Killer Cocktail by Sheryl J. Anderson Read Free Book Online Page B

your understanding of what happened here?”
    “Your partner can fill you in,” I said, as much in his defense as in my own. Detective Myerson was staring passively at his notes. Apparently, this was Detective Cook’s standard operating procedure—start up the bulldozer and see who jumps out of the way.
    “I’d like to hear it from you.”
    “Go ahead, Ms. Forrester,” Detective Myerson said, eyes still on his notebook.
    I played the highlight reel for her: engagement party; Lisbet as human champagne flute; David sweeping her out; David coming to get us. “He said he’d found her in the pool, he tried CPR, and he called 911.”
    “Do you know what he told 911?”
    “No,” I said, slowly and distinctly for emphasis and to test if it would irritate her, “I wasn’t there.”
    “He said someone killed her. That’s why we’re here.”
    A little sigh of frustration escaped before I could stop it. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask David what he’d said on the phone. We didn’t need impulsive statements messing things up. Which meant I needed to be very careful about everything that came out of my own mouth. I shook my head. “Hyperbole.”
    “And you think so because … ?”
    “He was upset, not thinking clearly. That plus champagne equals hyperbole.”
    “What did he tell you when he came upstairs?”
    “That he’d called 911.”
    “That’s it?”
    Detective Myerson finally lifted his sad brown eyes from
his notebook. He’d already talked to Tricia and Cassady. They would have told him the truth. That meant I had to, as well. Playing games with the truth this early was only going to make things worse. “He said someone had killed her.”
    Detective Cook wrinkled her nose like an unpleasant smell had just slid by on the breeze, then waved it away. “But that’s just hyperbole.”
    “Yes.”
    “Even though he said it twice.”
    “Yes.”
    “And no one asked why he was saying it?”
    “It seemed more important to go see if she was even dead.”
    “You didn’t believe him.”
    “Didn’t want to believe him. That’s different.”
    “You seem angry, Ms. Forrester.”
    “So do you, Detective Cook. And you’d probably get back to whatever oily DA or married man you left at the bar a little quicker if you’d listen to what Detective Myerson has to say and give the rest of us a minute to catch our breath. This whole thing sucks and you’re making it much worse than it needs to be.”
    Dear Molly, When confronted by a social situation in which the most emotionally satisfying reaction would be to smack someone, do I at least get points for keeping my hands to myself and letting my words do the smacking? I could use some points right about now. Signed, Trigger Happy Tongue
    When I’m stressed, I write imaginary letters to my column in my head. It helps me vent, gives me perspective. I should’ve written the letter before I opened my mouth. And I shouldn’t have opened my mouth before I remembered she was carrying a gun. But the important thing was, I closed my mouth now.

    And waited. Detective Cook struck me as the sort who was going to mess with me—and potentially, all of us—because she could. And because we were responsible for calling her away from whatever fun she’d intended to have. The only thing that made me feel slightly better about exploding forth was that Detective Myerson, who had returned his gaze to his notebook, was trying quite hard not to smile.
    “Detectives?” Saved by the ME. The medical examiner was calling from across the pool and when the detectives turned to look at her, she gestured for them to come join her where she stood above Lisbet’s body.
    Detective Myerson turned back to me first. “We’ll be back in a moment. Please don’t leave the grounds.”
    Detective Cook didn’t say anything, she just headed over to the ME. Detective Myerson walked beside her, but they didn’t say anything to each other. I’ve seen warmer, cuddlier pairs wind up in divorce