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

we hitchhiked into town and sat here until two in the morning until Wade found us and took us home.”

I opened my eyes and stared straight ahead at the shiny Elvis clock behind the cash register; the minute hand circled his thick body, just as he’d sometimes swung his arm at the end of a song.

“The night he died, I was at my dad’s ranch, making strawberry preserves. I think about that a lot. Jack’s dead and all those jars of strawberry preserves are still there in my grandmother’s pantry waiting to be eaten.”

I turned and looked at Ortiz. Under the gold cast of the coffee shop lights, his dark face was still, impenetrable. I had grown up with that look—Elvia’s brothers, her father, the smooth-cheeked Spanish boys in high school in tightly pressed chinos. It could mean as little as a sore tooth or as much as a knife in your belly. His blue Anglo eyes never left my face.

“There were so many strawberries,” I said. “Two bushels. They were starting to go bad and my grandmother hates waste, so I hulled every last one of them. My hands looked like they were dipped in red ink.” I stared down at my fingers, seeing the red again.

“Do you ever wonder why things happen the way they do? I never asked Dove who gave her those strawberries but I’ve tried to imagine what would have happened if they’d never been planted, or someone forgot to water them, or a disease killed them before they could bear fruit or that person just, on the spur of the moment, gave the strawberries to someone else. I would have been home. He wouldn’t have gone to town.”

“You don’t know that,” Ortiz said. He traced his finger around the rim of his cup. If it had been crystal, a fine note might have rung.

“Yes, I do.” I swung my legs around and faced him.

“It didn’t have anything to do with you. It was his choice. A reckless choice, as Frost might say, but still, his choice.”

I clenched my fist, wanting to hit something, someone. “Every drink he had that night involved me. When he stepped into that jeep, I stepped in, too.”

“It’s not that simple,” he said.

“You’re wrong. It’s just that simple. When he left me, he took everything I had.” I stared at my clenched fist, then looked up. “Tell me, do you have children?”

He looked back with surprise. “Yes. A son.”

“Then you couldn’t know.”

“Know what?”

“That it’s different. When you’re married and don’t have children, everything you have is wrapped up in one person. When they aren’t there anymore, it’s like ...” I stopped. What was it like? What could I say? That it was harder and harder each day to remember Jack? That at some point the unthinkable happens, when you least expect it; you realize you’ve stopped loving the person and started loving the memory, the memory only you have, and you’re afraid if you forget or you die, it would be like the two of you never existed.

“What?” he asked after a few minutes.

I looked at him and thought, I can’t bear this.

“I knew him before he could shave,” I said.

He was wise enough to realize there was nothing he could say.

The noisy background chatter slowly leaked away like the air in a helium balloon as group after group of customers paid for their breakfasts and left. I suddenly felt that if I could get to my bed, I could sleep for days. I laid my head on the table, cradling it in my arms, not caring how it looked.

I felt or thought I felt, through the thick cotton of my jacket, a pressure on my arm. I looked up. His hands were wrapped around his mug. His eyes seemed full of pain. Or maybe it was just fatigue.

“You’re tired,” he said. “You need to go home.”

Suddenly, talking about Jack to Ortiz, telling a stranger things I’d never told anyone, sickened me. It made me feel disloyal and angry—at Ortiz, at myself.

“Do you think the same person killed Marla and Eric?” I said abruptly.

“I don’t want to talk about that right now,” he replied in a weary voice. “Especially with you.”

“Did you find the money?”

He raked his fingers impatiently through neat black hair. “There wasn’t any money.”

“There was,” I insisted. “It was a big plastic bag full of money.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure. What kind of question is that?”

“Look, if your cousin calls, you can tell her she doesn’t have to worry about Eric Griffin anymore.”

“Was she in any danger?”

“Apparently not from him. But someone else?” He shrugged, drained the last of his coffee, studying the bottom of his cup as if the answer would appear in the dregs.

“So all we have to do is find out what Eric and Marla had in common.”

Annoyance flashed across his face. “I will. You won’t. I’ve had about all I can take of you being involved in this. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in four days. I don’t want to have to worry about you on top of everything else.” He slapped the cup down in the saucer. The sharp clink caused me to wince. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

“Who asked you to worry about me? And I’m perfectly capable of walking myself out.”

“I’m doing it for me, not you. How would it look if a citizen was mugged while the chief of police sipped coffee a hundred feet away?”

“You’re absolutely right. It would look terrible. Are you going to stay and walk everyone out?” I gestured around the restaurant at the other customers. “You could be here all night.”

“For once, could you just not argue with me?”

I started to protest, but the exhausted look on his face stopped me. Though it irritated me, a surge of pity welled up. It couldn’t be easy having to deal with the stress of two murders in a place where you have no family or friends.

“Oh, all right,” I said,