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

He wrapped my hair around his hand and held it lightly; if I moved, it would tighten, like a slipknot. “Now, a mystery is an entirely different animal.”

“What are you talking about?” I started to pull away, felt his hand tighten, then decided to stay put.

“A mystery has no solution. The mystery isn’t who killed Marla and Eric. That’s the problem. The mystery is why. All the psychiatrists in the world can’t tell you that. It boils down to a question of evil, which is a mystery that will never be solved, by man anyway.”

“Is there going to be a pop quiz after this, Sergeant Friday? Or perhaps I should say Professor Friday?” I asked, though I knew I was taking a chance with the grip he had on my hair.

“Sorry.” He unwrapped his hand and laughed. “Been reading Marcel. French philosopher and playwright. Has a lot of interesting things to say. I have a tendency to lecture when I get excited about something.”

“Gee, I never noticed that trait in you,” I said.

He looked at my reflection and grinned. He set the brush down and started dividing my hair in sections.

“What are you doing?”

“You usually wear your hair in a braid, don’t you? I thought I’d French braid it.”

“What?”

“Don’t look so shocked. You’re looking at the best French braider in Derby, Kansas,” he said. “At least I was at one time.”

“You’re putting me on.”

“Nope. My mother was a working mom long before women’s liberation. I have twin sisters seven years younger than me. From the time I was twelve, it was my responsibility to get them ready for school. I can iron ruffles almost as good as I braid hair.”

I watched mesmerized as his hands rapidly wrapped one strand of hair around another.

“Embarrassed the heck out of my father. Insulted his Latin machismo. But whatever machismo genes I had were overcome easily by the greedy little capitalist in me. The mothers on my street would pay me fifty cents a head.” His reflection smiled at my unbelieving look. “My dad made me work in his garage on the weekends. He was terrified I was going to become a hairdresser.”

“He must have been relieved when you became a cop.”

“He never knew. He died when I was sixteen.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“That’s why I came to California. I was giving my mom a lot of grief. You know sixteen-year-olds. She sent me to live with my dad’s brother in Santa Ana. I lived with my Uncle Antonio until I went into the Marines.”

“And braided your cousins’ hair?” I asked, smiling.

He grinned back. “Lucky for me, Uncle Tony had four sons.”

“Does your mom still live in Kansas?”

“In the same house I grew up in. She retired last year. Taught fifth grade for forty-one years.”

He reached over to the vanity, found a rubber band in the clutter and wrapped it around the end of my braid. “There you go.” He gave me a hand mirror and stood back, folding his arms across his chest.

It was the neatest French braid I’d ever seen.

“Ortiz,” I said, laying the mirror down. “I hate to admit it, but I’m impressed. What other secrets are you hiding behind that macho cop exterior?”

“Now, what kind of secrets could a good ole boy from Kansas possibly have?” He winked at me and glanced at his watch. “I have to hit the road. I need to go home, shower and get to work. Lots of bad guys out there.”

“I guess I owe you fifty cents,” I said, walking him to the door.

“First one’s on the house.” He gave my braid a tug and stepped out on the front porch. He waved to Mr. Treton, who was watering his already soaked impatiens at a suspiciously early hour, then turned back to me.

“Benni, why don’t you just tell me what they’re after?” His voice was tight, apprehensive.

“Where did you put my gun?” I asked.

“You just don’t get it, do you?” He rubbed his jaw, then reached over and touched his finger to my cheek. “I don’t want the next bag they zip up to be yours.”

I folded my arms across my chest and didn’t answer.

“I put it back in your nightstand,” he said with a sigh and stepped into his car.

Ten minutes later, I was draining the bloody water out of the sink, when the phone rang. Elvia’s voice held a hint of laughter.

“I hear you had company last night,” she said.

“Can’t I do anything in this town without it being on the front page of the Tribune?”

“Come by the store. I want to hear everything.”

“Calm down, it’s not what you think.”

“Oh,” she said, disappointed. “Too bad.”

For the second time that morning I didn’t answer. I wasn’t about to admit she might be right.

16

“SO HOW ARE you going to find out who this Suzanne Hart is?” Elvia asked.

I told her the whole story while we sat in her real office upstairs drinking cappuccinos. She looked worriedly at my bandaged hand. “Just how bad did you cut yourself?”

I sat with my right hand raised as if swearing to tell the truth. It seemed to throb less that way. “You have any aspirin?”

She dug through her desk and tossed the bottle over to me, which I missed. “Sorry,” she said. “I guess I should have known to buy you plastic glasses.”

“Ha.” I struggled with the child-proof cap. She reached over, popped it open and gave me two tablets.

“Two more.”

“Two’s enough. If they don’t work ...”

“Just give them to me,” I snapped.

She raised her eyebrows quizzically at my tone and handed me two more.

“Sorry,” I said. “My hand hurts.” She waited with a blank, patient face for me to continue.

“I don’t know how I’m going to find her,” I said, swallowing the aspirin one at a time between sips of cappuccino. “I just know I have to. I have a feeling she knows something about Jack’s death and I want to get to her before the police.”

“You really think