Fool's Puzzle (6 page)

“How did they get here?” he asked.

“I’m not really sure.” I forced myself to meet his gaze.

“Where were you this evening?”

“At Blind Harry’s Bookstore downtown. Until ten or so.”

“Did you see Ms. Chenier at any time this evening?”

“When she came by to pick up the keys. Eric didn’t have his.”

“And who was with her?”

“I told you. Eric.”

“What were they driving?”

“Marla’s van. I gave them my keys and they left. That’s it.”

His unblinking examination finally got to me and I dropped my eyes, not caring how it appeared. I studied the ground around his feet. He wore beat-up leather topsiders—no socks. Shoes say a lot about a man. His screamed L.A. yuppie. More specifically, Orange County—where everyone from birth to ninety dresses like a student from an East Coast prep school or a Beach Boys fan. I nervously smoothed back some curly strands of hair tickling my face and looked back up at him.

“This is a waste of time,” I said. “I’ve told all this to two of your detectives. With how long it’s taken to get this thing going, her killer could be in Oregon by now.”

He gave me a long look, acknowledging that my comment hit home, he didn’t appreciate it, and was choosing to ignore it.

“What was your relationship with Ms. Chenier?”

“We worked together.”

“Were you friends?”

“I suppose. I’ve only worked here three months. I don’t know anybody real well. Why?”

“You seem pretty flippant for someone who just found their friend stabbed to death.”

He wasn’t the first person in my life who had deemed it their right to decide that my response to something wasn’t appropriate. I didn’t feel the need to inform this jerk I was taught that people with backbone didn’t fall apart in public. If you absolutely had to give in to tears, that’s what showers were for.

“I’m sorry my emotional reactions don’t meet your standards,” I said, with as much deference as I could manage. “May I go home now?”

His dark eyebrows squeezed together in a scowl. “Let me see your hands.”

“What?” I instinctively shoved them in my jacket pockets.

He tucked his notebook and pen in his windbreaker and held out a large brown hand. “Ms. Harper, your hands, please.”

Reluctantly, I pulled them out. They were grimy from the rocks and crusty from dried varnish. I presented them, palms down.

He touched the gold band on my left hand. “Has someone let you call your husband?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said.

With an enigmatic expression, he took my hands, turned them over and felt my fingertips with his thumbs.

I shivered even though his hands were surprisingly warm. His contact reminded me of the smooth feel of Marla’s neck. I wanted to pull my hands back, race home, scrub them clean.

“I’ll need a set of your fingerprints,” he said, dropping my hands.

“Why?” Fear twisted my stomach. It never occurred to me I’d be a suspect.

“Just procedure. It shouldn’t bother you if you have nothing to hide.” He looked at me pointedly. “I’ll need to talk to you again tomorrow.”

“Fine.” I edged past him, heading toward the museum, when he called to me.

“Ms. Harper.”

I turned around. “What?” I didn’t even attempt to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

“I’ve been in law enforcement for twenty years. I know when someone is lying. What aren’t you telling me?”

I took a deep breath, trying not to let my panic show. “I have nothing else to say,” I muttered, staring at the bridge of his glasses.

He gave me another long look. “I’ll need a list of the co-op members and their addresses.”

“I’ll print one up for you tomorr—”

“Now.”

“Yes, sir,” I said under my breath.

After printing an address list on my word processor and giving it to the bushy-browed detective, I waited on the front porch of the museum for the last of the criminal investigation team to leave. Someone had finally brought me my purse, so I assumed it wouldn’t be much longer before I was allowed to lock up. Then I really needed to think. I couldn’t let the artists walk in on that mess. Someone would have to clean it up. The thought of doing it myself made me reach out and grab one of the posts supporting the porch.

I ran through my mental list of co-op members, stopping at Ray Winfry, the decoy carver. He was dependable and kind, and more importantly, had served a tour in Vietnam. Maybe this wouldn’t faze him much.

Rita presented a whole separate problem. I needed to track her down and find out what had happened. And Eric. I didn’t even want to think about him. Could he have killed Marla? I remembered the argument they’d had and realized I’d forgotten to tell anyone about it. I decided it could wait until tomorrow. I didn’t think I had it in me for another round with Ortiz. I closed my eyes, pinched the bridge of my nose and told myself this would all be over soon.

The heavy Spanish door of the hacienda slammed open, causing me to jump. Two men in dark jumpsuits maneuvered the gurney over the threshold. They bumped Marla’s navy-bagged body down the three steps indifferently, as if moving an old sofa. Tears started to fill my eyes and a sourness inched back up my throat.

“Ms. Harper.” A deep voice came from behind me.

I ignored it, my attention held captive by the long, bulky bag. When it threatened to come out of the safety belts, one of the attendants casually shoved it back in place. I rubbed the back of my neck with an icy palm in an attempt to stop the queasy churning in my stomach. Was this how Jack was treated? I felt an irrational anger at the callousness of the attendants. Logically, I knew they had to treat their job that way or go crazy, but I wanted to scream—she’s a person, not a sack of feed.

“Ms. Harper, look at me.” The imperious voice wouldn’t give up.

“What is it?” I whipped around to face Chief Ortiz.

He leaned against one of the rough posts, eyes mild behind owlish glasses.

“Your name,” he said. “Albenia. Where did you get it?”

“My parents gave it to me.” I frowned at him. Where was this line of questioning going?

A faint smile played around the corners of his mouth. “I assumed that. Where did they get it?”

I sighed in exasperation, not believing I was discussing name origins at two in the morning with some L.A. yuppie posing as the chief of police while the body of someone I’d talked to only six hours ago was being bounced around like a bale of hay.

“My mother’s name was Alice. My father’s name is Benjamin. What does this have to do with Marla’s murder?”

