Detective Sergeant Price shook his head. “She’s a lot better-looking than that if she’s who I think she is. Kind of a haunting beauty. Her face is thinner—”
The artist erased, reformed my cheekbones.
“—and the chin is delicate. Freckles across her nose.” For an instant, he might not have been in the winter- stuffy room. His eyes had a faraway look. “I like freckles.”
Johnny hunched forward. “Green eyes like a cat’s, really bright.”
Peg squinted in remembrance. “I wasn’t paying a lot of attention. I was upset.” She didn’t look toward Johnny. “She had a great smile, one of those I’ve-just-met-you-but-I-already-like-you-and-let’s-befriends smiles.”
The secretary’s nose wriggled. “Really curly bright red hair. You know, the vixen-vamp kind of hair. Probably out of a bottle.”
I glared at her lank graying hair and snapped, “Women with boring hair always resent natural redheads.” Oh. And oh. Once again I’d spoken aloud when I shouldn’t. I hoped Wiggins was safely in Tumbulgum.
The secretary’s head jerked toward Peg. “I beg your pardon.”
Peg clutched Johnny’s arm. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Someone did. A woman.” The church secretary glared at Peg.
Chief Cobb, Detective Sergeant Price, and Officer Cain had uncannily similar expressions of uneasiness. As if in concert, their eyes moved around the room.
Chief Cobb cleared his throat. “Mrs. Norton, the voice wasn’t at all similar to Miss Flynn’s voice. Much huskier. Forceful.”
Certainly I have always spoken with vigor. I hadn’t taught English and chaired meetings to sound meek. For an instant, I felt I heard a ghostly echo of boisterous laughter, Bobby Mac guffawing at the idea of a meek me. As he often told our kids, “You’ll get the best of your mother when elephants tap-dance.” Actually, there’s a traveling troupe of pachyderms I caught on their last Milky Way show who did a fine shuffle hop step.
“I heard what I heard.” The church secretary’s voice was icy.
“We more than likely had an errant transmission in here.” Chief Cobb waved a hand toward his computer. “Sometimes we get communications that we aren’t expecting. Whatever we heard, the comment had no connection to you. We appreciate your contribution as a concerned citizen. Should the redheaded woman return to St. Mildred’s, please call us.” He retrieved the red wool coat, held it out for her. “Sergeant Mersky will take you back to the church.”
As the door closed behind Mrs. Norton, Detective Sergeant Price said firmly, “I think I know who she is. Not a chance that red was out of a bottle. Her hair glistens like copper in the summer sun.”
Who would have thought a homicide detective would be so poetic?
I sent a little telepathic message to Bobby Mac:
Cobb glanced at Price, his gaze speculative. “Right.” He turned to the artist. “Okay, Tammie, print up some copies for us.”
The artist made a change, smudged charcoal, added a stronger line to the jaw.
I nodded in approval. A very nice likeness indeed. However, my pleasure ebbed, it wouldn’t be helpful to have this image broadcast.
The artist returned the pastel pencils to their box and slipped the sketch pad and box into a portfolio. “Major crook?” Her voice was startlingly deep.
Cobb cleared his throat. “She may have information that would be useful in an investigation.”
The artist stood almost six feet tall. Although she was careless with makeup—too much eyeliner and an orange lip gloss that bordered on strange—I admired her silvery gray silk charmeuse cap-sleeve blouse and an ankle-length bias-cut jacquard skirt with swirls of raspberry, silver, and indigo and open silver sandals. I supposed she didn’t mind cold toes.
She walked to the door, then turned. For an instant, her posture froze. She looked at me.
I looked back at her.
Our eyes met.
Uh-oh.
Some children see what isn’t there. Rarely is that true of adults.
The artist slouched against the lintel. “Is she on the side of the angels?”
Detective Sergeant Price’s generous mouth twisted in an odd, lopsided grin. “I think so. I definitely think so.”
Tammie waggled her portfolio. “Who knows? She may be closer than you think.” She gave a gurgle of laughter. “I have a feeling she’ll be in touch.”
I nodded vigorously.
Her eyes, also silvery gray, watched me. “I’ll get the copies out as soon as possible.”
I shook my head with equal vigor.
“Of course”—her tone was casual—“we’ve been having some problems with the program. Sometimes when I try to make the transfer to digital, everything gets screwed up.” As she turned away, she gave me a decisive, amused wink.
