didn’t need a lawyer, she told us it had to be Davis. “He’s not normal, after all, and he does know about food.” My lie detector was snoring on the windowsill, meaning I had to rely on my own gut feeling that she was not telling me the whole truth. I’d had it all day, though, so it might have just been indigestion.
Honey blamed Jeff, saying he’d finally snapped. Donna, Beau’s long-suffering wife, just smacked gum loudly, and scratched her belly button ring. That left us back where we started, with hours to go before Tom and Punk could possibly complete their searches for insulin, syringes, mushrooms, books about either, and any stocks or other papers in Vera’s name. So we started over. Back to Davis, Ken, May, Eileen, Hal, Army, Rob, Lynne, Gloria….the day was a blur of Colliers. Angry, sullen, cussing, unhelpful Colliers.
Finally, around five, Tom called my cell. “We did ‘em all,” he said, sounding as worn out and irritated as I felt. “Nothing, Lil. Not a damn thing. Not even a can of mushroom soup.”
“Jeff’s place?” I asked, stretching gladly as I got outside into the fresh air. Boris chirped happily and chased a butterfly as we crossed to the parking lot.
“Same bunch of nothing.” He sighed so heavily I practically heard it without benefit of telephone. “Whatever evidence there was went up in the fire. We’re screwed.”
He was right, which only made me angrier. “Not yet we’re not.”
Poor Tom. He squawked. “What’s left?”
“There’s about a hundred Colliers up in that hollow. We’ll ask them what they know.”
The silence was so profound I thought Tom must have lost cell phone signal. Then he lost his temper.
“Ask the other Colliers? Are you outta your mind? They been giving us looks all day like we’re Bambi and it’s the first day of buck! You want me to come back here, you’re on your own! I dunno what you got taught but I was told suicide’s a sin!” Tom gulped air, then added, “No fricking way! I’d sooner put my nuts in a vise!” And he hung up.
I spent a few minutes staring at my phone in disbelief before I put it away. He was right, of course. I could spend years interrogating the rest of the Colliers, and end up with a fat load of even more nothing. But what else did I have? Any chance of evidence in Vera’s house was up in smoke, and a search of her kids’ houses had gotten us zero. Every possible suspect was hostile, or on the run. All we had was the medical examiner’s reports, and that didn’t help. On TV they’d charge someone and tell the rest that the someone was singing like a canary, but that was TV. In real life, I’d already pushed my luck. I couldn’t even risk keeping the Colliers overnight. The judge had been very clear about that.
“Shit,” I said. Then, because no one was around, I pulled Boris into my lap and let myself despair into his soft fur. My ribs ached, my head hurt, my shoulders were pure rock from tension, and my case had gone ice cold. I needed a pound of chocolate truffles and a good cry. But what I had was a squirming cat, and Drake Morse whipping past at ten miles an hour over the speed limit. I hit my little dashboard bubble light, set Boris in his car seat, and peeled out.
10.
M y new cruiser arrived the following weekend. It was the only bright spot I’d had for days. Tom was avoiding me, Kim was on vacation at the Outer Banks, Aunt Marge was in the middle of her adoption fair, and the Colliers had gone to ground. If it hadn’t been for Boris, I’d have chucked it all and moved back to Charlottesville. At least there I’d had company in my police misery.
All of which vanished when I saw my new cruiser. Maury was standing beside it when I rolled into the office for lunch, sweating because we were in the middle of a heat wave that made it feel like August three months early. I forgot all about sticky shirts and the hell that is a brassiere in summertime when I saw the shiny new black-and-white
Honey blamed Jeff, saying he’d finally snapped. Donna, Beau’s long-suffering wife, just smacked gum loudly, and scratched her belly button ring. That left us back where we started, with hours to go before Tom and Punk could possibly complete their searches for insulin, syringes, mushrooms, books about either, and any stocks or other papers in Vera’s name. So we started over. Back to Davis, Ken, May, Eileen, Hal, Army, Rob, Lynne, Gloria….the day was a blur of Colliers. Angry, sullen, cussing, unhelpful Colliers.
Finally, around five, Tom called my cell. “We did ‘em all,” he said, sounding as worn out and irritated as I felt. “Nothing, Lil. Not a damn thing. Not even a can of mushroom soup.”
“Jeff’s place?” I asked, stretching gladly as I got outside into the fresh air. Boris chirped happily and chased a butterfly as we crossed to the parking lot.
“Same bunch of nothing.” He sighed so heavily I practically heard it without benefit of telephone. “Whatever evidence there was went up in the fire. We’re screwed.”
He was right, which only made me angrier. “Not yet we’re not.”
Poor Tom. He squawked. “What’s left?”
“There’s about a hundred Colliers up in that hollow. We’ll ask them what they know.”
The silence was so profound I thought Tom must have lost cell phone signal. Then he lost his temper.
“Ask the other Colliers? Are you outta your mind? They been giving us looks all day like we’re Bambi and it’s the first day of buck! You want me to come back here, you’re on your own! I dunno what you got taught but I was told suicide’s a sin!” Tom gulped air, then added, “No fricking way! I’d sooner put my nuts in a vise!” And he hung up.
I spent a few minutes staring at my phone in disbelief before I put it away. He was right, of course. I could spend years interrogating the rest of the Colliers, and end up with a fat load of even more nothing. But what else did I have? Any chance of evidence in Vera’s house was up in smoke, and a search of her kids’ houses had gotten us zero. Every possible suspect was hostile, or on the run. All we had was the medical examiner’s reports, and that didn’t help. On TV they’d charge someone and tell the rest that the someone was singing like a canary, but that was TV. In real life, I’d already pushed my luck. I couldn’t even risk keeping the Colliers overnight. The judge had been very clear about that.
“Shit,” I said. Then, because no one was around, I pulled Boris into my lap and let myself despair into his soft fur. My ribs ached, my head hurt, my shoulders were pure rock from tension, and my case had gone ice cold. I needed a pound of chocolate truffles and a good cry. But what I had was a squirming cat, and Drake Morse whipping past at ten miles an hour over the speed limit. I hit my little dashboard bubble light, set Boris in his car seat, and peeled out.
10.
M y new cruiser arrived the following weekend. It was the only bright spot I’d had for days. Tom was avoiding me, Kim was on vacation at the Outer Banks, Aunt Marge was in the middle of her adoption fair, and the Colliers had gone to ground. If it hadn’t been for Boris, I’d have chucked it all and moved back to Charlottesville. At least there I’d had company in my police misery.
All of which vanished when I saw my new cruiser. Maury was standing beside it when I rolled into the office for lunch, sweating because we were in the middle of a heat wave that made it feel like August three months early. I forgot all about sticky shirts and the hell that is a brassiere in summertime when I saw the shiny new black-and-white
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