Fool's Puzzle by Earlene Fowler Read Free Book Online Page A

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