No Neighborhood for Old Women (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery) by Judy Alter

several people could testify they saw him. Conroy says he was distant and displeased but okay to deal with. The younger one spouted off about calling his lawyer, until Conroy told him he’d better call his lawyer to discuss a charge of possession of illegal substances. But he has no alibi—claims he was in a bar downtown, but no one in the bar has verified it.”
    “What’s his name?” It struck me I’d been discussing these two men without knowing their names.
    “Older one is Kenneth, younger is Mark. Last name is Dodson, so they must be the late husband’s kin.”
    “Does he have a record?”
    Mike shot me one of his resentful looks, like I’d ventured too far into police territory. “Yeah, a bust for possession of marijuana and one for drunk driving.”
    Lovely fellow. “Did Conroy press charges for possession?”
    Mike shook his head. “I would have if it’d been me, but Conroy’s focused on the murder.”
    “Well, it’s his business, isn’t it, more than yours?” There I went again, a bull in a china shop when I should have been tiptoeing through the tulips.
    Mike hung his head and then didn’t say anything for a long time, while I fidgeted and wished I could both take back the last three minutes and also learn to control my mouth. After a long, uncomfortable silence, he said, “Well, I care about what happens. I guess you know about that, don’t you, Kelly?” He stood up, grabbed his keys, and said, “Night, Kelly. I’ll let myself out.”
    Okay. Now I had done it. I sat like stone in the chair. Should I call him and apologize? Let him get over it? Wait for him to call? Damn! I remembered that I never was good at the dating thing, and I guess I’d just shown it again. I cried—not sobbing or anything but tears running down my cheeks. Maggie came in, her sixth sense in full swing.
    “I heard the door slam.”
    “Mike didn’t mean to make that much noise. I guess he forgot that you girls were sleeping.”
    “Mom, why are you crying? Did you and Mike have a fight?”
    I smiled at her sweet concern, but I’m sure my smile didn’t reassure her. “No. I just said something I shouldn’t have.”
    “Well, call Mike and tell him you’re sorry. That’s what you tell me. You say apology goes a long way, and you catch more flies with a teaspoon of honey than a cup of vinegar.”
    “I’m not catching flies,” I said in a whisper. “Thanks, Maggie. Go on back to bed.”
    She gave me a fierce hug and a whispered, “I love you,” and went down the hall.
    I sat there and stewed some more. It was the problem that most worried me all along—our clashing over his police work. Maybe Mike and I were only drawn by physical urge and weren’t suited to each other at all. If we developed a permanent relationship, clashes like this would go on and on. I couldn’t see living that way, and I sure couldn’t see putting the girls in that kind of environment. They’d forgotten by now how their father and I used to argue and yell, and I wanted such scenes to remain a vague memory.
    I stumbled off to bed and a sleepless night.
    Next morning, Claire took one look at me and said, “You look like hell. You didn’t shoot Mike last night, did you?” Her mouth raised in a semi-smile.
    “No, I think I shot myself in the foot,” I answered. But I didn’t tell her what happened. It would sound too trivial to someone in her situation. Besides, no one knew how involved my relationship to Mike had become.
    Mike neither came by nor called for three days, and I was a basket case, sharp with the girls, short with Claire, and useless at the office. Keisha watched me twirl pencils in the air, stare out the window, and jump every time the phone rang.
    “You doin’ a million dollars worth of business over there in that blue funk?” she asked.
    Startled, I looked at her and wished she weren’t so darn perceptive. “I’m thinking,” I said. Truth be told, I focused on how miserable I was. I knew how much Mike was