Murder Misread by P.M. Carlson

about Tal’s life, touring the
house with her and looking over his den with special care. As they
checked through the rooms she realized that Hines was inserting
other questions, finding out where she’d been all day, what she’d
been doing. And he’d been interested in every detail of those
bankbooks and insurance policies. It was his job; she shouldn’t be
angry. But how the hell could he be challenging her? She, who had
lost…. And besides, it was wasting time. Pointless. Frittering away
hours they needed to catch a killer.
    But at last they were
gone.
    And the house was very
empty.
    She knocked back the rest
of her wine and went out to pour herself another glass.
    Couldn’t face that damn
casserole, she decided as she returned the bottle to the
refrigerator. But maybe some cheese. She hadn’t bought any bread
today, but there was a half box of crackers left over from an
end-of-term party they’d given two weeks ago. Better eat them; they
were already going stale. She sat at the kitchen table and made
herself cut a few slices of cheese. What she ought to do was
organize the facts she knew. Maybe in black and white something
would leap out at her. Maybe she’d notice something that a stranger
like Hines wouldn’t. She got a pad of paper and placed it by her
chair. Then she crossed the kitchen to turn on the radio. The
cheery young voice that couldn’t quite pronounce Mussorgsky was
annoying, but the well-worn music, Pictures at an Exhibition , filled
the empty air. Helped keep feelings at bay.
    Okay. What were the facts?
Time: just before noon. Place: lower gorge trail. People in the
area at the time: could be anyone, really, unless they could prove
they were elsewhere. But she knew some. Nora, Charlie, Bart,
Maggie. That student, Dorrie.
    She stared at the list.
Now what?
    Mussorgsky marched on
through the exhibition.
    It was a relief when the
doorbell sounded. Maybe Laura Brand back with dessert.
    But, astonishingly, it was
Maggie Ryan. She stood on the porch, each hand holding a child’s.
Little girl about four, toddler not much over a year. All three
with black curly hair and blue jeans.
    “ I’m sorry to bother you,”
she apologized. “But I thought it might be better to catch you now
than later, when more people will be here. I just had a
question.”
    “ Come on in. Maggie,
right?”
    “ That’s right. This is
Sarah, and this is Will.”
    “ Hi.” Anne grinned
foolishly down at the bright-eyed youngsters. Cute. She opened the
door wider. Sarah stepped in to look inquisitively around the
oak-beamed hall. Little Will spied something and beelined for the
living room with Maggie in hot pursuit.
    “ Come on, Will!” She
scooped him up as he passed the coffee table and asked Anne, “Where
do you want us?”
    The little boy was
pouting, making grasping movements toward the brass fireplace poker
with his pudgy hand. Anne said, “How about the kitchen? I’m trying
to finish up a box of crackers.”
    “ Great.” Maggie put Will
down and herded the children after Anne into the kitchen. She sat
on one of the chairs and plopped Will into her lap. All three
accepted the crackers.
    “ Yum!” said Will, cramming
one into his small mouth, the delights of brass pokers
forgotten.
    “ Yum,” Maggie
agreed.
    Anne sat down at the other
side of the table. “Well. You had a question?”
    “ Yeah, about my new boss.
I’m sorry to barge in like this, Professor Chandler,
but—”
    “ Oh, God, call me Anne.
You have as many degrees as I have. As many children,
too.”
    “ Anne it is. You have
children?”
    “ A boy and a girl, like
you. Paul and Rocky. A man and a woman, I should say.”
    “ Your daughter is named
Rocky?”
    “ Roxane.”
    “ Oh, of
course!”
    “ She decided at age ten
that Rocky was more suitable. Tal complained, of course. He’s—he
was such a romantic at heart, wanted his gorgeous daughter to have
a gorgeous name. But she played first base for the Laconia Lions
and he had to