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

“Come on,” I begged. The ignition gave a loud screech. Though I couldn’t see it, I’m sure he winced. There isn’t a man alive who doesn’t when he hears that sound. Finally, the engine caught. As I swung past, my headlights spotlighted him for a moment. He inclined his head in a single nod.

His small acts of kindness didn’t fool me. They had a purpose. Obviously a man who believed in living by the rules, when he found out I’d withheld information concerning Marla’s murder, there’d be no telling what he’d do.

Hopefully, I wouldn’t be the one to tell him. When I found Rita, she’d be the one in the hot seat. Just what she deserved. Until then, I’d stall him with a little verbal tap-dancing. The way I figured, it was 35 degrees outside and the man wore no socks. How smart could he be?

4

I WOKE UP crusty-eyed and cranky from lack of sleep. From my front-porch lounge chair, sipping a mug of warm almond milk in an effort to soothe my caffeine-raw stomach, I watched my neighbor, Mr. Treton, grumble over his rain-putnmeled impatiens. He was retired Army, a thirty-year man, and hated insubordination of any kind. He poked at the flattened flowers with his cane, silently commanding them to attention.

A sharp, salty breeze penetrated my cotton sweats, but the sky was clear. The weather was no longer my most pressing problem. That left Rita. My fruitless phone search for her had left me frustrated and edgy. Between sips of milk and calls of encouragement to Mr. Treton, I chewed my nails and worried.

I had called Ray early and he’d agreed to help me clean up the museum before the rest of the artists arrived. Out of a sense of duty, I called Constance. Her housekeeper informed me in a stiff voice that Miss Sinclair never rose until she was good and ready. For anything.

My next step seemed inevitable. I needed to go by Marla’s place and see if Rita ever made it home. Since it was a given that the police would also be checking her house, I hadn’t worked out my plan of action, but it was still early. Something would occur to me.

After a thorough inspection of the grayish-green plant life that had sprouted overnight on my bread, I decided to treat myself to breakfast at Liddie’s Cafe downtown.

The phone rang as I was pulling on a clean pair of Wranglers and Jack’s favorite navy blue flannel shirt.

“My best friend finds a body and I have to hear about it from my little brother,” Elvia accused in her smooth contralto voice.

“I swear I was going to call you in two minutes.”

“I can’t believe it. We just talked to her last night.” I heard a voice call Elvia’s name. “Just a minute.” She gave the voice a long, detailed explanation about credit card rules while I inspected a bloody hangnail on my left thumb.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s crazy here already. Except for the profits, I hate the holidays. Are you okay? Come by the bookstore later and give me the details.”

“I’m fine. I’ll drop by this afternoon after my talk with the chief. I’m sure I’ll be in the mood to do some real complaining by then.”

“Why?”

“Hasn’t Miguel told you about San Celina’s new chief of police?”

“Only that he’s from L.A.”

“Well, that’s about the nicest thing you can say about him, if you catch my drift.”

“Uh-oh, I know that tone. Maybe you’d better try and keep a civil tongue in your head.”

“You haven’t met this guy,” I said.

“Well, at least try.”

“Elvia, I always try.”

Liddie’s Cafe, located two blocks from the civic center and police station, boasted the largest parking lot in town. Even so, the only vacant spot was in the back row, where I squeezed my truck between a white city-issue Ford and a county animal-control truck.

The red-and-brown walls, last redecorated when Eisenhower was in office, seemed to vibrate with the screechy voices of morning-anxious people craving their first cup of coffee. Open twenty-four hours, Liddie’s was popular with everyone from the lowliest freshman at Cal Poly University to the mayor himself, who ate breakfast there every Thursday with whichever city council member he could dupe into picking up the check.

I craned my head above the chattering groups of threes and fours. This was maybe not one of my best ideas. A skinny Asian man in a Chevron Oil cap rose from his stool at the red Formica counter and dropped some coins next to his plate. I pushed through the crowd and headed for it. Counter seats at this time of day always went to the swift of foot.

“Benni Harper, how are you, honey?” a bass voice boomed as I walked by.

“Hey, J.D.” I stopped in front of the long, six-person booth he occupied. “I can’t believe you’re eating alone.”

“Well, I’m not anymore,” he said. His voice carried a strong Texas twang and sounded as unstoppable as a cattle stampede. “Sit down here, honey, and tell me what happened last night. That son of mine never could get all his facts straight.”

Jersey Dwayne Freedman, Carl’s father and publisher of the San Celina Tribune as well as owner of half the businesses in town, had known my family for over thirty years. He moved to San Celina from Texas the same year my parents came from Arkansas, when I was only three years old. With his thick white pompadour, impeccably tailored Western suit and turquoise-chunk string tie, he could be the poster boy of any Cattlemen’s Association in the country, though the only cattle he’d ever branded was on his gas barbeque on Sunday afternoons. He hadn’t called me “little lady” yet, but when he did, I wouldn’t fall over in surprise.

“You must be feeling better.” I slid into the red vinyl bench seat across from him.

“Felt worse last night than a calf with the slobbers.” He gave a bullish snort. “But I