The Unraveling of Violeta Bell by C.R. Corwin Page A

“I’m Maddy Sprowls, by the way.”

    He’d heard of me. “Oh yes—the buttinsky responsible for my current conundrum.”

    I advanced to the bottom of the stairway. “I am somewhat responsible,” I admitted.

    He flicked a caterpillar of ashes into his cup. “And I am resoundedly irresponsible,” he said.

    It took me a few seconds to translate his particular brand of English. Even then I wasn’t 100 percent sure of what he meant. I eased myself onto the first step. “For Violeta Bell’s murder, you mean?”

    “Is there somebody else I didn’t kill?”

    Had I actually planned on confronting Eddie that afternoon, I would have been prepared for his hostility. But I hadn’t, and I wasn’t. I found myself stammering like a little girl who’d just been caught drawing on the wall with her mother’s bright red lipstick. I moved up another step. “No, no. Of course not, no. And there are people who don’t think you killed Ms. Bell, either.”

    He flipped his spent cigarette in my direction. “Including the diminutive apparition sneaking up my backstairs?”

    Before I could answer, the screen door to his apartment banged open. A woman came out. She was fiftyish. Impeccably and expensively dressed in white slacks, a melon crepe tee and designer flip-flops. She, too, was wearing a baseball cap, a bright pink one. A perky blond ponytail stuck out the back. She just had to be the owner of the silver Volvo. “Are you Jeannie?” I asked.

    She pressed her palms on the railing and leaned out. Even from down there I could see her jaw muscles tighten. “I’m Mrs. Salapardi,” she said. “Can I help you?”

    Eddie filled her in before I could open my mouth. “That, sis, is Bob Averill’s ace in the hole.”

    That changed everything. Suddenly Jeannie was smiling like Glinda the Good Witch, beckoning me to come up with both hands. “Maddy, I’ve been dying to meet you.” She said when I reached the top. “Just dying.”

    “Bob told you about me, did he?”

    Eddie remained perched on the railing. Jeannie warmly shook my hand with both of hers. “He sure did,” she cooed.

    I could tell by the twitches at the tips of her phony baloney smile that he hadn’t mentioned how frumpily unimpressive I was. The only way to counter her correct impression of me—and hide the fact that after two weeks of snooping I hadn’t learned a damn thing that would prove her brother’s innocence—was to get right to business. “So Mr. French, is that old bread truck down there the vehicle you allegedly used to haul those antiques from Violeta Bell’s condominium?”

    Eddie splayed his hand across his heart. He pushed an opened pack of Newports to the top of his shirt pocket. He bowed his head low and pulled out a cigarette with his lips. A very cool move. “So say the gendarmes.”

    “You do own it, then?”

    He struck a stick match on his fingernail and lit his cigarette. Filled his lungs with smoke. Suppressed a cough. “No one owns it that I know. It sort of belongs to the neighborhood. Anybody needs a short haul, there it is. Keys in the ashtray. Hopefully enough liquefied brontosaurus in the tank to get you there and back.”

    Knowing Meriwether Square as I did, I knew he could very well be telling the truth. “What about the license plates?”

    Smoke rolled out of his nostrils. “That is the metaphysical part of the mystery. New stickers appear every April like tulips through the cold, cold earth.”

    I knew he could be telling the truth about that, too. “Exactly where did the police find that blood?”

    Eddie pointed to a faint chalk circle on the floor of the deck, about a foot from the welcome mat. I kneeled next to it. Inside the circle was a dark brown blotch. When I got my nose close enough, I could see the faint zigzag of tennis shoe treads. I looked over at Eddie’s feet. He was wearing a spotless pair of white Nikes.

    Eddie clicked his toes together. “Brand f-ing new they are,” he