Dying to Teach by Cindy Davis

morning. I didn’t realize at the time that our dialogues were in two different time zones. I was taking in information to help work with the kids and—”
    “And probably feeling very nervous.”
    “That’s an understatement! While I sat there thinking he was making conversation to help ease my nerves, he was actually feeding me information to help solve Gwen’s murder. I wish I could remember it all. I’ll feel stupid asking when he already told me.”
    “Remember the interrogation tactics I taught you. Keep him talking. The information might come out without a direct question.”
    “Good idea.”
    Soon, the phone pinged letting him know the picture had arrived. The tiny screen reminded him he needed to see an eye doctor. In the photo, a young couple, probably in their late teens, wore medium quality jeans and identical Nike shoes. They stood on a dirt path in front of a brick building, smiling lovers’ smiles. Jarvis recalled a photo album he came across recently on the top shelf of his closet. One of the first pictures was he and Liz; they’d worn those same nothing-can-change-our-feelings expressions too.
    Jarvis had to agree with Angelina, the backdrop was at a college, probably one in New England if the architecture and setting were any indication. The path wound between six fully leafed maple trees, which meant the season was probably late spring or summer. Considering school schedules, it probably wasn’t summertime.
    He sat at the computer and uploaded the photo from the phone. On the large, flat computer screen, the details were fuzzy but easier to see. Wait. What’s that? He peered closer at the monitor. Were those wedding bands? Yes, narrow bands—he couldn’t tell whether they were silver or gold—decorated each left ring finger. Okay, that much of Randy’s story was true. Jarvis wished he were at the office where he could search for marriage records. Chances were good they had been married near the school.
    First, he searched for colleges in the northeast. If that didn’t pan out, he would spread the search down the eastern seaboard, and then west if need be. Two hours—man, there were a lot of schools in New England—and another can of beer later, he found it: Bridgewater State College in Massachusetts. The path was now paved and the trees were many years older, but no doubt about the location. What did the information mean? In the long run, probably not one thing. Most police research—the long, long hours chasing clues—turned out a waste of time.
    Even though it neared midnight and Angelina was probably still awake—she sometimes lay awake for hours—he went to bed. He’d phone from the office in the morning, hopefully he’d have a second piece of news, about the marriage license. With any luck he’d find a record of the marriage’s dissolution too.
    He considered phoning the detective on the case. Since Carlson was a small town, they had no functioning detective squad, so José Rodriguez, a full time detective in the neighboring town of Nashua, had been assigned to the case. Rodriguez had been unusually forthcoming with information. PDs were usually willing to share but mostly when the departments were working the same case. Jarvis had no case, only fell into this one because of Angelina. He had no official right to anything. The first night they met, Rodriguez mentioned their department being short of detectives, so Jarvis figured he would welcome somebody to run things past, a senior advisor, so to speak. Even so, it was late. Since the information probably had no bearing on the case, he’d save it till morning.
    Jarvis spent a half hour pressing the big barbells in his living room. Then he took the puppy outside. As always, they walked the perimeter of his in-town property to teach her limits. She did her business and they went inside.
    Jarvis showered and climbed into bed, arms under his head. Irish Red’s toenails clicked along the hallway, then silenced as they met the