Murder in a Hot Flash by Marlys Millhiser Page A

stupid murder you didn’t commit and my jeans are my own goddamned business. ”
    â€œBetween the campers needing a break from filth and gnat bites, canoers, whitewater rafters, your generic tourist, religious people here for an experience, reporters on the trail of a Hollywood ax murder, and two film companies ‘lensing’ (God, I hate that word), Scrag and I could come up with one motel room. It’s not that great but it’s yours for tonight. We’ll be back tomorrow morning with your car and your toothbrush, take you out for breakfast, and help you find a lawyer. You gonna make it, Charlie?”
    â€œHey, you guy types just don’t realize how strong we females are when it comes to chin-deep feces.” But she hugged them both long and hard before they left her for the night in one of the grossest motel rooms she’d ever smelled.
    An old-fashioned double bed, not even a queen size. And the odor—decades of chemical cleaners and air fresheners and cigarette smoke decomposed to stale. And probably other things Charlie refused to think about.
    She had the presence of mind to wash out her underclothes in the bathroom sink before crawling naked between the sheets. Despite a gut-gnawing fear for the health and sanity of her mother Charlie slept like a tank.
    She was so deeply out of it that she had to answer the door, when Mitch and Scrag returned in the morning, wrapped in the limp bedspread that smelled like discount-store perfume. They’d brought the Corsica and, when she’d dressed, walked her down to the main street for breakfast. Charlie sucked in great thankful gulps of chilly fresh air.
    Roses climbed trellises, fences, porches. They sat in clumps and on bushes. Glorious shades of red, peach, pink, and yellow. And poor Edwina sat in jail and couldn’t see them. Somehow, unreasonably, Charlie felt it was all her fault.
    â€œHow old a woman is Edwina?” Scrag asked.
    â€œLet’s see … she must be … about fifty-seven.”
    Both men stopped to gape at her.
    â€œI know, she looks ten years older.” That’s all supposed to be my fault too.
    â€œMore like twenty,” Scrag said indelicately.
    The River Palace Café and Grill was doing a good business but they managed to snag a booth just vacated by the window. Everyone in the room stared at Mitch Hilsten, even the waitresses, not one of whom was under sixty, nor anything other than scrawny with dyed hair molded into place. Maybe the younger ones were out at Dead Horse Point getting eaten by giant rats. Mitch pretended not to notice the attention. Their waitress brought an extra menu for him to autograph and somebody behind Charlie snapped photos using a flash.
    But it was Sheriff Ralph Sumpter who came up to the table, bill in hand. With the other he shook Mitch’s. “Mr. Hilsten.”
    â€œSheriff.”
    The lawman gave Scrag a curt nod and turned to Charlie, who sat across from her escorts. “And Miz Greene.”
    Charlie couldn’t tell you what a sneer sounded like but she knew one when she heard it.
    â€œI have just learned something of your history, Miz Greene, and I want you to know I am not impressed. Are you impressed, Arthur?” he said to the big vacant-faced deputy behind him.
    Arthur was not impressed. He had his sunglasses on indoors and they reflected a van with a kayak roped on top running the stoplight outside the window.
    What, you’ve learned I’m an UM instead of divorced? UM stood for unwed mother, a label Libby inflicted when in need of heavy artillery.
    â€œI have just learned from a newspaper reporter from Los Angeles that you are a famous psychic. I would like to make it clear that my temperament, my religion, and my common sense do not allow for such foolishness. Any special powers bestowed around here are bestowed by Jesus and I don’t believe He believes in psychics either. Do I make myself clear?”
    â€œYou do,