Murder in the Milk Case by Spyglass Lane Mysteries Page B

vindicated, Abbie’s words triggered my latent insecurity. I, Trish Cunningham, redneck and the daughter of a struggling farmer, had married Maxwell Cunningham the Third, third child and only son of a wealthy family. No one could have predicted such a match. He was way out of my league. Something his mother had hinted at on more than one occasion, making it difficult for me to forget. Now, if my brother had been responsible for Max’s first wife’s death. . .well, I would never live that down.
    I forced my mind from the Cunninghams and back to the problem at hand. “Okay, so Daryl and the not-so-grieving widow could have been in cahoots. I know she wasn’t at the store that morning—at least not as far as I know—but Daryl was. And Gail says that Daryl was at the doctor’s that afternoon. He needed stitches.”
    Abbie nodded. “Make a note of that. And what about Frank?”
    “You heard about the embezzling?” I asked.
    “Yes, but he hasn’t been charged yet.”
    “He’s still a tattletale like he was in school. He told Detective Scott about me and Jim Bob. I also wonder if he’s the one who said something to Jim Bob about Russ.”
    She scooted next to me. “Let’s check out Russ’s friends.”
    We opened the yearbook for his senior year. The front flap had a dedication to Daryl’s little brother Tim, who had drowned the summer before.
    “That was so sad,” I said. “Russ and Tim were good friends, you know. Tim was a bad influence. He always got away with stuff because his folks and Daryl doted on him.”
    She glanced at me. “Then put his name on your list.”
    I did. Then feeling a little like a voyeur, I glanced at all the inscriptions that Russ’s friends had written. I tapped a finger on one. “I had forgotten this. Russ dated Peggy Nichols.”
    “Really?”
    “Yep. He broke her heart.”
    “We’ll ask her some questions on Saturday, then.” Abbie flipped through more pages. “I had forgotten that Lee Ann’s husband, Norm, hung out with Russ.”
    “Me, too.”
    Abbie glanced at her watch. “You need to go. Cops don’t like to be kept waiting.” She grinned ever so slightly. “However, they do like to keep you waiting. Be prepared to sit in the lobby. It’s a tactic to keep you off guard.”
    Abbie’s warning served me well. I arrived fifteen minutes early. Fifteen minutes after my scheduled appointment, Corporal Fletcher walked through the door into the lobby.
    “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs. C.”
    I narrowed my eyes. How many people called me Mrs. C.? Shirley? The people who worked for me and Max?
    “Come on in.” He held open the door to the inner sanctum of the sheriff’s office as though inviting me into his home. “You want something to drink? A Coke? Some water?”
    “No, thank you, Corporal Fletcher,” I said through stiff lips.
    He had the nerve to smile at me as he directed me toward some stairs and motioned for me to go up ahead of him. “Detective Scott is waiting for you.”
    “Is he now?” My irritation level rivaled my nervousness.
    The corporal said nothing else, just directed me to the same interview room where I’d been questioned before. Detective Scott was already there and stood as I entered. I noticed several files on the table, as well as a notepad and a pen.
    “Hello, Mrs. Cunningham. Please have a seat. Did Corporal Fletcher offer you something to drink?”
    “Yes. I don’t want anything, thank you.”
    He nodded at the corporal, who shut the door, leaving me alone with the detective. He motioned for me to sit in a chair.
    As he sat opposite me, I pulled my notebook from my bag. “I have some thoughts for you.” I flipped to the first page and ran my finger down my list. “I’ve been investigating.”
    “What?” he demanded.
    I glanced up at him, meeting his frowning gaze. “I said I’ve been investigating. I’ve gathered some information for you.”
    His silence told me a lot. I’d startled him. That was good. I wanted to keep him