The Winter Widow by Charlene Weir Page A

sweetheart.”
    Susan looked at him, wondering if he believed that. She couldn’t tell; his face was bland, eyes opaque. “Is she a good reporter?”
    â€œShe might be in a few years.” His voice held a fond wistful quality. Nostalgia for his own reporting days? Or fondness for his pretty young reporter?
    â€œShe’s green and what she’s doing isn’t what you’d call reporting, but she works hard and she’s ambitious. Her instincts are right. That all-important nose for news all us good reporters have,” he said sarcastically.
    Reporters weren’t the only ones with instincts. Cops had them too, and Susan’s instincts told her Lucille was into something “hot and heavy” related to Daniel’s death. Victim? Perpetrator? She didn’t know, but she was sure Lucille wasn’t in the arms of a lover. “For instance?”
    He lowered his chin to his chest, narrowed his eyes and said ominously, “Cattle rustling.”
    â€œLucille thinks that’s going on?”
    He nodded.
    â€œIs she right?”
    He shrugged. “On a big scale, no. On a small scale, she’s convinced, yes. Anywhere you have a lot of cattle, the odd bovine can be stolen and slaughtered by somebody who likes beef and doesn’t want to pay for it, or likes to make a little money selling it for less than market price.”
    â€œI see. Anything else she was interested in?”
    â€œToxic waste.”
    â€œWhat about it?”
    He shrugged again. “Lucille has this flea in her ear that somebody is dumping it somewhere in the county.”
    â€œShe right about that?”
    â€œI doubt it. On the other hand, there’s a lot of that going around lately.”
    â€œDid she talk about Daniel’s murder?”
    â€œOf course.” He picked up a pencil, held one end in each hand and rotated it.
    â€œDoes she suspect anyone?”
    â€œIf she does, she hasn’t said so.”
    Susan eyed him steadily and waited. When he didn’t volunteer anything further, she said, “I assume you’re concerned about her, that you’d rather no harm came to her. I’m trying to find her, see she’s not in any danger, and I need a little help here.”
    He expanded his chest with a large breath and let it out with a gusty sigh. “I think she did suspect somebody.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œI don’t know. She denied it flatly.”
    Again Susan waited.
    â€œHonest truth,” he said. “I don’t have any idea.”
    â€œWhat makes you think she suspects somebody?”
    His mouth twisted in a crooked smile. “Old firehorse hearing the distant clang of bells.” He tapped the pencil against the back of his hand. “This was her first real crime. A lot different from covering 4-H exhibits. She’s never seen a murder victim before.”
    She stared at him. “Lucille saw the body?”
    His black eyes stared back. “She was there almost as soon as Ben was.”
    She hadn’t known Lucille had been present at the crime scene. Had Lucille spotted something Parkhurst missed? Picked up something? Thursday night after Susan had seen Daniel’s body on an autopsy table, Lucille, agitated, tried to find out what Parkhurst knew. She had stuck her hand in her pocket and very quickly jerked it back.
    What was in that pocket? Something that identified the killer? Why not turn it over to Parkhurst? Protecting the killer? Why? Unless she had killed Daniel, was protecting herself and now had lit out for parts unknown.
    â€œWhere is Lucille’s office?” she asked.
    Henry pointed with the pencil. “Across the hall, second door.”
    When he made no move to stop her or come with her, she realized he must have searched already and expected her to find nothing.
    Lucille’s office was a smaller, neater version of Henry’s: battered desk, filing cabinet and bookcases. The one grimy window