The Trap by Joan Lowery Nixon Page A

her mouth opened and closed as if she were a fish, gulping air. She peered again at the paperweight and said, “It is odd that this was buried. I suppose Dale Foster
would
want to know about it.”
    After she had walked into the house, I turned to Luis. He was frowning, obviously deep in thought. “Ihope the deputy will test the paperweight for fingerprints,” I said.
    Luis stopped frowning and looked directly into my eyes. “Mine are on it,” he said quietly. “So are yours.”
    For an instant I was startled, but I recovered quickly and said, “Yes, and Mrs. Barrow’s and probably Millie Lee’s, since she must pick it up when she dusts.”
    I sat on the porch steps, ready to wait however long it would take for Dale Foster to come. “And maybe the murderer’s fingerprints too,” I added.
    Luis shrugged. “Maybe you shouldn’t be so sure that Mr. Barrow was murdered.”
    “Someone wanted to get rid of the paperweight,” I answered, “and Mr. Barrow took too much of his medication for no good reason. At least, that’s what they think. The deputy hasn’t tried to find out what really happened.”
    Luis was quiet for a moment. Then he sat beside me, so close I could feel the warmth of his body against mine. “Maybe the deputy should spend his time protecting your uncle,” Luis said. “If he was meant to die and didn’t …”
    He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. I shivered and clasped Luis’s hand, desperately needing someone to hang on to. “I tried to talk to Deputy Foster about Uncle Gabe’s fall,” I confided. “He didn’t believe me when I said it wasn’t an accident.”
    Luis shifted, wrapping an arm around my shoulders to reassure me. “Do what I told you,” he said. “Make sure that someone is with your uncle at all times. Don’t leave him alone for a moment. I’ll try to help you as much as I can.”
    “Thank you,” I said. I liked Luis’s arm around me. I liked to feel him close against me. I relaxed, leaning into his shoulder.
    But then, as if I’d been slapped, I remembered. “Luis,” I asked, “you know a lot about computers, don’t you?”
    “Yes, I do,” he answered, his voice warm with confidence. “As I told you, computer science is going to be my major.”
    “Does that mean you know how to do things with computers that most people can’t do?”
    He twisted to look closely at me. “Like what?”
    “Like … well … being able to send e-mails without identification.”
    For a long moment he studied me. Then he said, “I’ve heard that people can do that, but I don’t know how it’s done.”
    I was surprised. I didn’t know Luis well, but from what I’d seen of him I was pretty sure he was the kind of person who would zero in on learning how to do something if he knew it was possible. Could he be PDQ? Was he trying to warn me not to ask questions?
    No. He couldn’t be. He had told me he didn’t know how to send that kind of e-mail, and I was determined to believe him. Regardless of what Robin had said, I had to trust someone.
    It didn’t take long for Foster to arrive. He went into the house and talked for a while with Mrs. Barrow. Then he came out, gripping a plastic bag that held the paperweight.
    “Show me where you found it, Luis,” Foster said.
    Luis did. They both poked their heads under the bushby the door. When they straightened up, Foster said, “What that hole tells me is either you found a paperweight buried there, or you were buryin’ it yourself when Julie got here.”
    “What!” Luis and I shouted almost in unison.
    Foster grinned. “Just givin’ you both an idea of how there are two sides to every question regarding a crime, if there even was one.”
    I wasn’t happy with his sense of humor. Indignantly, I said, “Someone may have washed that paperweight and buried it wet. It’s caked with dirt. But it could still have traces of blood on it.”
    He raised one eyebrow as he said, “We’ll send it to the lab