Camilla T. Crespi - The Breakfast Club Murder by Camilla T. Crespi

looked kinder, and he had a button dangling from his jacket that under different circumstances she would have offered to fix. “What’s your name?” she asked.
    “Detective Mitchell. Your daughter’s taking a nap.”
    My daughter is clever was Lori’s thought. “And where’s my ex-husband?”
    “At the funeral home,” Detective Mitchell said.
    Of course, the grim details of death needed taking care of. Lori couldn’t help feeling pity for Rob. His bid for a new life, selfish as it was, had been too quickly, too horribly interrupted.
    “It’ll be a while before we release the body.” The white policeman introduced himself. “Detective Scardini.” He had an incongruous snub nose and a head too small for his size. His eyes were so deeply set Lori couldn’t tell what color they were. “We’re with the Hawthorne Park Homicide Squad, investigating the death of Valerie Fenwick.”
    “If Rob’s gone and Jessica is asleep, what are you doing here?” Lori asked. “Babysitting?”
    Scardini shook his melon ball of a head slowly. “Lady, you have attitude.”
    “I’m just a little upset about my ex’s new wife getting shot. This bag weighs a ton and I really would like to go to the kitchen and get started on my father’s famous escarole soup and meatballs. My daughter loves it. My ex loves it and if you have some, you’ll clear up the murder in no time at all. Now where’s the kitchen?”
    A crack of a smile showed on Mitchell’s face. “Sounds good to me.” He held up a hand. “Back, past the dining room, to the left.” The detectives followed her. On the way, Lori’s eyes took in the furniture—sleek, shiny, lots of glass, black leather. Bare walls. Everything ultramodern. Cold, uninviting. The dining-room table was oblong white and gray marble. The lamps on the wall looked like white porcelain bats. What had happened to Rob’s love of the old, comfortable lived-in look? Well, he’d dumped her, so obviously his tastes had changed. And not for the better, she told herself for courage. Being here was awful enough. She didn’t need two detectives on her tail.
    Lori set the food bag down on one counter and turned to examine the kitchen, always the best room in a home in her opinion. She was glad to see it was smaller than her own. Mottled brown marble tiles. Granite counters. Granite back-splash. Pale wood glass-fronted cabinets. A gleaming Sub-Zero refrigerator that held no magnets. A Garland stove with a grill. Were they ever used? There wasn’t a speck of dirt or grease anywhere. Nothing on the countertops. A granite-covered island sat in the middle of the space, one side jutting out to accommodate two tall steel stools. The kitchen looked more like a lab to dissect frogs than a place to cook a meal. But then she couldn’t picture Valerie in an apron bending over a hot stove, and Rob could barely assemble a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
    “We’d like to ask you some questions,” Scardini said.
    Lori held up her hand. “First let me peek in on my daughter to make sure she’s all right.”
    Mitchell nodded. “We’re not going anywhere.” Scardini blessed him with a dirty look.
    So Scardini was the bad cop to Mitchell’s good cop. She liked that. There was some justice to it. “Do you know which room she’s in?”
    Mitchell started to move, but Scardini blocked him. “I’ll take her.”
    Lori followed him through another kitchen door to a corridor carpeted by long, narrow Oriental rugs. They passed three doors. Scardini kept going until he got to the last door. Lori waited until he stepped aside before slowly turning the doorknob. She opened the door only wide enough to stick her head in. She didn’t want the detective to see Jessica awake, counting the minutes until they left.
    “Jess?” she whispered, then closed the door quickly. “Out cold,” Lori said to the detective. Which was the truth. Jessica was curled up under a white duvet, the air conditioning going full blast,