Denton - 01 - Dead Folks' Blues by Steven Womack Page A

of us here with Mrs. Fletcher all night. She couldn’t possibly have been in two places at once. Even you can understand that, can’t you?”
    “Now, Lieutenant,” Rachel said, “if you’ve finished accusing me of murder, I’d like to get on with grieving my husband’s death.”
    “Mrs. Fletcher,” Spellman said defensively, “we—”
    “I think you should go now,” Mrs. Goddard said. It was not a request. Spellman flipped shut his notepad, made brief eye contact with his partner, and took two steps toward the door.
    “Aren’t you going to tell me not to leave town, Lieutenant?” Rachel demanded bitterly.
    Spellman turned. “No, ma’am, I’m not going to tell you that.” It was rare, I thought, to see a homicide investigator leave a room with his tail between his legs. Kind of fun, actually. It’s not that I didn’t like Spellman; I just took a certain perverse delight in seeing the mighty put in their place.
    “Why don’t I let you two young people talk alone? I’ll go see if they need anything out there.”
    Rachel kept her back turned to me, following Mrs. Goddard out of the room with her eyes. When she was safely out of sight, Rachel turned to me, her blue eyes wide open, relieved.
    “I’ve been so worried about you. What happened at the hospital last night?”
    “I heard a noise,” I whispered. “I went into the room. It was dark so I fumbled for the light. When I got it on, I saw Conrad stretched out on a bed. He was still breathing, though. I bent over him to see how badly hurt he was. Somebody came up behind me and knocked me silly. That’s all I remember for a few seconds, which was just enough time to give the other person a chance to get away.”
    She held a hand up to her mouth, palm inward, almost inhorror. “Oh my heavens. The police didn’t give me much in the way of details. Most of what I’ve been able to get has been out of the newspaper.”
    “That’s not what we need to worry about now, Rachel. I need to know exactly what you know about Conrad’s gambling. I think I may have a line on who he owed money to, but we need to—”
    “No. I won’t have it.”
    “Won’t have what?”
    “You’re through, Harry. I want you to stop this.” Her voice was tight as she strained to be forceful without being heard by her company in the other room. “I don’t want whoever killed Connie to get a shot at you. I can’t bear that. You have to quit.”
    “Rachel, I can’t quit.” I put my hands on her shoulders without thinking, an unconscious, spontaneous motion. I squeezed her gently; her shoulders were knotted up like cordwood. “Not now. I’ve got to find out what really happened.”
    “You’ve got to quit. I’m not going to have you get hurt in this, too.”
    “Rachel, I—”
    “We’ll talk about it later. We can’t now, not with all these … old biddies … here. Come by tonight, late. I’ll be up.”
    I stood back from her. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
    She put her hands on her hips, jaw clenched, eyes wide. “Of course, it’s all right. We are adults, aren’t we? We don’t need a chaperone. I’ll have the lights off. Just come up the driveway and park where you are now. The back door’ll be open.”
    “Rachel, are you positive this is okay?”
    “I just don’t want to hear any gossip from this crew. They think they’re helping, but the truth is they’re driving me crazy. My parents are due in tomorrow night, and Connie’s are going to have to fly back from Europe.” She pulled some blond bangs off her forehead. “God, it’s going to be a long week.”
    “I know you’re exhausted. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be alone?”
    She looked up at me, her forehead wrinkling. “Eleven tonight,” she said. “Be here.”

I pulled out into the thick traffic on Hillsboro Road still wondering just how in blazes Connie Fletcher was paying the mortgage on that place, not to mention the requisite cars, vacations, clothes, parties,