Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_03 by Death in Lovers' Lane Read Free Book Online

awkwardly on the asphalt. “Yes.” Oh, yes, indeed, the professor who wanted fresh facts about crime, very fresh facts. But also the professor who’d worried that Maggie’s personal problems might intrude on her work. Had her personal problems led to this ugly finale? For my own peace of mind, I desperately hoped so.
    â€œWhat was so damn important you left her a message to be in your office at eight-thirty this morning?” The words peppered me like pellets.
    My head jerked toward him.
    Of course Urschel had listened to Maggie’s messages. And the crisp demand I’d left Wednesday evening— I must talk to you tomorrow as soon as possible —wasn’t the ordinary exchange between a professor and a student.
    His avid eyes watched me like a feral cat tracking a field rat.
    â€œI wanted to speak with Maggie about some articles she was working on under my supervision.” Briefly, I described the investigative series Maggie had proposed. When I mentioned the old Lovers’ Lane murders, Urschel’s square face tightened.
    That’s when I popped my own question. “Is this where they found Howard Rosen and Gail Voss?” My voice had a tight, thin edge.
    Oh, Maggie, was it those murders that brought you to this dank, solitary place ?
    Lieutenant Urschel looked down the lane. His face creased. “No. Rosen’s car was closer to the lake.”
    In 1988, the dead students were found in a car. But Maggie’s body lay in the middle of the road. “Where’s Maggie’s car?”
    â€œWe’re looking for it.” Urschel blinked as if obliterating a vision of the past, and his stare settled on me. “Now, Mrs. Collins, what was so urgent—”
    I’d expected to deal with the problem of Maggie Winslow and Dennis Duffy today. But not this way.
    â€œâ€”that you had to see Maggie Winslow first thing this morning?”
    I had no right to keep quiet about last night’s ugly scene in the newsroom. As matter-of-factly as possible, I told Urschel about Rita Duffy’s furious arrival, hunting for her husband—and Maggie.
    Urschel pulled a small notebook from his pocket,flipped it open. “So who are these people?”
    I gave him the names.
    â€œMrs. Duffy thought she”—and he jerked his head toward the body—“was screwing her husband?”
    â€œYes.” I turned my head away from Maggie. I concentrated on the tendrils of fog in the pines.
    â€œThis Duffy woman was real mad?” His husky voice was uninflected, but the pen was poised above the pad.
    â€œYes.” In my mind I heard again the clatter of Rita Duffy’s footsteps and the asthmatic wheeze of the J-School door.
    Urschel made a note. His heavy face looked satisfied. I could read his thoughts. This was going to be a quick one, he had decided, an easy one. But he wasn’t quite finished with me. “Where were you last night, between six and eight?”
    â€œIs that when Maggie was killed?” Rita Duffy had burst into the newsroom about six-thirty.
    Cops like to ask questions, not answer them.
    There was a noticeable pause, then Urschel replied curtly, “Early last evening. Where were you?”
    It was like dealing with a boomerang. Every question brought it back to me.
    I sketched out my evening.
    â€œThese files you checked. They all had to do with the series she”—the lieutenant again jerked his head toward that still figure—“was writing?”
    â€œYes.”
    He waited.
    Old reporters know better than anyone that one-word answers can keep you out of trouble.
    I waited, too.
    He had less time than I. “Who saw you?” His tone betrayed his irritation. Urschel still stood a couple of feet away, well out of my space, but I felt pressed.
    â€œMost of the time I was alone in The Clarion morgue. That’s where the back editions are kept.”
    â€œYou were working pretty late. Right?”