Fool's Puzzle by Earlene Fowler Read Free Book Online

counting.
    “Would you please stop that?” His voice carried a slight edge this time.
    Plink. I knew I was pushing it, but I’d been up there almost four hours; fatigue had short-circuited the more judicious side of my nature, which wasn’t one of my strongest traits even when I wasn’t cold, tired, scared and had a mouth that tasted like coffee-flavored puke.
    “Ms. Harper.” Somehow he managed to put the threat of all his power and authority into two words.
    Prudence kicked in. I dropped the rocks in the dirt, stood up and brushed off the back of my jeans. I was a smartass, but not a stupid one.
    “Are you through?” he asked.
    “I guess so.” I looked up into eyes the same color as a winter ocean. Odd for a Hispanic. They studied me coolly from behind his gold wire-rimmed glasses.
    “Then I’d like to ask you a few questions.” He pulled a small leather notebook and gold Cross pen from the pocket of his windbreaker.
    “I’ve already told two of your detectives everything I saw.”
    “And now,” he said evenly, “you can tell me.”
    So I repeated my story a third time, leaving out the same small detail I had with the others. I didn’t tell him about Rita. It was a stupid move, but I felt a perverse sense of family loyalty and wanted to hear her side before throwing her to the blue-uniformed wolves. I didn’t believe she’d killed Marla. Frankly, the whole thing baffled me. Now, if it had been Rita killed by Marla, that might have been understandable, maybe even justifiable.
    As I spoke, Chief Ortiz’s face remained expressionless. Occasionally, he jotted something in his notebook. When I finished, he didn’t comment but stared over my head into the dark forest of eucalyptus trees behind me. I knew what he was trying to do and I was determined not to feel intimidated.
    I leaned against the truck and crossed my legs. Then my arms. After a few minutes, I uncrossed both. I chewed on a hangnail. All the coffee I’d consumed started to burn in my stomach. Trying to ignore the ache, I studied the interesting mud patterns on my shoes. I contemplated asking him for a breath mint. After five minutes of silence, I had to admit he was making me nervous, and that really annoyed me.
    “You said a Mr. Eric Griffin, the museum handyman, was up here with Ms. Chenier,” he finally said.
    “That’s right.”
    “And no one else.”
    “Right.” I dropped my eyes, then realizing it probably appeared suspicious, looked back up. He raised a skeptical eyebrow and adjusted his glasses.
    “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.