Gray fuzzy hair, wire-rimmed glasses—the one who offered to play cribbage while the police investigated the crime scene.”
“Ruth Kimmey.”
“Right. Ruth. We’d been talking about how sad it was that Pamela Rawlins wouldn’t be involved with organizing the shows in the future. Frankly, I’m not sorry at all. I don’t like that Pamela woman very much. She’s a little snooty.”
Said the pot to the kettle
.
“Next year, Marsha Denford will be in charge.”
“I thought Phillip was the one associated with the M-CFO.”
“He was. But it’s like a dynasty, and Marsha is nextin line. She’ll carry on Phillip’s tradition of coordinating the show. At least, she’ll be the figurehead over the whole enchilada. Assuming Marsha keeps her on, Mari will probably still be stuck handling the details. But it’s great for me. Marsha and I get along brilliantly. Assuming I’m not in prison, I should be in a great position for next year’s show.”
“Did you tell the police all this?”
“Are you kidding? I know enough to keep my mouth shut when it comes to the police. I didn’t say a word.”
“Pris, I have to say you’re very calm about your situation. I’d be losing my mind.”
She reached up a hand to smooth her hair. “I’m innocent. I have to believe that means something. And, besides, I’m following the advice of counsel to the letter. Before he severed his representation, Sean said I did exactly the right thing by keeping mum about Pamela’s ouster from the M-CFO planning committee. ‘Don’t ever talk to the cops,’ he said. ‘Not ever. Even if you’re telling them something that may seem to help you, it could come back to bite you later.’”
I understood why Pris, as a prime suspect, would want to keep quiet, but I was dating the cops. While I might someday come to regret it, I had no choice but to speak with them. Besides, the more I thought about it, the more I realized I had to come clean with Jack.Not only was it the right thing to do for our relationship, but I was pretty sure I was Pris’s alibi.
* * *
I met with Jack that night at his place.
He lived in the second-floor apartment of an old Victorian house, just a few blocks down Maple from Trendy Tails. It was spacious but sparsely furnished. Jack wasn’t a complicated guy. He needed a comfy couch and a good TV, not a lot of bric-a-brac and fancy paintings on the wall. In fact, the only decoration on his walls was a series of framed family photos taken by his uncle Paul. They were good black-and-white photos, but they were nothing arty or pretentious. My favorite was a close-up of his mother, Louise, and her fat beagle, Pearl, both grinning at the camera.
I walked in and was instantly enveloped by the pungent scent of cilantro and the piquant bite of jalapeños. Shortly after we’d begun dating, I’d discovered Jack’s hidden passion for cooking.
“Salsa?” It was one of his specialties, a complex blend of roasted chilies brightened with fresh lime juice and herbs.
“Yeah,” he called from the kitchen. “Just finished a batch. I’ll be right out.”
I made myself at home on the canvas sofa, pulling a squishy velvet pillow from between the cushions and pressing it to my chest. I scanned the living room floor, taking in the cat toys strewn every which way.
“Are you and Steve getting situated?”
“Absolutely. The minute I set him down in the apartment, he went on patrol, checking out every room, before jumping up on my bed, rolling onto his back, and conking out. He’s right at home. And thanks for all the toys. He’s a big fan. As a cop, I shouldn’t approve, but the little guy likes to get high on the ’nip.”
I laughed. “Where is he now?”
“Probably passed out on the bed.” Jack emerged from the kitchen with a big basket of tortilla chips and a dish of his salsa, both of which he set on the coffee table in front of the couch. “But, see, I’ve already got a couple of great
“Ruth Kimmey.”
“Right. Ruth. We’d been talking about how sad it was that Pamela Rawlins wouldn’t be involved with organizing the shows in the future. Frankly, I’m not sorry at all. I don’t like that Pamela woman very much. She’s a little snooty.”
Said the pot to the kettle
.
“Next year, Marsha Denford will be in charge.”
“I thought Phillip was the one associated with the M-CFO.”
“He was. But it’s like a dynasty, and Marsha is nextin line. She’ll carry on Phillip’s tradition of coordinating the show. At least, she’ll be the figurehead over the whole enchilada. Assuming Marsha keeps her on, Mari will probably still be stuck handling the details. But it’s great for me. Marsha and I get along brilliantly. Assuming I’m not in prison, I should be in a great position for next year’s show.”
“Did you tell the police all this?”
“Are you kidding? I know enough to keep my mouth shut when it comes to the police. I didn’t say a word.”
“Pris, I have to say you’re very calm about your situation. I’d be losing my mind.”
She reached up a hand to smooth her hair. “I’m innocent. I have to believe that means something. And, besides, I’m following the advice of counsel to the letter. Before he severed his representation, Sean said I did exactly the right thing by keeping mum about Pamela’s ouster from the M-CFO planning committee. ‘Don’t ever talk to the cops,’ he said. ‘Not ever. Even if you’re telling them something that may seem to help you, it could come back to bite you later.’”
I understood why Pris, as a prime suspect, would want to keep quiet, but I was dating the cops. While I might someday come to regret it, I had no choice but to speak with them. Besides, the more I thought about it, the more I realized I had to come clean with Jack.Not only was it the right thing to do for our relationship, but I was pretty sure I was Pris’s alibi.
* * *
I met with Jack that night at his place.
He lived in the second-floor apartment of an old Victorian house, just a few blocks down Maple from Trendy Tails. It was spacious but sparsely furnished. Jack wasn’t a complicated guy. He needed a comfy couch and a good TV, not a lot of bric-a-brac and fancy paintings on the wall. In fact, the only decoration on his walls was a series of framed family photos taken by his uncle Paul. They were good black-and-white photos, but they were nothing arty or pretentious. My favorite was a close-up of his mother, Louise, and her fat beagle, Pearl, both grinning at the camera.
I walked in and was instantly enveloped by the pungent scent of cilantro and the piquant bite of jalapeños. Shortly after we’d begun dating, I’d discovered Jack’s hidden passion for cooking.
“Salsa?” It was one of his specialties, a complex blend of roasted chilies brightened with fresh lime juice and herbs.
“Yeah,” he called from the kitchen. “Just finished a batch. I’ll be right out.”
I made myself at home on the canvas sofa, pulling a squishy velvet pillow from between the cushions and pressing it to my chest. I scanned the living room floor, taking in the cat toys strewn every which way.
“Are you and Steve getting situated?”
“Absolutely. The minute I set him down in the apartment, he went on patrol, checking out every room, before jumping up on my bed, rolling onto his back, and conking out. He’s right at home. And thanks for all the toys. He’s a big fan. As a cop, I shouldn’t approve, but the little guy likes to get high on the ’nip.”
I laughed. “Where is he now?”
“Probably passed out on the bed.” Jack emerged from the kitchen with a big basket of tortilla chips and a dish of his salsa, both of which he set on the coffee table in front of the couch. “But, see, I’ve already got a couple of great
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