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

for this and I don’t mean picking up trash in the schoolyard.”

“You won’t get in trouble, I promise.”

She twisted her face in a wry expression and stood up. “Seems to me I’ve heard those words before.”

Five minutes later she came back with a thin blue file.

“This is grade A prime cut here,” she said with a chuckle. “He’s single, got a steady job and certainly isn’t hard on the eyes. As the girls in Maintenance say—give him a blood test and call the preacher.”

“Single?” I said. “I didn’t even think about that.”

“Divorced, actually. You’ve been out of circulation a long time, honey. That’s the first thing you look for.”

“Anyway, I don’t care about that. This is a defensive action.”

“Sure.” She winked and stuck the folder in her top drawer. “Look, I can’t actually let you read this, that would be unethical, but I am going to lunch, so feel free to use my office as long as you like. Just don’t get caught, okay?”

“Me? You were the one who almost blew it when we found out Ricky Dean was cheating on you with Leeann Riley.”

“Can I help it if night air makes me sneeze? You made me sit in the bushes with you outside his parents’ house until two in the morning to catch them. To this day I blame my bladder problems on that night.”

“But we didn’t get caught.”

“Can’t call you a liar there.” She pulled her glasses back down and looked at me intently. “I’m glad to see you taking an interest in something finally. He’s not a bad start.”

“I told you that isn’t the reason.”

“Right.” She stood up and picked up her purse, patting my shoulder as she walked out the door. “And good ole Ricky Dean Abbott’s favorite holiday is Fourth of July.”

9

“YOU LOOK LIKE you’re a million miles away,” Meg said. She walked into my office carrying a large manila envelope. The small room was filled with the earthy scent of her patchouli perfume. It reminded me of high-school dances, Brut cologne, the press of damp hands against the small of my back.

I had been sitting for the last hour tossing pencils at my pencil cup thinking about the last few days up to and including what I’d just read about Ortiz. What a surprise he turned out to be.

“Just thinking about tonight,” I said. “What’s up?” Meg, our resident potluck organizer and general busy-body, usually dropped by my office only when being pressed into service as an emissary.

“It’s about Marla.” She placed the envelope on my desk, pushed it toward me. “Or rather about her funeral.”

“What about it? Does anyone need directions?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” She bent over and pulled up the knee socks she wore under her gauzy Indian skirt. Something was always off kilter on Meg: a torn pocket, curly bangs cut too short, eyeglasses taped in odd spots, but her quilts, exquisite copies of Georgia O‘Keeffe paintings, were always perfect.

“No.” She hesitated for a moment. “We, that is the rest of the co-op, were wondering if you were going.”

“Of course. Isn’t everyone else?”

She pushed the envelope closer to me. I peered inside. It was full of crumpled bills and some change. “We collected some money for flowers. Could you get them? I don’t think anyone else is going to make it.”

“No one?” I looked at her, perplexed.

“Oh, Benni,” she said. “I know you got along with her okay, but she wasn’t real well-liked by the rest of us.” Her laugh was high and strained. “Except for a few. She was real well-liked by a few.”

“What’s that suppose to mean?”

Red-faced, she fanned thin fingers as if to cool herself. “Oh, forget I said that. That was horrible.”

“Quit playing games, Meg,” I said irritably. “Just tell me what you mean.”

She dropped her head and studied her reddish hands. “It’s just that she had a thing about other women’s men, if you know what I mean.”

“Marla?” I knew she was a flirt, that seemed to come with her bartending job, but she didn’t seem the type to steal another woman’s man. But then, since I’d known her, I hadn’t had a man. That certainly opened up some possibilities of people who might want her dead.

“Anyone I know?” I asked.

“You didn’t hear it from me.” She leaned over my desk, giving into the temptation to spread a little gossip. “Ray,” she whispered. “And Eric. And who knows who else?”

“Oh.” Things were starting to get clear. In a murky sort of way. “Did anyone tell the police?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t, but I can’t say what anyone else said. I figure who people sleep with is their own business. I know Ray or Eric didn’t kill her.”

“And just how do you know that?” Great, I thought, I’m beginning to sound like Ortiz.

“I know them. They wouldn’t kill anyone. Ray’s a big teddy bear, you know that—and Eric, well, you know.” She gave a nervous laugh. His laziness was well-known in the co-op. Of course, it doesn’t take that much effort to stab someone, especially if you’re angry.

“I hope you’re not going to make a big deal about this.” She stood up, tugged at her thin skirt as she went out the door. “Really, I think it was probably some homeless person looking for money. Or one of the guys she goes out with from Trigger’s.”

After hearing Meg’s weak defense of Ray and Eric, I realized how naive I must have sounded to Ortiz when I defended Rita.

Ray and Eric. Each a very strong possibility. I laid my head down on my desk, my mind reeling with questions. How much of this did the police know? What should I tell them? If Ray didn’t have anything to do with it and his wife found out about him and Marla, it could ruin their marriage. But what if he did do it? And what about Eric? Where was he, anyway? A sharp knock on the door interrupted my jumbled speculations.

“Got a headache?”