a pitcher of beer and Lois Lane to finish.”

“Is that what you’re going to tell your dad?”

“Forget him,” he said. He pulled out a pocket-sized tape recorder. “Now, tell your old buddy all the gory details.”

Before I could answer, a husky, irritated voice interrupted him.

“Who are you?”

The Hispanic man I assumed to be the chief scrutinized us with cold blue-gray eyes. He wore faded Levi’s, a pink polo shirt and a white windbreaker. His straight black hair was cut close and parted on the side—a lawyer’s haircut. A thick, neatly trimmed black mustache hid his mouth, but by the set of his jaw, he wasn’t smiling.

Carl bounced up, grinned and held out a hand. “Carl Freedman, San Celina Tribune. How about a personal interview for the Lifestyle Section next Sunday? How do you like living on the Central Coast, Chief Ortiz? Got any interesting hobbies?”

“Impersonating a county official can buy you a lot of trouble,” the man said, ignoring Carl’s hand. “Get lost.”

Carl faced me, his back to the chief, and crossed his eyes. “You going to be okay?”

“Oh, sure,” I said. “Now that Joe Friday has arrived.”

Carl mouthed, I’ll call you later.

I nodded and gave him a grateful smile. His silliness had helped me forget for a minute the reality of what had happened. As flaky as he was in other areas, Carl was good at that. I don’t think I would have made it through those first few weeks after Jack’s death without Carl distracting me with stories about the crazy assignments his dad gave him for the Lifestyle section of the newspaper.

The chief stared at me silently. Out of sheer nervousness, I threw a rock and hit the license plate. When he didn’t comment, I threw another one. Finally, he spoke.

“Albenia Harper?” His voice was as flat and controlled as a news anchor’s.

“That’s me.” Plink.

“I’m Chief Ortiz.”

“That’s you.” I threw two and gave myself double points.

“I need to speak with you.”

“So speak.” Three hundred fifty and counting.

“Would you please stop that?” His voice carried a slight edge this time.

Plink. I knew I was pushing it, but I’d been up there almost four hours; fatigue had short-circuited the more judicious side of my nature, which wasn’t one of my strongest traits even when I wasn’t cold, tired, scared and had