by men. It’s very sad. But I don’t care. I’m not doing this anymore.”
“I can understand that the plight of the clients must break your heart,” I said sympathetically.
“Well, yes, but it’s the men. They come in here and threaten me because I’m not allowed to tell them where we’ve housed their wives for safekeeping and their poor little children.”
“And you weren’t here last Thursday?”
“No, Kebra was. And I wish I hadn’t been here Wednesday, either. That’s the night a man named Piñon came in and screamed at me. I told him to go away or I’d call the police. I had my hand on the telephone. He said he’d kill me if I called the police. I—I panicked and threw the telephone at him.”
“Good for you,” said Bruno. “Is a smart move.”
“No, it wasn’t. Denise was irritated because I broke the phone, and I was terrified because I had to run by him while he was cursing and staggering around with his head bleeding, and Margaret said we might get sued because I injured him, and I locked myself in the bathroom until he went away, but by the time the police arrived, he was gone, and the director was peeved because she said the police and sirens made the center look like a dangerous place.” Penny then burst into tears. “And he broke four of my glass figurines before he left.”
I asked gently, “Would you have a name or address for Freddie Piñon?” Why hadn’t Timatovich told me Piñon had been here Wednesday night? Maybe Piñon had slipped in twice.
“Do you think he killed Denise?” Penny asked. “I hope he goes to jail forever. It’s so silly to think the professor killed her. Old ladies don’t kill people.” She rummaged through a drawer and pulled out the file on Frederico and Graciella Piñon. “Denise got Gracie into a shelter the first time, but he found her and went to jail because he hit the director of the shelter. Then Gracie went to another shelter; I don’t even know which one. That information is in the safe. When he got paroled, he came right back here. I consider him very dangerous.”
I agreed and wrote down the telephone number and address of the evil Freddie’s mother, the name of his halfway house, at which he would no longer be residing, and the name and number of his parole officer. Obviously he had to be investigated, but I didn’t want to do it. “Do you have a home number for Kebra Zenawi? Since she was here Thursday, I’d like to talk to her.”
“Oh, Kebra wouldn’t have killed Denise. She adored her. Denise is the reason Kebra volunteers here.”
“Yes, but she might have seen someone suspicious.”
“Of course. What a good idea! It’s so frightening to think a murderer may still be lurking around. Waiting to kill someone else.” She started to tremble.
I patted her hand and told her she was a very brave woman, a little white lie, but it seemed to make her feel better. When she’d calmed down, I went next door to the Women of Color office, and Bruno stayed to talk philodendron care with Penny. Bertha Harley, a sturdy black woman, possibly fifty or so, greeted me. She was going gray, but her skin was completely unwrinkled. Twin children sat on her floor playing jacks and giggling.
To me she said, “Wrong color, honey.” To the children, she said, “Stop with the gigglin’, babies. We got us some company.” The children stopped giggling, looked at me, round-eyed, and then went back to their game. Very well behaved, I thought, especially for preschoolers.
I repeated my standard introduction and statement of purpose, then smiled down at the little ones. “Your twins?” I asked.
“Lord no, honey. My grandbabies. My no-good daughter got herself hooked on crack cocaine. I beat up her dealer, but she jus’ went out an’ got herself another one, so I took the babies to raise. No baby should hafta live with a crackhead mother. Sounds like you’re related to Vera, so I’ll jus’ tell you up front, no way Vera Blue killed
“I can understand that the plight of the clients must break your heart,” I said sympathetically.
“Well, yes, but it’s the men. They come in here and threaten me because I’m not allowed to tell them where we’ve housed their wives for safekeeping and their poor little children.”
“And you weren’t here last Thursday?”
“No, Kebra was. And I wish I hadn’t been here Wednesday, either. That’s the night a man named Piñon came in and screamed at me. I told him to go away or I’d call the police. I had my hand on the telephone. He said he’d kill me if I called the police. I—I panicked and threw the telephone at him.”
“Good for you,” said Bruno. “Is a smart move.”
“No, it wasn’t. Denise was irritated because I broke the phone, and I was terrified because I had to run by him while he was cursing and staggering around with his head bleeding, and Margaret said we might get sued because I injured him, and I locked myself in the bathroom until he went away, but by the time the police arrived, he was gone, and the director was peeved because she said the police and sirens made the center look like a dangerous place.” Penny then burst into tears. “And he broke four of my glass figurines before he left.”
I asked gently, “Would you have a name or address for Freddie Piñon?” Why hadn’t Timatovich told me Piñon had been here Wednesday night? Maybe Piñon had slipped in twice.
“Do you think he killed Denise?” Penny asked. “I hope he goes to jail forever. It’s so silly to think the professor killed her. Old ladies don’t kill people.” She rummaged through a drawer and pulled out the file on Frederico and Graciella Piñon. “Denise got Gracie into a shelter the first time, but he found her and went to jail because he hit the director of the shelter. Then Gracie went to another shelter; I don’t even know which one. That information is in the safe. When he got paroled, he came right back here. I consider him very dangerous.”
I agreed and wrote down the telephone number and address of the evil Freddie’s mother, the name of his halfway house, at which he would no longer be residing, and the name and number of his parole officer. Obviously he had to be investigated, but I didn’t want to do it. “Do you have a home number for Kebra Zenawi? Since she was here Thursday, I’d like to talk to her.”
“Oh, Kebra wouldn’t have killed Denise. She adored her. Denise is the reason Kebra volunteers here.”
“Yes, but she might have seen someone suspicious.”
“Of course. What a good idea! It’s so frightening to think a murderer may still be lurking around. Waiting to kill someone else.” She started to tremble.
I patted her hand and told her she was a very brave woman, a little white lie, but it seemed to make her feel better. When she’d calmed down, I went next door to the Women of Color office, and Bruno stayed to talk philodendron care with Penny. Bertha Harley, a sturdy black woman, possibly fifty or so, greeted me. She was going gray, but her skin was completely unwrinkled. Twin children sat on her floor playing jacks and giggling.
To me she said, “Wrong color, honey.” To the children, she said, “Stop with the gigglin’, babies. We got us some company.” The children stopped giggling, looked at me, round-eyed, and then went back to their game. Very well behaved, I thought, especially for preschoolers.
I repeated my standard introduction and statement of purpose, then smiled down at the little ones. “Your twins?” I asked.
“Lord no, honey. My grandbabies. My no-good daughter got herself hooked on crack cocaine. I beat up her dealer, but she jus’ went out an’ got herself another one, so I took the babies to raise. No baby should hafta live with a crackhead mother. Sounds like you’re related to Vera, so I’ll jus’ tell you up front, no way Vera Blue killed
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