even over the roof of the house.
I’d immediately called Marina, but she’d claimed zero knowledge. It took a few days of detective work to figure out that my house had been mistaken for the home of the high school starting quarterback.
“Let me see.” I pulled the list around. “What? Marina Neff, you take Claudia’s name off right now.”
“Don’t be such a spoilsport.” Marina snatched back the pen I’d taken from her. “It’s my list and I can leave her on if I want to.”
“Fine. I’ll make my own.”
“No, you won’t. You said I could be list maker tonight.” She wielded her purple pen like a tiny sword. “Back, back, back. Down, down, down.”
“I thought this was a team effort.”
“And I’m the captain.”
“Okay, Captain Marina, sir, why would Claudia kill Sam?”
“That’s easy,” she said. “Because . . . well, because . . .” She perked up. “Because she was jealous of Sam’s perfect life. Hers is so drab and unhappy in comparison that she couldn’t take it any longer.”
“And how about the police saying that the murder would have taken a man’s strength?”
“Hmm.” She pinched her nose as she considered the question. “Claudia and her sidekick Tina did it together. Each one held—”
“Tina went home that night right after the meeting.”
Marina looked at me. “You are making that up.”
“Nope. And I’m not going to say how I know, so don’t bother asking.” Marina heard the steel in my voice and didn’t push. The only reason I knew anything about Tina was that she and the Helmstetters shared a backyard. The afternoon Rachel cried on my shoulder she’d sobbed that she knew something was wrong when she saw Tina letting the dog out and then Sam didn’t come home. And didn’t come home. And didn’t come home.
“Oh, all right.” Marina crossed off Claudia’s name. “If she’s off, who are we going to put on?”
I tapped the client list. “Remember these?”
She scrunched up her face. “Yah, but that looks like, you know, work. Say, what are you doing this weekend? Got a hot date with that pretty boy?”
I took the pages Rachel had printed out, kept half, and handed the other half to Marina. “We can work separately or we can work together. Which will it be?”
“Slave driver,” she muttered.
Which might be true, but I knew that wasn’t her real problem. She didn’t want to look at these names— almost all of whom were people we knew—and try to link them to a murder. It was a silly game to play around with Claudia and Tina; it would be deeply ugly to seriously consider that someone we knew ended Sam’s life.
“If we do not hang together,” Marina said in dark tones, “we shall surely hang separately.”
“That’s Thomas Paine, not Shakespeare.”
“Whatever.”
“Ready?”
“. . . I guess so.”
We exchanged a long glance full of trepidation and fear.
Then we got to work.
“This I cannot believe.” Paoze, arms crossed, stood at the store’s front windows. His face was a complex mixture of disbelief, surprise, and anxiety. “It should not be.”
“You’re right.” Lois laid a hand on his thin shoulder. “It shouldn’t. I’m in complete agreement. Let’s write a letter to the governor. Heck, we’ll write letters to the entire state legislature and get them to sponsor a bill against this abomination. We’ll start a grassroots movement, spur the entire populace into participating, and get immediate action. If we push hard enough we can get a law passed before Christmas.”
Paoze didn’t rise to her bait. “It should not be,” he said stubbornly, still staring.
I laughed. “Oh, come on. You’ve seen snow before.”
“Not so early.” He was almost pouting. “Never November.”
The three of us stood in a short row and watched the weather. Yesterday, the scene had been of storefronts, bare-branched trees, and a few evergreen shrubs. Today we couldn’t read the sign on the shoe store across the street and the shrubs were swaddled in white. The few vehicles on the road were inching along cautiously, their drivers reacquainting themselves with winter driving skills.
“What you need is a car,” Lois said.
Paoze used a bicycle to commute from Madison, five miles distant. Rain or shine, heat or cold, he was always on time, and was always dressed more professionally than ninety-nine percent of retail clerks in the country with his dark slacks and white shirts. The boy was a minor miracle.
He did need a car, but cars were expensive. The wages the bookstore could afford might stretch to paying for insurance, gas, and repairs, but a car payment? On top of tuition and fees and room and board? Wasn’t going to happen. His parents couldn’t afford to help him much, and the size of his student loans would be crippling when he graduated. Even worse, as an English major, his prospects of high wages were in the realm of zero.
“Mrs. Kennedy? You are okay?” Paoze asked.
I jerked out of my depressive reverie and realized that I must have sighed. “I’m fine.” I looked out at the white swirling world. “But I have to go out in that and I didn’t bring my boots.”
Lois laughed. “Sucker. I tossed a pair in my trunk on Labor Day. Want to borrow them? All you have to do is go out to my car. It’s in the parking lot way down by the grocery store.”
“You are a cruel, cruel woman. To atone for your sins, I suggest you realphabetize the picture books.” Picture books had been Marcia’s favorite section, and her absence was showing. Task for tomorrow: Convince Yvonne that picture books were the love of her life.
By the time I zipped up my coat, pulled on my mittens, and tightened down my hood, Lois was deep into a conversation with Paoze concerning the pleasures of alphabetizing. I shook my head and left her to it. Paoze might or might not have read
Outside, I gasped as the wind hit me full in the face. Paoze was right; this shouldn’t be. I put my head down and struggled against the battering gusts. Step after step, snow and more snow insinuated itself between low-slung shoes and socks. I hated wet socks. Why had I believed the weather forecast enough to send the kids out in boots, but not enough to wear them myself?
I walked into the police station and stomped off the snow—twice with each foot, the classic northern tap dance—and asked for Gus.
“Do you have an appointment?” the officer asked. For once I did, and the young man ushered me down the short hall and into Gus’s office. “Do you want me to shut the door, Chief?”
Gus looked at me. I nodded. Without another word, the young man withdrew and the door clicked shut. I pulled off my mittens, untied my hood, and unzipped my coat. “He’s new, isn’t he?” I asked, sitting in the vacant chair.
“Fresh out of the academy. My guess is two years, tops.” The Rynwood Police Department had a tendency to rapid turnover. The city couldn’t afford much of a wage, and after officers gained a year or two of experience, they were off for the bright lights of larger departments with more money, a wider variety of law enforcement opportunities, and room for advancement.
“Well,” I said, opening my purse, “maybe he’ll be the one who stays. Here.” I handed Gus the pink piece of paper.
“What’s this?” He held the paper at arm’s length, squinted, then gave up and patted the piles of papers on his desk until he found his reading glasses. “Does this say Claudia Wolff?”
“Her name is crossed out,” I said quickly. “Don’t pay any attention to that. Marina was joking around.”
Gus made a noncommittal grunt. “Marina. I should have known. Did she put you up to this?”
I assumed the question was rhetorical and didn’t answer.
He read the rest of the names. “Wheeler’s Autos. Stull Systems. Croftman Accounting. Bluegrass Construction.” He let the paper fall to his desk and leaned back. “You said you had something important to tell me.”
