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

the last of the criminal investigation team to leave. Someone had finally brought me my purse, so I assumed it wouldn’t be much longer before I was allowed to lock up. Then I really needed to think. I couldn’t let the artists walk in on that mess. Someone would have to clean it up. The thought of doing it myself made me reach out and grab one of the posts supporting the porch.

I ran through my mental list of co-op members, stopping at Ray Winfry, the decoy carver. He was dependable and kind, and more importantly, had served a tour in Vietnam. Maybe this wouldn’t faze him much.

Rita presented a whole separate problem. I needed to track her down and find out what had happened. And Eric. I didn’t even want to think about him. Could he have killed Marla? I remembered the argument they’d had and realized I’d forgotten to tell anyone about it. I decided it could wait until tomorrow. I didn’t think I had it in me for another round with Ortiz. I closed my eyes, pinched the bridge of my nose and told myself this would all be over soon.

The heavy Spanish door of the hacienda slammed open, causing me to jump. Two men in dark jumpsuits maneuvered the gurney over the threshold. They bumped Marla’s navy-bagged body down the three steps indifferently, as if moving an old sofa. Tears started to fill my eyes and a sourness inched back up my throat.

“Ms. Harper.” A deep voice came from behind me.

I ignored it, my attention held captive by the long, bulky bag. When it threatened to come out of the safety belts, one of the attendants casually shoved it back in place. I rubbed the back of my neck with an icy palm in an attempt to stop the queasy churning in my stomach. Was this how Jack was treated? I felt an irrational anger at the callousness of the attendants. Logically, I knew they had to treat their job that way or go crazy, but I wanted to scream—she’s a person, not a sack of feed.

“Ms. Harper, look at me.” The imperious voice wouldn’t give up.

“What is it?” I whipped around to face Chief Ortiz.

He leaned against one of the rough posts, eyes mild behind owlish glasses.

“Your name,” he said. “Albenia. Where did you get it?”

“My parents gave it to me.” I frowned at him. Where was this line of questioning going?

A faint smile played around the corners of his mouth. “I assumed that. Where did they get it?”

I sighed in exasperation, not believing I was discussing name origins at two in the morning with some L.A. yuppie posing as the chief of police while the body of someone I’d talked to only six hours ago was being bounced around like a bale of hay.

“My mother’s name was Alice. My father’s name is Benjamin. What does this have to do with Marla’s murder?”

“Interesting.” He nodded and pulled at the end of his mustache. “Are you called Albenia?”

“No.”

He raised his eyebrows and waited.

“Benni,” I snapped.

“Did you know that in Latin your name means blonde?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Before he could answer, the sharp clamp of the back of the coroner’s van distracted us. We watched it pull slowly out of the parking lot onto the highway. Realizing then what he’d been doing, I turned back and nodded.

“Thanks,” I said reluctantly.

He shrugged and stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

“No one took my fingerprints,” I said.

“Come down to the station tomorrow. It’s just a formality.”

“You mean I’m not the chief suspect?” I said sarcastically. “I can leave town if I want?”

“I think your proclivity to tidy up, not to mention your graphically vivid physical reaction, pretty much eliminates you as a suspect.”

“Oh.” I considered his comment. “Then why do you need my fingerprints? Why do you have to talk with me again tomorrow? I won’t know any more than I do now.”

“You think not?” His aloof mask returned. “I only said you weren’t a suspect. I never said you weren’t suspect.”

On that note, I changed the subject. “Who’s going to tell Marla’s family? I put her mother’s address on the list I gave your detective.” My voice faltered. That horrible knock in the middle of the night. Every woman’s secret fear—for her husband, her son, her daughter. Except it didn’t happen like that for me. The sheriff’s deputy went to the Harper Ranch first. I was always sorry Wade was the one to tell me. It would have been easier to hate a stranger that first terrible moment.

Ortiz’s mask slipped for a split second. A pained look flashed across his face, then disappeared.

“It’ll be taken care of.” He pulled his hands out of his pockets and walked toward the remaining emergency vehicles. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said over his shoulder.

“Right,” was all I could think of to say. At that moment, I was tired of making wisecracks, tired of trying to avoid questions, tired of being more involved in this than I should have been. And I was just flat-out tired.

After locking up the studios and the museum, I walked out to my truck. Two other vehicles were left in the parking lot: a nondescript beige four-door and Ortiz’s Corvette. Detective Bushy-brows whispered low to Ortiz, then climbed into the four-door.

I cranked the ignition, waiting for it to catch. The Chevy had needed something done to the engine for months but I’d put off getting it checked. Jack and Wade always worked on our trucks, so I didn’t have a clue about how to find a trustworthy mechanic. With all the extra work Wade had at the ranch, I didn’t want to bother him, so I’d just babied it along, irrationally hoping whatever was wrong would right itself.

I cranked it again, then hit the steering wheel in frustration, my eyes filming over. Through the blur I glanced over at Ortiz leaning against his car, his arms crossed, watching me. When he