“Who’d have thought a handkerchief could be worth so much?” I also told her about my trip to the Cottage Shoppe.
“So what do you think it all means?” The zest had returned to Dinah’s manner.
“We still don’t know where the handkerchief fits in, and we still have a whole list of suspects. After Arnold Bullard punched Eduardo, he moved up on my list—maybe right to the top. He was there around the time Drew got killed, angry about something, and he certainly has an impulse control problem. Then there is Kevin. Drew tells him no way on the soup shop, and as soon as he’s dead, Kevin goes ahead with his plan. And I have to tell you Trina’s quitting, saying she couldn’t get over the trauma, seemed a little too convenient. She is the one who was standing over him when we all rushed in. She might have thought if she was out of sight nobody would count her as a suspect. That might work with Detective Heather, but not with me. I’m keeping her on my radar.”
I leaned back in the dining room chair. Outside it was getting dark and the temperature was going down. I pulled on the sweater I’d had tied around my waist. “But I keep going back to Arnold Bullard. We know he was angry at Drew Brooks about something. And we know he acts on his anger.”
“But we don’t know why he was so mad at Drew.”
I felt disheartened. “That’s exactly what Barry said when I suggested Arnold Bullard looked guilty.”
“Barry?” Dinah repeated. She knew how I kept taking a step back and then he would try to take two steps closer. There was so much to tell as she’d been out of the loop.
When I left, the kids were asleep and Dinah was sitting with her feet up, grading papers.
The lights were on at my house when I got home. Barry was sitting on my couch again. This time awake. I didn’t have to see my eyes to know their expression had darkened. Helping with Morgan was one thing, but just being here whenever—I don’t think so. I started to say something to that effect, but he held up his hand. “Don’t say something you’ll regret, Molly,” he admonished. A shiver went down my spine. His face had that shut-the-blinds kind of blankness. It was his cop face. The one he used when he confronted people with bad news.
CHAPTER 22
“I WANTED YOU TO HEAR IT FROM ME,” BARRY said as he stood up and held on to my arm. “Dr. Arnold Bullard is dead.”
I felt the starch go out of my body and my legs turn rubbery. Barry had done this sort of thing many times before and was ready when I slumped against him.
“But he was one of my chief persons of interest,” I said. “I was sure he might have killed Drew Brooks. All I needed was the motive.” I stopped talking, realizing I’d said too much already. Barry was one hundred percent against me “playing detective,” as he called it. I personally didn’t think there was any playing involved. I just wanted to find out who did it, so Detective Heather would stop hounding Sheila.
“I know,” he said.
“What?” And here I thought I was being so discreet, he’d never get it.
“I am a detective,” he said with a slow smile, “a real one, remember? And I can figure things out.” He gestured toward the couch, and we both sat down. “That’s why I came to tell you in person.”
“Okay, Mr. Real Detective, are you going to tell me what happened?” I said. His face had softened into the Barry face I was used to. It wasn’t full of expression, but it was worlds away from his blank, bad-news cop face. I supposed over time he’d learned to shield his emotions as a way of protecting himself. It had to be horrible to be the one who had to break the news that a loved one was dead. Barry wouldn’t talk about the emotional part of his work. He also didn’t talk much about his past. Even though I wanted to know the dirt about his ex-wife, I thought it was honorable that he didn’t bad-mouth her. He kept saying that all that mattered was now. I didn’t totally agree about that and chipped away at him until he had begun to let things slip out.
One rainy night, he’d told me why he became a cop. It had to do with his parents owning a convenience store that kept getting robbed and the cops never finding the culprits. It made him want to be one of the good guys. Another time he told me the way he dealt with the dark parts of his job was by remembering he was speaking for a victim who couldn’t and trying to bring some peace to the victim’s family. Then to lighten the somber mood he’d added, “And of course, I get to drive fast and carry a gun.”
Now, he sighed with resignation and said, “I’ll tell you what happened, if you promise not to get involved.”
I didn’t answer, which I guessed he realized was the same as not agreeing to his bargain. He grimaced and clenched his jaw a few times, then gave in and told me anyway.
“Pixie Bullard got worried when Arnold didn’t show, and she went down to his office and found him slumped on his desk.”
“Was it a heart attack or did someone . . .” I started to ask, afraid he was going to leave the story at that.
“It looks like foul play,” Barry said. “There was a paper bowl of soup on his desk, like he was eating it. There were also two expelled bug bombs. The office still smelled of insecticide when the first officers arrived. They called the haz-mat crew.”
“So the bug bombs did him in?”
“Don’t know for sure yet, but it’s certainly a possiblity. The soup is being tested, but I’m guessing they will find something in it—some kind of sedative or knockout drops. Nobody would sit there and inhale bug bombs.”
“What kind of soup was it?” I asked.
He seemed surprised by the question. “Southwestern corn chowder, but I don’t think it makes a difference.”
“Then it’s your case?” I asked, and he gave me a withering stare and shook his head.
“Someone remembered that you had been caught stalking Bullard. And that he threw some kind of fit at the bookstore. I can’t take a case if my girlfriend is involved. If you keep it up, I may never get a case again.”
“Who did get it?”
“I’ll give you one guess,” Barry said.
“Detective Heather, right?” I said, and Barry nodded. But then something struck me as strange. He knew an awful lot about it despite the fact it was not his case, so I asked how he’d gotten the information.
“I was talking to Heather and she filled me in.”
“You were talking to Detective Heather?” Instantly I had an image of her white blond hair and well-fitted suit. No doubt as they were talking she was doing the hair twirling thing and touching his arm. Personally, I thought it was very unprofessional.
“We work together, remember?” There was a flicker in Barry’s dark eyes. Mr. Detective knew he’d hit a nerve and he went for it. Even though I knew what he was doing, I went nuts anyway.
“You know, Molly, the way you keep not wanting to commit to anything, even a trip to Maui? Well, some guys would appreciate the attention from someone like Heather, who just happened to mention that Maui was her dream romantic vacation destination.”
I was stuck on the image of her in that fitted suit and this ridiculous question popped into my mind: Where did she carry her gun? Barry laughed when I asked him.
“She has this special underwear holster,” he said, then laughed harder when he saw my look of horror. “Not that kind of underwear. You
Cosmo woke up and headed for the back door, and Barry got up to let him out. “You can ask her about it yourself,” he said over his shoulder. “She wants to talk to you about what happened at the bookstore and why you were sitting outside Bullard’s house.”
Great.
When Barry came back from letting the dogs out, I offered to make some scrambled eggs. He smiled and nodded hungrily, but then his cell rang.
“Greenberg,” he answered in his all-business, even tone. The slight downturn on his lips told me it was work.
“Rain check,” he called, heading toward the door.
