Double Shot by Diane Mott Davidson Page B

Arch’s strained, occasionally sobbing voice alternated with Father Pete’s low rumble. Probably not the best moment to interrupt, I decided, and tiptoes back down the stairs.
Tom and I cleaned the kitchen. Then I asked Tom to sit down with me. He took a moment to retrieve my new quilt. Then he wrapped me up in it and scooted his chair beside mine. He put his arms around me and pulled me close.
He murmured, “Maybe you shouldn’t try to talk.”
“I have to.” My voice caught. In spite of the quilt, I was shaking violently. Then the words rushed out of me. “Tell me. Tell me who you think killed John Richard.”
Tom sighed. “Goldy, don’t.”
“Please. They suspect me. And I’m very worried about how Arch will react to that.” To my embarrassment, my stomach growled with hunger. My early-morning latte and toast was a distant memory.
Tom let go of me and walked over to the refrigerator. “I want the guys to look closely at that assault on you. I also want them to investigate the folks attending that funeral lunch. Somebody didn’t want the even to be a success, and might even have been setting you up . . .although how or why isn’t clear.” He pulled out a covered plate, unwrapped it, and sliced off a corner of grilled steak. He stabbed this with a fork and held it up to my mouth. He said, “You need to eat.”
I obeyed. The grill-flavored meat was succulent and tender. “Thanks.” I finished my morsel and crossed my arms. “Why look at people from the lunch? Because somebody whacked me and sabotaged my food? Because my gun was stolen there?”
“Yes and yes. I wish you wouldn’t start probing this just yet. You’re not only in pain, you’re exhausted.” I shrugged. Tom went on, “Then again, maybe someone was waiting here at the house for you. At some point, our perp searched your van for something. Maybe he or she was looking for that same money that the skeleton-faced man wanted, and found your gun instead. If the gun was stolen while you van was here at the house, that wouldn’t have given the killer a whole lot of time to haul over to John Richard’s house and kill him. But it might have been enough.” He sliced off another piece of steak. Like an obedient baby bird, I gobbled it down. “That theory wouldn’t quite fit with the half-open garage door and your ex in his Audi.”
I swallowed. “Why not?”
“John Richard had to be just coming in or just going out, right? And the killer trapped him in his garage.” I gave Tom a confused look. “It’s a matter of trying to figure out a chronology. The department will know more when they get the autopsy report. Plus, the neighbors might have seen or heard something. Hopefully, our guys will be able to pin down the time of death as jut when you arrived at the rink at Lakewood.”
I undid myself from the quilt and retrieved the first almost-frozen cookie roll. ‘I hope Boyd can find out a lot.”
While the oven heated, we worked together slicing the silky dough. As soon as a sheet went into the oven, the phone rang. The caller ID indicated that it was Marla.
“Uh-oh,” said Tom. “You were supposed to call her the minute you walked in the door. Better answer it. I don’t want her to bite my head off.”
Now there was something. I’d never seen Tom afraid of anyone. I languidly picked up the phone and cried, “Girlfriend!”
“Dammit, Goldy,” Marla’s husky voice gasped, as if she’d walked up several flights of stairs. “I just talked to Brewster, and he said he dropped you off an hour ago! I want to hear all about it, plus I have stuff to tell you —“
Don’t talk about the case on the phone. It was probably best to follow Brewster’s expensive advice.
“Marla, I’ve gotta go! The timer’s going off and a whole batch of cookies is about to come out of the oven!”
“Baloney! That never stopped you before. Just take them out of the oven! Now listen, John Richard and — “
“Omigod! Smoke!” I squealed. “The cookies