Death of the Couch Potato's Wife: Cozy Christian Mysteries (Women Sleuth, Female Detective Suspense) by Christy Barritt Page B

His gaze darted around.
    I put a fist to my hip. “Explain.”
    He scowled before letting out a long sigh. “Okay, okay. I didn’t kill my wife. I didn’t. I’m devastated at the news.”
    He didn’t look devastated. No, he just looked tired. He probably was tired of running from the law. But did he look like a grieving husband? No way.
    I squeezed the door handle, just to make sure I had a good grip in case I needed to jet. “You’re supposed to be out of town. That’s what Candace told me. That you were golfing.”
    The little bit of color left on his face drained. “That was just an excuse.”
    “For what?”
    He looked beyond me, as if dreaming of ways to get past me and escape. “For staying here with Yvonne.”
    My mouth gaped open. “With Yvonne? You mean you two really are having an affair? You jerk.”
    He at least had the good sense to look sheepish. He even kicked at something imaginary on the floor. “The good news is that I have an alibi.”
    My hand left the door knob and flew into the air. It didn’t stop until my index finger aimed directly at him. “And the bad news is that you’re scum. You were cheating on Candace, after all that she’s sacrificed for you. How could you? She gave up everything for you.”
    He shrugged and let his head fall to the side, like the slouch that he was. “I know it’s not right. But Candace and I don’t love each other. Yvonne’s different. We’ve got chemistry.”
    I shook my head at his ignorance. “I’m going to have to call the police, Jerry. They’re looking for you.”
    He stepped toward me and I raised my hand in the universal sign for stop.
    He paused. “Please don’t do it, Laura. I don’t want to take the blame for this.” His voice trembled. And for a moment—just a small, tiny mark of time—I felt sorry for him.
    I wasn’t a human lie detector. I didn’t know if he killed his wife or not. But this might be my only chance to question him. “I think you care more about your reputation than you do your dead wife.”
    He shook his head with enough force that I felt a breeze. “It’s not true. I hate to think about what happened to Candace. She didn’t deserve it. She was a good woman. She put up with me, didn’t she?”
    Of course he would say that. Candace had supported him from the very beginning, all while he messed around and wasted their money. Why would he want her dead? An insurance policy maybe?
    I stared at Jerry, trying to look tougher than I felt. “Any idea who might have done this?”
    He looked side to side, as if anyone were close enough to be listening. “Since you asked—Harry McCoy.”
    I jerked my head back. “Why would you think Harry’s guilty?”
    “I made him mad a couple of weeks ago. He bought a couch from me, but then found a better deal on another one in Indy. He tried to return it, but I wouldn’t let him.”
    “Why not?”
    Jerry shrugged adamantly. “He’d sat on it.”
    “As do most people when they have couches.”
    “Anyway, the piece was used goods. Harry got ticked. Threatened me. I bet he went into my house and poisoned those pork rinds, thinking I would eat them. I don’t think Candace was supposed to die at all.”
    I sucked in a deep breath. As someone once said, “oh, what a tangled web we weave.” Jerry had woven a doozy.

    “You’re sure it was Jerry?” Romeo began his shirt-tucking ritual again. I’d seen him more over the past few days than I had my own husband.
    I’d rather see my husband.
    “I’m positive. I spoke to him. There’s not a large margin for error here.” I leaned back on the watermelon couch, suddenly exhausted from all the excitement.
    The chief shifted and pulled out his paper and pen. He handed it to Maloney. “Tell me what happened again.”
    I repeated the story. Again. Chief Romeo nodded, grunted and glanced at Officer Maloney to make sure he was taking notes. Then he looked back at me. “So what happened after he accused Harry?”
    I rolled my