bridge club or the other energetic retirees who volunteered at
Meals on Wheels.
There was certainly a lot to see. The
little house had literally been invaded by police officers. When she had opened
the door, Horowitz had flashed a warrant and sat Franny and her mother down in
the living room. He wanted to ask her some questions, he said, while the house
was searched. Franny had no idea what they were looking for, but soon the house
was filled with policemen intent on exploring every nook and cranny. Horowitz
remained in the living room, along with a second man whose job seemed to be
operating a tape recorder. A female state trooper, her rounded figure looking
slightly ridiculous in her mannish uniform, stood nearby. Franny hoped she wasn’t
going to be subjected to a body search and eyed the female officer uneasily.
The problem was that Franny was having a
hard time believing in her own innocence. In fact, she had wished more than
once that Slack would drop dead, most recently on the day he fired her. And now
that he was dead, really dead, she was glad.
She knew it was wrong to feel this way. She
went to church every Sunday and believed in her heart that it was wicked to
rejoice in another’s misfortune, but she couldn’t help it. He was a miserable,
horrible old man, he’d caused her a great deal of grief, and he’d finally
gotten exactly what he deserved. It just went to show that there was some
justice in the world.
Or would be if she could convince Horowitz
that she’d had nothing to do with Slack’s sudden demise. If only she didn’t
feel guilty. But there was, she’d discovered, this soft, rotten spot in her
conscience, and she knew Horowitz sensed it. He believed she’d killed Slack,
she knew it. Guilt-ridden as she was, she couldn’t hope to convince him that
she was really innocent.
“Now, why didn’t you go to work yesterday?”
he asked.
Franny was tempted to lie, to say that she’d
been sick, but decided it would be better to stick to the truth. She had told
Lucy she’d been fired, and for all she knew
it was common knowledge by now.
“Mr. Slack fired me on Wednesday.”
“Why was that? You’d worked in the store
for a number of years, hadn’t you? Why would he suddenly decide to fire you?” “He
said I was stealing.”
“Why would he say that?” Horowitz’s voice
was smooth, seductive.
“There was a problem with shrinkage—money
and merchandise.”
“Really? How much?”
“It varied. Some days ten or twenty
dollars. A total of a hundred and forty dollars.”
“You say merchandise was also missing—what
sort of merchandise was that?”
“Mostly batteries. Paint. Little stuff.”
“Explosives?”
“No,” answered Franny quickly, shocked. “At
least I don’t think so. I don’t know for sure. The store stocks dynamite, but
it’s rarely called for. I hadn’t checked it lately.”
“Do you have any idea who was stealing,
since it wasn’t you?”
“No.” Franny was reluctant to tell Horowitz
about Ben. Complaining to Lucy was one thing, turning him in to the police was
another. Across the room her mother opened her mouth to speak but apparently
thought better of it and held her tongue.
“Did anyone work in the store besides you
and Mr. Slack?” persisted Horowitz.
“Mr. Slack’s grandson, Ben.”
“He had access to the cash and the
merchandise?”
“Yes.”
“Wouldn’t it be logical to suspect him? In
fact, isn’t that why you borrowed the camera?” “Yes,” agreed Franny, relieved
that her suspicions were finally out in the open. She hadn’t volunteered it;
Horowitz had dragged it from her.
“We’ll leave that for now,” said Horowitz,
and Franny breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Let’s go back about fifteen years,
to the accidental death of your husband, Darryl Morgan. Do you remember that?”
Franny lowered her head and began nervously
smoothing her homemade wraparound skirt over her knees. Her mother pursed her
lips and fixed her
Meals on Wheels.
There was certainly a lot to see. The
little house had literally been invaded by police officers. When she had opened
the door, Horowitz had flashed a warrant and sat Franny and her mother down in
the living room. He wanted to ask her some questions, he said, while the house
was searched. Franny had no idea what they were looking for, but soon the house
was filled with policemen intent on exploring every nook and cranny. Horowitz
remained in the living room, along with a second man whose job seemed to be
operating a tape recorder. A female state trooper, her rounded figure looking
slightly ridiculous in her mannish uniform, stood nearby. Franny hoped she wasn’t
going to be subjected to a body search and eyed the female officer uneasily.
The problem was that Franny was having a
hard time believing in her own innocence. In fact, she had wished more than
once that Slack would drop dead, most recently on the day he fired her. And now
that he was dead, really dead, she was glad.
She knew it was wrong to feel this way. She
went to church every Sunday and believed in her heart that it was wicked to
rejoice in another’s misfortune, but she couldn’t help it. He was a miserable,
horrible old man, he’d caused her a great deal of grief, and he’d finally
gotten exactly what he deserved. It just went to show that there was some
justice in the world.
Or would be if she could convince Horowitz
that she’d had nothing to do with Slack’s sudden demise. If only she didn’t
feel guilty. But there was, she’d discovered, this soft, rotten spot in her
conscience, and she knew Horowitz sensed it. He believed she’d killed Slack,
she knew it. Guilt-ridden as she was, she couldn’t hope to convince him that
she was really innocent.
“Now, why didn’t you go to work yesterday?”
he asked.
Franny was tempted to lie, to say that she’d
been sick, but decided it would be better to stick to the truth. She had told
Lucy she’d been fired, and for all she knew
it was common knowledge by now.
“Mr. Slack fired me on Wednesday.”
“Why was that? You’d worked in the store
for a number of years, hadn’t you? Why would he suddenly decide to fire you?” “He
said I was stealing.”
“Why would he say that?” Horowitz’s voice
was smooth, seductive.
“There was a problem with shrinkage—money
and merchandise.”
“Really? How much?”
“It varied. Some days ten or twenty
dollars. A total of a hundred and forty dollars.”
“You say merchandise was also missing—what
sort of merchandise was that?”
“Mostly batteries. Paint. Little stuff.”
“Explosives?”
“No,” answered Franny quickly, shocked. “At
least I don’t think so. I don’t know for sure. The store stocks dynamite, but
it’s rarely called for. I hadn’t checked it lately.”
“Do you have any idea who was stealing,
since it wasn’t you?”
“No.” Franny was reluctant to tell Horowitz
about Ben. Complaining to Lucy was one thing, turning him in to the police was
another. Across the room her mother opened her mouth to speak but apparently
thought better of it and held her tongue.
“Did anyone work in the store besides you
and Mr. Slack?” persisted Horowitz.
“Mr. Slack’s grandson, Ben.”
“He had access to the cash and the
merchandise?”
“Yes.”
“Wouldn’t it be logical to suspect him? In
fact, isn’t that why you borrowed the camera?” “Yes,” agreed Franny, relieved
that her suspicions were finally out in the open. She hadn’t volunteered it;
Horowitz had dragged it from her.
“We’ll leave that for now,” said Horowitz,
and Franny breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Let’s go back about fifteen years,
to the accidental death of your husband, Darryl Morgan. Do you remember that?”
Franny lowered her head and began nervously
smoothing her homemade wraparound skirt over her knees. Her mother pursed her
lips and fixed her
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