Hotline to Murder by Alan Cook

Not nearby.”
    She sounded frightened. She may be having
second thoughts, but whatever crisis impelled her to leave home
must outweigh her fear. Tony was frantically leafing through the
directory of available services in Southern California. He said,
“There are shelters you can go to. Some of them will pick you
up.”
    At that moment, his eyes focused on such a
shelter with a Santa Monica address. Thank God. “I’ve got a number
for you. Do you have money so you can call the number or do you
want me to call it for you? Oh, they take collect calls.”
    “I’ve got some money.”
    “Do you have a pencil and paper?”
    “Yes.”
    “Okay, write this down.” He gave her the
number. “Call it immediately. If they can’t help you, call us back.
Okay?”
    “Okay. Thanks.”
    “And call us back to let us know that you’re
all right.”
    She promised and hung up. Tony hated to lose
the connection. The chances were that she wouldn’t call back.
    “She’ll be okay.”
    Tony looked up into Shahla’s dark eyes.
    She said, “That’s a tough call because we
probably won’t find out what happened. But you did the best you
could.”
    What if that wasn’t good enough? Tony
continued to brood about it.
    “I see you grabbed the good seat.”
    Shahla feigned being upset and sat down at
another table.
    He had to shake himself out of his
depression. “You snooze, you lose.”
    “I had to take my mom to her class. It was
the only way I could get the car.”
    Apparently, they were a one-car family.
Unusual for Bonita Beach. But with her father dead…. She had a
tough road to travel with only one parent.
    Shahla went to the snack room and came back
with her usual plate of chips. She said, “Have you thought over
what I told you about Martha?”
    He had not told her he was going to talk to
Martha. He was hoping that as a result of their meeting he could
report that she had an ironclad alibi and couldn’t possibly be a
suspect. Unfortunately, it hadn’t turned out that way. Martha’s
alibi was clad in a light mist that could be blown away by a gentle
breeze. However, Detective Croyden also knew that.
    Tony wanted to keep Shahla out of it. He
didn’t believe Martha had a motive for murdering Joy, even though
Shahla might not agree. If Shahla was jealous of Martha’s
relationship with Joy, she might do something she would regret.
    “I think Detective Croyden has already
talked to her. I understand he talked to all the members of the
volleyball team.”
    “Who told you that?”
    Who told him that? “I can’t remember. Maybe
Croyden did.”
    “But he hasn’t talked to all the members of
the Hotline.”
    “There are a lot more of us. And I think
he’s talked to everybody who knew Joy.”
    “How does he know who knew Joy?”
    Tony didn’t like getting the third degree.
He said, “Let’s work on that poem. Have you thought of anybody else
who might have written it?”
    “No. And before we start speculating,
shouldn’t we find out if there were any fingerprints on it?”
    “How are we going to do that? I know. I’ll
call our Indian buddy and see if he’ll tell us.”
    “Our Indian buddy?”
    “Crooked Nose.” Tony took out his cell phone
and then extracted Detective Croyden’s card from his wallet.
Croyden had been working late on Friday. Maybe he was working the
afternoon-evening shift to give him a better opportunity to talk to
people who might have knowledge of Joy’s murder.
    “Tony, it’s Native American, not
Indian.”
    “Sorry. When I went to school they were
still Indians.” Tony called the number on the card. He could
picture it being answered by the officer on the desk. He asked for
Detective Croyden.
    “Croyden.”
    “Hi Detective Croyden, this is Tony
Schmidt.”
    “Tony Schmidt. What have you got for
me?”
    “A question. Were there any fingerprints on
that envelope Shahla and I brought in?”
    “Your fingerprints were on it.”
    “Okay, but were there any other prints?”
    “I