Murder in the Dog Days (Maggie Ryan) by P.M. Carlson Read Free Book Online Page B

The blonde rolled her eyes at the ceiling in exasperation. “I come to talk to Dale and he sics the cops on me! He’s the one you should be after! Don’t you know that? Look, I’ve got papers!” She fumbled in her big white handbag, pulled out a red chiffon scarf, a Holiday Inn motel key, a romance paperback, finally an official-looking document that she waved under Patterson’s nose. “See? Right there! Judge says he’s supposed to pay Mark’s tuition! Well, he hasn’t! Won’t answer my letters, won’t even pick up the phone any more! And then I come and the cops won’t even let me see him!”
    “You’re Felicia Colby, then,” said Holly.
    “Damn right! That’s my name right on the paper here!” She jabbed at the document with a shiny red nail.
    “Okay, we’d better discuss it.” She was surprised at the depth of her own relief. Tomorrow, she told herself, she wouldn’t feel so raw, she could cope with Maggie Ryan better. Maybe she’d be tired enough to sleep tonight. Glancing down at her notes, she was astonished to see that pages of information had resulted from this tense, half-bungled interview. Meanwhile Felicia Colby’s story might be very interesting. Without looking up she said, “Patterson, take Mrs. Ryan here next door, all right? We’ll get an official statement tomorrow.”
    Maggie had been observing the angry Felicia Colby with frank curiosity. Now she looked sharply at Holly. “God, you’re exhausted!” she said sympathetically. “Bummer of a job some days, isn’t it?”
    Her unquenchable friendliness tugged at Holly, challenging her to confidence, connection, friendship. Damn Maggot. Holly’s hand clenched defensively on her notebook. “See you tomorrow,” she said tightly.
    “Okay. We ought to talk about how it was done.” Maggie’s glance lingered a moment as she stood, heron-like with her rounded torso poised over those long legs. Then she turned to the blonde. “Felicia, sorry we met this way. I’m Maggie. See you later.” She waved at them both and started for the door. Patterson quirked a dubious eyebrow at Holly and followed her out.
    “What was all that about?” demanded Felicia Colby. “And where’s Dale?”
    Holly was scribbling in her notebook. The peacenik was right, of course; how Colby was killed was the first problem, and she’d better check soon to see what Crime Scene was finding.
    But for now she turned with relief to the angry and bewildered Felicia Colby. “Mrs. Colby, please sit down,” she said gently, gesturing to the sofa. “I’m afraid you can’t talk to Dale Colby. You see, a little earlier today he was killed.”
    “Killed? Dale?” Felicia sank suddenly into the sofa cushions, her eyes darting wildly about the room and finally settling on Holly. “And you’re a cop—”
    “Yes, Mrs. Colby. And I have a few questions for you.”
    But Felicia Colby’s bright red lips had clamped shut. Another tough interview coming up. Yet Holly knew that this one would be easier, because this time she’d be contending only with the witness. Not with that black drowned part of herself.
     

    4
    For the sixteenth time, Olivia twitched back the mist-green satin drape of Betty Morgan’s front window to peer toward the Colby house next door. The night was black now, but the glow from a streetlight reached as far as the Colby walk and light from the living room windows splashed onto the still-glistening lawn. Two policemen stood in the driveway, shadows against the light, talking. Their rumpled regulation summer shirts together with nightsticks, holsters, and notebooks made their silhouettes look lumpy, barnacled. Two more men, in plainclothes, were moving around the periphery of the house, studying the shrubbery with flashlights.
    “Hey, Maggie’s coming!” Olivia exclaimed as the Colby front door opened at last. Instantly Nick and Jerry were at her side, peering out too. Nick held a drowsy Sarah against his beefy shoulder, and the little girl