A Fatal Twist of Lemon by Patrice Greenwood

happened in the last twenty-four hours.
    Dee looked in, wiping her hands with a paper towel. “Hi. Just checking there was someone here. Boy, that fingerprint stuff is yucky, huh?”
    â€œYes. I’m sorry about that.”
    â€œIt’s OK. It was interesting to see how they do it.”
    I smiled. “You’re really interested in police work? You know it isn’t like on television.”
    â€œI know. I’ve read some books about forensics. Mick thinks I’m nuts.”
    I tried to picture Dee, with her cheerleader looks and sweet outlook, as part of a crime investigation team, and failed. “Well, it doesn’t matter what he thinks. Follow what interests you.”
    â€œOh, I will!” She grinned, then left.
    I glanced at the clock. Dee had reminded me of the whole fingerprint fiasco, and I realized I’d been wanting to follow up on something. I just had time to make a phone call, and since Detective Aragón was still in my office, I used the phone at the hostess station.
    â€œSanta Fe Preservation Trust,” said a young woman’s voice after a couple of rings.
    â€œHello, this is Ellen Rosings. May I speak to Claudia Pearson, please?”
    â€œI’m sorry, she’s in a meeting.”
    â€œOh. Well, I’d like to come by and see her this afternoon. Would four-thirty be all right, do you think?”
    â€œI don’t think she has anything then. I’ll let her know you’ll be coming.”
    â€œThank you,” I said, and gave her my number in case Claudia needed to cancel. As I hung up I saw a news van pull up to the curb out front.
    The interviews were more or less the same as the one I had done in the morning, except that there seemed to be a lot more equipment involved. Each station brought in its own assortment of lights, sound booms, and cameras, taking up most of Poppy, the neighboring alcove, as well as Hyacinth. Fortunately I was able to close the pocket doors between them and the gift shop and keep the fuss confined.
    As for the actual interviews, I’m sure the reporters were disappointed. I refused to give any details or speculation about Sylvia’s murder, confining my comments to what I’d already told channel four.
    I was just ushering the channel seven bunch out when Detective Aragón came tromping down the stairs with his two cops. He took one look at the camera crew and went ballistic.
    â€œWhat do you think you’re doing?”
    The reporter’s face lit with delight. “Detective Aragón! Got time to answer a couple of questions?”
    â€œNo! No comment.” He turned to me, looking fit to burst a blood vessel. “What the hell inspired you to invite the media in here?”
    â€œThat’s not quite how I’d put it,” I said calmly.
    â€œIf you’ve told them anything that compromises the investigation—”
    â€œI haven’t. Ask Mr. Rodriguez,” I said, gesturing toward the reporter.
    â€œ That’s the truth,” Rodriguez said, shaking his head. “Maybe we’ll get a few seconds before the weather, but heck. It’s yesterday’s news. C’mon, Dirk, we got that school break-in to get to.”
    They trundled out, followed by the cops, but Detective Aragón stayed. He stood glaring at me like a bull in the chute until the front door closed.
    â€œIf you have compromised this investigation I will bring you up on charges,” he said in a tight, angry voice.
    I answered calmly. “I have done everything I can to assist your investigation—”
    â€œBullshit! You forced me to get a warrant to examine the crime scene!”
    I drew myself up. “My private suite is not a crime scene!”
    â€œThis whole building’s a crime scene!” he yelled, waving his arms. “And now you’ve turned it into a media circus. I ought to book you right now!”
    I’d had it. Gloves off.
    â€œFine,” I said,