Flipped For Murder by Maddie Day

dressed in a dark sweater, skirt, and boots. A kindly female professor had told me once, when I was worried about presenting a paper, it was always better to be overdressed when you were nervous. This pretty much fit the bill.
    Now, though, I was even more nervous, because we’d been sitting here for half an hour. My stomach was a winter nesting ground for butterflies. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jim look up at me, but I didn’t look back.
    â€œRobbie, I know you’re upset with me,” he said. “But when Buck comes in, try to stay calm. Answer questions as simply as you can. A ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ will suffice, and don’t elaborate if you don’t have to. Okay?”
    â€œYes.” I clasped my hands on the table and willed them not to fidget.
    Finally the door pushed open. Buck sauntered in, followed by a female police officer.
    â€œRobbie, Jim. You know Wanda, right? I mean, Officer Wanda.” He gestured at her.
    He spoke so slow I thought maybe he was about to nod off midsentence. Wanda stood in front of the door without looking at us, her hands behind her back and her feet apart. Her distinctly female body was stuffed into the male-cut uniform like a sausage, and her hairdo matched mine, except hers was gelled into submission.
    Buck sat across from me, stretching his legs out, as always, and laid his tablet on the table. Scratching the back of his neck, he checked the corners of the ceiling.
    â€œAll righty, then.” He pressed something on the tablet, spoke his name and rank, and stated the date. “Roberta Jordan, do I have your permission to record this interview?”
    I glanced at Jim. I hated to admit it, but I needed his help now. When he nodded, I said, “Yes.”
    Buck asked me to state my name and address.
    â€œRoberta Jordan, 19 Main Street, South Lick, Indiana.”
    He went through the same questions as Saturday night: Where had you been? Did you kill Stella? I answered him the exact same way.
    â€œDo you own a pin with a picture of a table and the words ‘Jeanine’s Cabinets’ on it?” He looked me in the eyes.
    I sat up straight. “I own a pen like that. Not a pin. ” That was how he’d said it, even though it was rude of me to point it out.
    He gave an exasperated sound. “Don’t get fresh with me, now. Do you currently know where your pen is at?” He stressed the word, but it still sounded like “pin” to my ears.
    â€œNo. I—” I cut myself off. Jim had said not to elaborate.
    â€œWhen was the last time you’re aware you were in possession of the pen?”
    â€œI put it in my apron pocket before the store opened Saturday morning.”
    â€œDid you have it Saturday night?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œWhen did you realize it was missing?”
    â€œSunday night.”
    â€œDo you agree to let us test your DNA?”
    â€œOf course.” I opened my palms and leaned forward. “But listen, Buck. If it is my pen, my DNA will be all over it. Fingerprints, too. Which doesn’t prove . . . anything.” I thought it would be prudent not to let loose with a string of obscenities, but my anger had taken over for my nerves. “You need to find the DNA of the idiot who thought they could frame me for a crime I didn’t commit.”
    Buck sighed with a deep, mournful sound. “Do you know of anyone else who owns such a pen?”
    â€œNo.” I glanced at Jim. The heck with his instructions. “You should ask Don O’Neill if he has one. He used to be friendly with my mother.” I wasn’t going to suggest Adele might have one, though. Let them figure that out. The murderer could be trying to frame her instead of me, and she’d been baking biscuits all morning Saturday.
    Buck raised his eyebrows all the way up to Canada. “I’ll ask you not to talk to anyone about this pen business,” he said.