A Bookmarked Death by Judi Culbertson Read Free Book Online Page B

Pure conjecture, but I hardly cared.
    “You know that for a fact? Had he been convicted?”
    “Not that I know of. But it was an open secret. He was known to cross a lot of lines and someone probably caught up with him. Well, boo-hoo.”
    Shut up, Delhi. It was not what you were supposed to say to the police about someone who had just been burned alive. I was exaggerating anyway, something I tended to do when I felt pushed against the wall. “I don’t mean I’m happy about the fire,” I apologized. “It’s been terrible for Elisa. But we didn’t set it.”
    When Colin had driven up to Brown University to confront Ethan a few days after I told him about Elisa, Ethan and Sheila had already fled to Barbados. At least that’s what Colin had told me. He’d said the archeology department at Brown, people he had known professionally for years, had told him that Ethan had taken a sudden leave of absence for health reasons. The Crosleys’ next-door neighbor confirmed that they had left for their estate outside Bridgetown.
    But what if that wasn’t true? I saw a different scenario, the former best friends, now bitter enemies, standing outside a Providence mansion screaming at each other. Colin could have threatened Ethan then. Maybe it was whatever Colin had said that night that made Ethan and Sheila leave the country.
    The police did not seem to know about that trip, though. And I was not going to tell them.
    I was suddenly restless, wanting to be by myself. “Why are you asking me questions about Colin? Why aren’t you asking him?”
    “We thought we’d find him here,” Detective Carew said evenly. “Would you like to tell us where he lives?”
    I gave her the address, then said, “You can always find him at the university.”
    “He was not at the university.”
    Of course. That was why they were here. But where else would he be on a Monday afternoon ?

 
    Chapter Seven
    N OW THAT THEY knew where to find Colin, I nearly pushed them out the door. I stood up, signaling that our conversation was over, and after a moment they got up from the couch. There was that awkwardness when a warm good-bye isn’t appropriate but something needs to be said. Suddenly they seemed too large for the room, Agent Olson bumping his knee against the antique trunk we used as a coffee table. As she moved toward the door, Carew turned and gave me a studiedly casual look. “We saw your collection of rubber boots out back. Could we take a look?”
    Out back? Why had they been walking around outside the house? They probably didn’t need a search warrant for that, but it seemed like an invasion.
    “Nobody uses those boots,” I said. “They’re left over from when the kids were small.”
    I hadn’t said yes, but they were on the front porch at once, then down the steps and moving briskly around the house as if they were afraid that I would stop them.
    But could I? And why were they focused on the boots anyway?
    When we reached the overhang where the boots were stored, I saw the house through their eyes. I noticed how splintery the wood was, how in need the white farmhouse was of fresh paint. The forest green trim hadn’t been touched up since we moved in. As far as I knew, the university had done nothing but collect our rent and pay the property taxes. But we had done nothing either. I’d assumed that upkeep was the college’s responsibility, but perhaps because the rent was so reasonable we had not pressed them. What did it say about us that we hadn’t had enough pride to keep our home looking trim? Did it make it more likely that we would burn down someone else’s?
    Not that Ruth Carew looked like she lived in anything from House Beautiful . She was not wearing a wedding ring, and I imagined her in an untidy apartment where she did little more than sleep. In her early thirties, I judged. But she did not seem to be noticing my house anyway. She and Agent Olson were staring at the boots that were lined up by size as if in a drawing