A Killer Stitch by Maggie Sefton

stared out into the café. “He’d start sneaking off with other girls, and I’d rag him about it, even though I knew that wouldn’t help.”
    â€œDerek couldn’t keep his pants on,” Jennifer interjected.
    Diane shook her head, as if all those bad times and good times were jumbled together in her mind. “And then, he’d start going after other girls right in front of me, at the bar, for instance. Or anywhere we’d go. I remember when we stopped for dinner on the way back from a concert in Denver, and he put the moves on a waitress right in front of me.” Her tone turned bitter.
    Jennifer caught Kelly’s eye. “I told you he was a bastard.”
    â€œHe sure sounds like it,” Kelly agreed with a wry smile. “But, you know, that doesn’t mean a damn.”
    Both Jennifer and Diane stared back.
    Now that she had Diane’s attention, Kelly zeroed in. “It doesn’t mean a damn, because Derek’s dead now, and the police are looking for the killer. And because of that stormy past you two shared, you can understand why the police have questioned you, can’t you, Diane?”
    Diane’s mouth tightened. “Yes.”
    Kelly leaned forward, crossing her arms on the table. “Why don’t you tell me about your fight with Derek at the bar? What happened that night?” she asked in a gentle tone.
    Diane took a breath. “Derek and I had broken up again and hadn’t dated for a couple of months. Whenever he showed up at the bar, he always had a new girl with him so I stayed out of his way. Then that night, he shows up alone.” She began tracing invisible patterns on the tablecloth. “I’d already had too much to drink by the time he showed up, so I must have smarted off to him or something, because he starts in on me. Taunting me, telling me how glad he was to be rid of me, how bad I was in bed, and how I’d be passed out drunk half the time he was with me.”
    Diane’s voice had dropped so low that Kelly had to strain to hear her over the lunchtime noise.
    â€œAnyway, I just snapped. I don’t know. I was sick and tired of his bad-mouthing me to my face, and now, now he was doing it in front of others.” She closed her eyes. “I don’t remember exactly what happened next, but I must have gone for him, I guess. That’s what Ted, the bartender, told me later. He said I smashed the glass I had in my hand and lunged for Derek. Ted said one of the guys held me back, but I guess I shouted something. Something like, ‘I oughta bash that pretty face in.’ I don’t know….” Her voice drifted off, eyes still closed, as if afraid the vivid memories would reappear.
    Kelly, however, saw the violent images forming in her own mind. An ugly, drunken bar scene. “Do you remember anything else?”
    Diane’s mouth twisted. “Yeah, I remember Derek laughing. Laughing his head off as I left the bar.”
    â€œBastard,” Jennifer hissed.
    â€œHow’d you get home? Please tell me you didn’t drive,” Kelly asked.
    The lighter tone seemed to penetrate Diane’s ugly memories, and she opened her eyes. Kelly glimpsed some of the pain of that experience before Diane stared at her hands, which were clasped tightly on the tabletop.
    â€œOne of the girls—Cindy, I think—drove me home.”
    Kelly leaned back in her chair, letting Diane’s story filter through her mind, while the waitress served their salads and soups. She deliberately turned her attention to Eduardo’s good cooking and away from painful memories while they enjoyed their meal.
    From what she’d heard so far, Kelly was surprised Lieutenant Peterson hadn’t already questioned Diane a second time, especially since she’d lied in the first interview. Kelly poked through the romaine lettuce, searching for a juicy morsel of mozzarella, picturing Peterson’s quiet,