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

“Go ahead and sell them.” She pulled a tissue out of the sleeve of her brown, lacy-necked dress and dabbed at her eyes. “Heaven knows I need the money. Marla helped me, you know. That’s why she had to work at that place instead of just doing her art. Her father was a drunk. Dropped dead and left me nothing but this house. And the taxes were three years behind when he passed on.” For a moment, anger flashed in her eyes.

“I’ll get the best price I can for them,” I assured her. “We’ll feature them in our museum gift shop.” If what Ortiz said about people was true, we could probably double the price and they’d sell like crazy.

“She was a worker, my Marla. She always had something going. Did I tell you what she said? She said, Ma, when my ship comes in I’m going to buy you a mink coat. A white mink coat. That’s what she said.” Her milk-chocolate eyes filled with tears.

This was not going as I intended. As I turned the pages of the album, scanning the pictures of Marla in all ages and moods, I tried to think of a way to get more information without being cruel.

“Have the police come up with any leads?” I asked.

“Hmph,” she spit out, her eyes angry again. “They haven’t done nothing. Plenty of questions. That’s about it.”

“Have they said why they think she was killed?” I kept flipping through the photo album, trying to sound casually curious.

“Crime of passion, they called it. They wanted to know who were her boyfriends. Was there anyone special she was seeing.” The angry look again.

“Was there?” I studied a picture of Marla at ten in one of those “sitting on a pony” pictures taken in grocery-store parking lots, her face scrunched into a scowl. She looked like she wanted to flip the photographer the bird. I smiled—that’s the Marla I remembered.

“My Marla had her share of boyfriends.” Mrs. Chenier sniffled and tucked the tissue back in her sleeve.

“But no one special.”

“She dated around, but like I told the police, she wasn’t about to settle down. She had a big project going that kept her busy most the time. She said that she’d be set by Christmas.” She touched her cheek tentatively. “Said our ship was only a few miles from shore.”

My hand froze as I reached for another page of the album. I tried to keep my voice even and bland.

“What was she working on?”

Mrs. Chenier pushed at her stiff tan curls. “She was always working on something. But she said this time she wasn’t selling out for peanuts. That we’d been on the bottom long enough.”

“Did it have anything to do with her pottery?”

“I’m sure it must have. What else could it be?” She looked at me oddly. I decided to change tactics.

“Who were Marla’s friends, Mrs. Chenier?”

“The police asked me that. I told them the people at that artists’ place. That girl she lived with. She talked about you some. She liked you real well. But Marla always liked being by herself. Even as a little girl. She didn’t need people much.”

I lowered my head in embarrassment. I never thought much about my friendship with Marla, if indeed there was one. Apparently, it had been a friendship to her, and I felt bad that she had so few people who would really miss her.

“Mrs. Chenier—” I decided I might as well just plunge in with the truth. “I liked Marla too, and the reason I’m asking so many questions is that I wonder whether the police are doing a thorough job of looking for her killer. I’m just trying to see if there’s anything I can do to help catch the person who did this to her.”

“Oh.” She touched a ringless hand to her flat chest. “Well, I don’t know what I could tell you that I didn’t tell the police. I just assumed it was a crazy person who broke in and killed her. She shouldn’t have been up at that place alone so late at night.”

“Someone was supposed to be with her,” I said, sotnewhat defensively. “But right now, the important thing is to catch the person who took your daughter from you.”

She nodded, reclaimed the tissue out of her sleeve and dabbed at her thin nose. “I’ll try and help, but I’ve told the police everything they asked.”

“That’s just it,” I said eagerly. “Maybe there’s something you know that they didn’t think to ask.” I closed the album and set it on the wagon-wheel-style coffee table. “You know, when I moved to town, the place I rented wasn’t big enough for all my stuff. I stored a lot of it at my dad’s house. I bet you have a lot of Marla’s things here.”

“I do,” she said. “I’ve kept her room just how it was. She sometimes spent the night here with me. We’d make hot fudge sundaes just like when she was a little girl.” She shredded the tissue in her hands.

“Did you show the police her room?”

“I surely didn’t,” she said. “That’s Marla’s private things. They didn’t have nothing to do with her, her ...” She swallowed convulsively.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, laying a hand on her arm and feeling a bit disgusted with myself for putting her through this. Her arm felt cold and papery through the thin rayon material. “Maybe I should come back later.”

“No, I’d like you to see her room. It would make me feel better. Maybe there is something there that could help you.” She stood up and started walking down the short hall.

Marla’s bedroom reminded me of my own—twenty years ago—though her taste in rock stars had been a bit wilder than mine. As I would have predicted, posters of the Rolling Stones, Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison papered the walls. A variety of faded stuffed animals and a well-hugged Raggedy Ann doll nestled on the pillow of her lavender gingham bedspread. Though I