Denton - 01 - Dead Folks' Blues by Steven Womack

“Where have you been? The police are here. It’s been awful.”
    She lunged and was in my arms in a second. I hugged her close, tighter than I would have expected. Her hair was freshly shampooed; everything about this woman was clean, scrubbed, still young after all these years.
    “I saw their car. Sorry it took me so long to get here. The police kept me most of the night, and I’ve been putting out fires ever since.”
    She pulled back, looked me directly in the eyes. “Are you all right?” She tipped my head toward her. “I heard you got hit.”
    “Yeah,” I said. “I’m okay. No stitches or anything. It was just a long night.”
    Rachel looked at the back of my head. “God, it’s a nasty cut. But it looks like you’ll be okay. I’m so relieved.”
    I stepped back, put my hands on her shoulders. “Rachel, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about Conrad. If there was anything I could have done to stop it, I would have. But it was too late when I found him.”
    Her eyes welled, as if for a moment she’d been able to stop thinking about him, and now I’d brought it all back. “You did everything you could have, Harry. I realize that.”
    “Rachel, there are a few matters we need to discuss.”
    “Later,” she whispered. “After the police leave.”
    She turned around to the dowager and held out a hand toward her. “Harry, this is my neighbor, Mrs. Goddard. She’s a good friend and has been helping me out today, keeping the reporters off the property. Mrs. Goddard, this is Harry Denton, an old friend. We were all in college together.”
    “Hello, Mrs. Goddard,” I said, extending a hand to her. The dowager took it gracefully and rocked it ever so gently.
    “I didn’t mean to be so cold to you out there, Mr. Denton. For all I knew, you might have been another of those blamed reporters.”
    “No, ma’am. Not me, but I imagine you’ve had them around all day.”
    “Like flies to a chamber pot, son.” She gave me a sharpgrin. Maybe Mrs. Goddard the dowager had a wicked side to her, or at least naughty.
    I heard voices far off in the living room, female voices melded into high-pitched insensibility.
    “God,” Rachel said, “the neighbors. The police. I swear, I can’t take much more.”
    “Where’s Spellman now?”
    “I’ve got them in the den. They’re questioning me about where I was, Harry. As if I had something to do with Conrad’s death.” There was fear in her voice, desperation, exhaustion. Her skin was pulled tight over cheekbones, her eyes tense, the purplish hollows under them deep.
    “Rachel, maybe you should have a lawyer here.”
    Her eyes darkened even further. “You, too, Harry?”
    “Rachel, I—”
    “I don’t need a lawyer, damn it.”
    She turned and charged past Mrs. Goddard into the hallway. I followed her to the den. Spellman and some other investigator I didn’t recognize stood about awkwardly.
    “Hello, Lieutenant,” I said.
    “Denton,” Spellman said, nodding.
    “Harry, these gentlemen presume I had something to do with my husband’s death,” Rachel said, straining to maintain control.
    “That’s not what we said, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s just routine in cases like thus to check the whereabouts of all the parties involved.”
    “As Mrs. Goddard has confirmed, I was here all night. I never left the house.”
    “That’s right, Lieutenant,” Mrs. Goddard said from behind him. I turned. The dowager didn’t seem the kind of woman who’d lie to save anybody’s butt. “We played bridge until eleven. When Mrs. Russell, Mrs. Winters, and the other table left, I stayed until eleven forty-five helping Mrs. Fletcher wash dishes and clean up because I only live two doors away.”
    Her voice was stern, solid. If this lady said she was playing bridge with Rachel until almost midnight, you could put itin the bank. I felt something inside me loosen, and it became a bit easier to breathe.
    “So you see, Lieutenant,” the dowager continued, “there were seven