“Interesting.” He nodded and pulled at the end of his mustache. “Are you called Albenia?”

“No.”

He raised his eyebrows and waited.

“Benni,” I snapped.

“Did you know that in Latin your name means blonde?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Before he could answer, the sharp
clamp
of the back of the coroner’s van distracted us. We watched it pull slowly out of the parking lot onto the highway. Realizing then what he’d been doing, I turned back and nodded.

“Thanks,” I said reluctantly.

He shrugged and stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

“No one took my fingerprints,” I said.

“Come down to the station tomorrow. It’s just a formality.”

“You mean I’m not the chief suspect?” I said sarcastically. “I can leave town if I want?”

“I think your proclivity to tidy up, not to mention your graphically vivid physical reaction, pretty much eliminates you as a suspect.”

“Oh.” I considered his comment. “Then why do you need my fingerprints? Why do you have to talk with me again tomorrow? I won’t know any more than I do now.”

“You think not?” His aloof mask returned. “I only said you weren’t
a
suspect. I never said you weren’t suspect.”

On that note, I changed the subject. “Who’s going to tell Marla’s family? I put her mother’s address on the list I gave your detective.” My voice faltered. That horrible knock in the middle of the night. Every woman’s secret fear—for her husband, her son, her daughter. Except it didn’t happen like that for me. The sheriff’s deputy went to the Harper Ranch first. I was always sorry Wade was the one to tell me. It would have been easier to hate a stranger that first terrible moment.

Ortiz’s mask slipped for a split second. A pained look flashed across his face, then disappeared.

“It’ll be taken care of.” He pulled his hands out of his pockets and walked toward the remaining emergency vehicles. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said over his shoulder.

“Right,” was all I could think of to say. At that moment, I was tired of making wisecracks, tired of trying to avoid questions, tired of being more involved in this than I should have been. And I was just flat-out tired.

After locking up the studios and the museum, I walked out to my truck. Two other vehicles were left in the parking lot: a nondescript beige four-door and Ortiz’s Corvette. Detective Bushy-brows whispered low to Ortiz, then climbed into the four-door.

I cranked the ignition, waiting for it to catch. The Chevy had needed something done to the engine for months but I’d put off getting it checked. Jack and Wade always worked on our trucks, so I didn’t have a clue about how to find a trustworthy mechanic. With all the extra work Wade had at the ranch, I didn’t want to bother him, so I’d just babied it along, irrationally hoping whatever was wrong would right itself.

I cranked it again, then hit the steering wheel in frustration, my eyes filming over. Through the blur I glanced over at Ortiz leaning against his car, his arms crossed, watching me. When he started moving toward the truck, I tried again.

“Come on,” I begged. The ignition gave a loud screech. Though I couldn’t see it, I’m sure he winced. There isn’t a man alive who doesn’t when he hears that sound. Finally, the engine caught. As I swung past, my headlights spotlighted him for a moment. He inclined his head in a single nod.

His small acts of kindness didn’t fool me. They had a purpose. Obviously a man who believed in living by the rules, when he found out I’d withheld information concerning Marla’s murder, there’d be no telling what he’d do.

Hopefully, I wouldn’t be the one to tell him. When I found Rita, she’d be the one in the hot seat. Just what she deserved. Until then, I’d stall him with a little verbal tap-dancing. The way I figured, it was 35 degrees outside and the man wore no socks. How smart could he be?

I WOKE UP crusty-eyed and cranky from lack of sleep. From my front-porch lounge chair, sipping a mug of warm almond milk in an effort to soothe my caffeine-raw stomach, I watched my neighbor, Mr. Treton, grumble over his rain-putnmeled impatiens. He was retired Army, a thirty-year man, and hated insubordination of any kind. He poked at the flattened flowers with his cane, silently commanding them to attention.

A sharp, salty breeze penetrated my cotton sweats, but the sky was clear. The weather was no longer my most pressing problem. That left Rita. My fruitless phone search for her had left me frustrated and edgy. Between sips of milk and calls of encouragement to Mr. Treton, I chewed my nails and worried.

I had called Ray early and he’d agreed to help me clean up the museum before the rest of the artists arrived. Out of a sense of duty, I called Constance. Her housekeeper informed me in a stiff voice that Miss Sinclair never rose until she was good and ready. For anything.

My next step seemed inevitable. I needed to go by Marla’s place and see if Rita ever made it home. Since it was a given that the police would also be checking her house, I hadn’t worked out my plan of action, but it was still early. Something would occur to me.

After a thorough inspection of the grayish-green plant life that had sprouted overnight on my bread, I decided to treat myself to breakfast at Liddie’s Cafe downtown.

The phone rang as I was pulling on a clean pair of Wranglers and Jack’s favorite navy blue flannel shirt.

“My best friend finds a body and I have to hear about it from my little brother,” Elvia accused in her smooth contralto voice.

“I swear I was going to call you in two minutes.”

“I can’t believe it. We just talked to her last night.” I heard a voice call Elvia’s name. “Just a minute.” She gave the voice a long, detailed explanation about credit card rules while I inspected a bloody hangnail on my left thumb.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s crazy here already. Except for the profits, I hate the holidays. Are you okay? Come by the bookstore later and give me the details.”

“I’m fine. I’ll drop by this afternoon after my talk with the chief. I’m sure I’ll be in the mood to do some real complaining by then.”

“Why?”

“Hasn’t Miguel told you about San Celina’s new chief of police?”

“Only that he’s from L.A.”

“Well, that’s about the nicest thing you can say about him, if you catch my drift.”

“Uh-oh, I know that tone. Maybe you’d better try and keep a civil tongue in your head.”

“You haven’t met this guy,” I said.

“Well, at least try.”

“Elvia, I always
try.”