Lucky Stiff by Annelise Ryan Page B

about Jack? His death was an accident, wasn’t it? And the fire? That was an accident?”
    I decide to let Hurley field this one. Not only because I don’t want to get in trouble for revealing more than I should to a potential suspect—something I’ve had issues with in the past—but also because my mouth is so crammed full of a snickerdoodle, I couldn’t talk if I wanted.
    “It appears Mr. Allen’s death is a homicide,” Hurley says.
    Serena’s dark complexion pales. She clamps a hand over her mouth and tears well in her eyes. “Who would do such a thing?” she says through her hand. “Jack never hurt a soul. This is so . . . wrong, so . . . unfair.”
    Hurley takes out one of his business cards and slides it across the table to Serena. I know this is our cue to leave, so I grab my coffee and take a big swig to wash down the sugary mass in my mouth. I relish the cinnamon flavor of the cookies as it mixes with the coffee. When I’ve swallowed, I get up from the table and follow Hurley, who is nearly to the door already. Seeing the kids again, I pause and look at Serena, who has followed me.
    “Are they all yours?” I ask her.
    She shakes her head. “The twins are mine,” she says, with a sparkle in her eye. “But the girl is my neighbor’s daughter. We trade off babysitting duties whenever we can. She is a single mother, like me.”
    “That must be tough,” I tell her. “Is the boys’ father in the picture? Do you get any child support to help you out?”
    Serena’s color, which had returned to near normal, fades again. She shoots a quick, wary look toward the kids, who are fully engrossed in SpongeBob SquarePants. “He is not around,” she says just above a whisper.
    Something in my gut tells me she is lying. But I also sense that if I try to push the issue, I won’t get anything. So all I say is “I’m sorry,” before I turn to follow Hurley out the door.

Chapter 9
    When we’re back outside in the car, Hurley dials a number on his cell and gives whoever is on the other end a laundry list of tasks: track down Jack’s phone and Internet provider, pull a record of Jack’s calls and e-mails for the past six months, look into the neighbor named Gatling, and check to see what company Jack’s mortgage was with and if it is paid off, as Serena said.
    As he disconnects the call and starts the car, he says, “If what Serena said about the mortgage is true, that would explain some of Jack’s missing money.”
    “Not enough of it. Even at full price, I don’t think his house would be worth more than two hundred grand.”
    “Still, it’s a start. So what’s your take on Serena Vasquez?”
    “I’m on the fence. She wasn’t being totally honest with us; and I suppose that as a housekeeper, she was in a good position to discover the speaker safe. But I’m having a hard time seeing her as a killer.”
    Hurley shakes his head. “You fall for those sob routines every time.”
    “I’m not falling for anything. Serena’s emotions seemed genuine to me. I think she was upset by the knowledge that Jack was cruelly murdered.”
    Hurley looks at me like I’m an ignorant child he’s placating, someone whose wild but clearly uninformed ideas amuse him.
    “What?” I snap, irritated. “Do you think Serena did it?”
    “I don’t know, but I’m not going to rule her out simply because she shed a real tear or two when we told her Allen was murdered. Those tears might have been triggered by something other than sadness,” he says, still with the condescending tone.
    “Like what?” I almost add “smarty-pants” to the question, but bite it back at the last second.
    “How about shock or fear, triggered by the realization that her attempts to make Allen’s murder look like an accident weren’t successful?”
    “No way. Those were sad tears.”
    “You might be right. Serena’s realization that she might not get away with the murder she just committed would be enough to make her sad.”
    I roll