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

a mouth that tasted like coffee-flavored puke.

“Ms. Harper.” Somehow he managed to put the threat of all his power and authority into two words.

Prudence kicked in. I dropped the rocks in the dirt, stood up and brushed off the back of my jeans. I was a smartass, but not a stupid one.

“Are you through?” he asked.

“I guess so.” I looked up into eyes the same color as a winter ocean. Odd for a Hispanic. They studied me coolly from behind his gold wire-rimmed glasses.

“Then I’d like to ask you a few questions.” He pulled a small leather notebook and gold Cross pen from the pocket of his windbreaker.

“I’ve already told two of your detectives everything I saw.”

“And now,” he said evenly, “you can tell me.”

So I repeated my story a third time, leaving out the same small detail I had with the others. I didn’t tell him about Rita. It was a stupid move, but I felt a perverse sense of family loyalty and wanted to hear her side before throwing her to the blue-uniformed wolves. I didn’t believe she’d killed Marla. Frankly, the whole thing baffled me. Now, if it had been Rita killed by Marla, that might have been understandable, maybe even justifiable.

As I spoke, Chief Ortiz’s face remained expressionless. Occasionally, he jotted something in his notebook. When I finished, he didn’t comment but stared over my head into the dark forest of eucalyptus trees behind me. I knew what he was trying to do and I was determined not to feel intimidated.

I leaned against the truck and crossed my legs. Then my arms. After a few minutes, I uncrossed both. I chewed on a hangnail. All the coffee I’d consumed started to burn in my stomach. Trying to ignore the ache, I studied the interesting mud patterns on my shoes. I contemplated asking him for a breath mint. After five minutes of silence, I had to admit he was making me nervous, and that really annoyed me.

“You said a Mr. Eric Griffin, the museum handyman, was up here with Ms. Chenier,” he finally said.

“That’s right.”

“And no one else.”

“Right.” I dropped my eyes, then realizing it probably appeared suspicious, looked back up. He raised a skeptical eyebrow and adjusted his glasses.

“How did they get here?” he asked.

“I’m not really sure.” I forced myself to meet his gaze.

“Where were you this evening?”

“At Blind Harry’s Bookstore downtown. Until ten or so.”

“Did you see Ms. Chenier at any time this evening?”

“When she came by to pick up the keys. Eric didn’t have his.”

“And who was with her?”

“I told you. Eric.”

“What were they driving?”

“Marla’s van. I gave them my keys and they left. That’s it.”

His unblinking examination finally got to me and I dropped my eyes, not caring how it appeared. I studied the ground around his feet. He wore beat-up leather topsiders—no socks. Shoes say a lot about a man. His screamed L.A. yuppie. More specifically, Orange County—where everyone from birth to ninety dresses like a student from an East Coast prep school or a Beach Boys fan. I nervously smoothed back some curly strands of hair tickling my face and looked back up at him.

“This is a waste of time,” I said. “I’ve told all this to two of your detectives. With how long it’s taken to get this thing going, her killer could be in Oregon by now.”

He gave me a long look, acknowledging that my comment hit home, he didn’t appreciate it, and was choosing to ignore it.

“What was your relationship with Ms. Chenier?”

“We worked together.”

“Were you friends?”

“I suppose. I’ve only worked here three months. I don’t know anybody real well. Why?”

“You seem pretty flippant for someone who just found their friend stabbed to death.”

He wasn’t the first person in my life who had deemed it their right to decide that my response to something wasn’t appropriate. I didn’t feel the need to inform this jerk I was taught that people with backbone didn’t fall apart in public. If you absolutely had to give in to tears, that’s what showers were for.

“I’m sorry my emotional reactions don’t meet your standards,” I said, with as much deference as I could manage. “May I go home now?”

His dark eyebrows squeezed together in a scowl. “Let me see your hands.”

“What?” I instinctively shoved them in my jacket pockets.

He tucked his notebook and pen in his windbreaker and held out a large brown hand. “Ms. Harper, your hands, please.”

Reluctantly, I pulled them out. They were grimy from the rocks and crusty from dried varnish. I presented them, palms down.

He touched the gold band on my left hand. “Has someone let you call your husband?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said.

With an enigmatic expression, he took my hands, turned them over and felt my fingertips with his thumbs.

I shivered even though his hands were surprisingly warm. His contact reminded me of the smooth feel of Marla’s neck. I wanted to pull my hands back, race home, scrub them clean.

“I’ll need a set of your fingerprints,” he said, dropping my hands.

“Why?” Fear twisted my stomach. It never occurred to me I’d be a suspect.

“Just procedure. It shouldn’t bother you if you have nothing to hide.” He looked at me pointedly. “I’ll need to talk to you again tomorrow.”

“Fine.” I edged past him, heading toward the museum, when he called to me.

“Ms. Harper.”

I turned around. “What?” I didn’t even attempt to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

“I’ve been in law enforcement for twenty years. I know when someone is lying. What aren’t you telling me?”

I took a deep breath, trying not to let my panic show. “I have nothing else to say,” I muttered, staring at the bridge of his glasses.

He gave me another long look. “I’ll need a list of the co-op members and their addresses.”

“I’ll print one up for you tomorr—”

“Now.”

“Yes, sir,” I said under my breath.

After printing an address list on my word processor and giving it to the bushy-browed detective, I waited on the front porch of the museum for