Murder in the Marketplace by Lora Roberts Page A

you see she wasn’t ready for that? God knows you’re old enough to know better.” He looked disbelievingly at Ed. “You’re past forty!”
    Ed winced. “Why don’t we continue this conversation in my office,” he suggested. "This is hardly the place—”
    “I don’t care who hears what I have to say,” Jason declared vehemently. He glared at the audience, which by now had filled the hallway and probably included everyone who worked at SoftWrite. “My sister is dead! Doesn’t that matter?”
    Suzanne had been hanging back in the open door of her office, glancing nervously from the employees to Ed to Jason. Now she strode forward and put her arm around Jason’s shoulder. He didn’t shrug her off.
    “Of course it matters.” Her deep voice was harsh with feeling. “It matters more than anything. But it’s over, don’t you see? Nothing you do can bring back the past. You just have to go on.”
    There was silence for a moment, and in it Suzanne seemed to recollect herself. She dropped her arm from Jason, glancing around with an air of truculence.
    Jason didn’t notice. He turned on Ed, his expression still accusing. “I’m going to get to the bottom of it,” he said. “And when I do I’ll find you there, seeking your level, you worm."
    “That’s an interesting point of view.” It was Drake’s voice. Unnoticed by those caught up in the drama, which included me, he’d pushed through the glass double doors.
    Everyone turned to look at him—except me. I looked from Suzanne to Ed to Jason. I was hoping for one of those revealing moments you hear about, when people taken unaware display their emotions so nakedly you can read them like a book. But Suzanne simply looked blank. Ed was faintly puzzled, trying to recall where he’d met Drake before. And Jason plainly didn’t care.
    Drake looked around, taking the office in as if he was writing a description down in the messy notebook he kept. He passed over me blandly, as if I were just another anonymous receptionist. His gaze stopped on Ed and Suzanne, and the distraught young man who stood between them.
    “Paul Drake. Police,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you, Mr. Paston.”
    Jason looked defiant. It occurred to me to wonder if he were an actor—all his emotions seemed so apt.
    “Ed Garfield—we met last night,” Drake continued, shaking hands. “And you were at Emery’s, too, Ms.—?” He looked inquiringly at Suzanne. She introduced herself, her voice dull again, with no sign of the passion that had infused it earlier. “I’ll need to talk to both of you,” Drake continued briskly. “And anyone else who feels they have something to add. Miss Paston’s death has been classified as suspicious, and that means a lot of routine and boring questions, I’m afraid.”
    “As long as you find—as long as he’s punished—” Jason’s voice wobbled. Abruptly he sank into a chair and burst into the threatened sobs, interspersed with stuttering gulps of air.
    Suzanne shooed the workers away; most of them were already evaporating on their own, with the exception of Angel, who had gotten a glass of water and offered it with genuine concern, and Larry, who had perched on a corner of the tansu chest, watching avidly.
    Ed stayed in the open door of his office, and Suzanne retreated to hers, so they faced each other across the room again. Jason wept on his chair. Drake, hands stuffed into the sagging pockets of his sport coat, surveyed us all.
    “I’ll want to talk to you all, one at a time,” he began. “I also want to look through Miss Paston’s desk.”
    “That’s what I came to do,” Jason mumbled. “I don’t want strangers touching her things.”
    “Given the circumstances of her death,” Drake said, not unkindly, “the police are going to have to touch things. And do more than that, perhaps.” He gave me a warning look. “We don’t like having evidence messed up."
    Ed caught the look, though he didn’t know