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

“I know a lot about you, Ms. Harper.”

“Why me? I’m not the criminal here.”

“All information ends up somewhere. You must know that. As for why?” He slipped the blue card in the slot and pushed the door open. “I think that’s obvious. You’re involved in this up to your”—his eyes did a quick scan—“fairly attractive neck, so it behooves me to know about you.”

I pushed past him and headed up the stairs. “Believe me, I didn’t choose to find Marla’s body or be related to Rita. I’ve been dragged into this from the beginning, and as of now, I’m out of it.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” He opened the last door and we were back in the hallway leading to his office. “Then I can count on you to call me the next time you talk to your cousin?”

I contemplated whether I should lie or not.

“Ms. Harper?”

“She probably won’t call,” I said. “She’s very flaky.”

“Ms. Harper.” His voice held a warning.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “You’ve had your fun. Can I go now?”

“Certainly. You’re not under arrest. You’re free to leave whenever you like.” He smiled widely, with incredibly white, slightly crooked teeth. “Have a nice day.”

Same to you, bud. I walked back to my truck lambasting myself on my knee-jerk obedience to authority figures. The bright pink parking ticket fluttering under my windshield made me kick the driver’s door with my boot, adding one more dent to its pebbled complexion.

“Great,” I said, ripping it off. I leaned against the truck and read it. The instructions on how to pay were incomprehensible. I turned it over to see if a secret decoder ring was attached. I’d had one or two tickets since this whole program started, but I couldn’t remember how I’d handled them. A car swung into the empty parking space next to me.

“Having car problems?” Ortiz asked.

I shook the ticket at him. “This is all your fault. Don’t I get some kind of validation? I was talking to you the whole time. Isn’t that considered city business or something?”

He gestured for me to hand it to him, scanning it as he unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie. After a few minutes, I began to wonder if he couldn’t figure it out either.

“Well?” I demanded. “Are you going to do something about it?”

“Certainly.”

“Good.” My anger at him dissipated a millimeter.

“If you write out a check for twenty-five dollars, I’ll be happy to stick it in the mail for you.”

I grabbed the ticket back. “Thanks a lot.”

“Maybe you should pay the other two while you’re at it,” he said amicably.

That’s why I couldn’t remember what to do with them. “Don’t worry about it,” I snapped.

“I’d hate to put out a warrant for your arrest.”

“I bet you would.” I crumpled the ticket and tossed it over my shoulder into the bed of my truck.

“You look like a Whopper, small fries, diet Coke kind of person to me.” He removed his wire-rims and slipped on aviator sunglasses. “But I could be wrong. I guess I’ll have to do a little more research.” He flashed a smug smile and left me with a lungful of exhaust.

I stood there, trying to think of a snappy comeback, when a remark I’d made to J.D. about knowing your enemy sparked an idea. I reached for the crumpled ticket, flattened it out and stuck it back under my windshield. Hopefully, Ortiz and I would never have the opportunity to talk again. But if we did, I was going to be prepared.

San Celina’s city government offices were a short block from the police station. The three-story Mission-style building, with its rough, gray-white walls and red tile roof, housed Public Works, the City Clerk, the Mayor and all his entourage and the Personnel office. There’s one good thing about growing up in a fairly small town: you end up with friends in a lot of convenient places.

The long, gray terrazzo-tiled hallway gave me time to think about how to phrase my request. I pushed open the bumpy glass door labeled “Assistant Personnel Director.”

“Hey, Angie, I’ve come to collect on an old debt.”

Her milky-pale face lit up with surprise. A huge pair of tortoise-shell glasses slipped down her thin nose. With her middle finger, she shoved them back up with a quick, darting motion.

“Why, you little shrimp.” She gave a high, feminine laugh that didn’t match her intellectual looks. “Where have you been hiding? Do I owe you money? My mom’s just hatched a whole bunch of Rhode Island Reds. Would a couple of chickens cover it?”

Angie and I were 4-H partners through two calves, one goat, one lamb and numerous fowl during our pubescent years. We’d spent countless sticky, humid afternoons at the Mid-State Fair perched on our animal pens, boot heels hooked in the rungs, dropping peanuts in our icy Cokes and grading two-legged beef as it swaggered by.

“I’m collecting for the time that I told your mother you were spending the night at my house when in fact you went down to Eola Beach with—What was his name?”

She laughed again, gestured for me to take a seat and used her eyeglasses as a headband for her long, sand-colored hair. “Ricky Dean Abbott.” She rested her pointy chin on her hand. “Shoot, I haven’t thought of him in years. Last I heard, he moved to Oklahoma and was raising turkeys.”

“Appropriate occupation if I remember him correctly.”

“I don’t know where my mind was. He kissed like a vacuum cleaner set on thick plush.”

“I don’t think your mind was what you were thinking with.”

She shook her head, pushed the folder in front of her aside, and folded her hands. “Wasted the best two months of my life on him. Okay, I owe you. We don’t have any openings, not that I see you as the civil servant type. What can I do for you?”

When I explained what I wanted, she grinned. “Feels like high school again,” she said. “I could get in real trouble