“I was wondering if you have a minute.” My lips were numb. Did my lips always get numb when I was nervous? I didn’t remember ever having numb lips in Chicago. Maybe I didn’t get nervous back then. No, that wasn’t possible. Why would I not be nervous there, but be nervous here? Maybe it wasn’t nerves; maybe it was excitement for having finally caught up with Paulie. Yeah, excitement. I was going to go with it.
“What for?” he asked. “Who are you?”
“I’m Hollis Bisbee,” I said. “I’d like to talk to you about the hit-and-run that occurred here last weekend.” He looked unsure, his face darkening, so I dove in, trying to get back into my rhythm. Don’t give them time to think—only time to answer. “Do you know anything about what happened? Where were you when the coach was hit in the lower parking lot? Did you see anything?”
I could see the realization begin to dawn on him. “You’re reporters?”
“Yes. The Knock ’em Dead podcast,” Daisy said.
“I knew it! You’re the muffin lady,” someone said from the back. “She has amazing chocolate cherry muffins at the Hibiscus. My mom gets them every Saturday morning. She also listens to that podcast. She fast-forwards all the murder stuff to get to the baking tips.”
“Thank you!” Daisy said excitedly, at the same time that I said, “Seriously? It’s a murder podcast.”
“Murder?” Paulie started to look panicked while at the same time very, very angry. “What about murder? Are you accusing me of something?”
“No, I’m the press,” I said. “I’m neutral. I’m just asking questions.” I tried to look a nonthreatening and peaceful as possible. I was pretty sure if Paulie Henderson thought I was trying to bust him for something, he was going to bolt. And I was one hundred percent positive that if Paulie ran, I wouldn’t be able to catch him.
Instead of running, though, he whipped out a cell phone and frantically punched in a phone number.
“Dad? You should get here. That reporter lady you were telling me about is here asking questions and is going to call me a murderer on her baking podcast or something.”
“What? No! That’s not at all what I’m going to do. And it’s a murder podcast,” I said, reaching for the phone, which only caused him to freak out even more.
“You gotta come.” He paused. “Yeah, we’ll keep her here.”
He shoved his phone back into his pocket and crossed his arms, stepping toward us so that we inched backwards until our legs were touching the bench. If he was trying to make himself look less murdery, I wasn’t sure this was the most effective approach.
“Guess you’re gonna have to talk to my dad. He’s the police chief, you know. And he doesn’t take lightly to attacks.”
I balked. “I wasn’t attacking you.”
“We’ll see who he believes, I guess.”
There was commotion, and I realized that a crowd had begun to form. A cheerleader popped into the center and grabbed onto Paulie’s arm.
“What’s going on?” she asked. She laid her head against his arm. He ignored her.
This had definitely not gone as I’d hoped it would. And I knew once the chief was there, my chance to interview Paulie was over. Probably for good. I had to make use of what little time I had. “How come your Jeep was at the body shop, Paulie?” I asked coolly.
“Oil change.”
“I thought a bird hit the grill.”
“That too.”
Sketchy. I reached for my notepad and pencil, but remembered I left them in the restroom. Drat!
“And where were you when the coach was hit in the lower parking lot?”
His eyes were black dots. I could see a little bit of discomfort there. “I was in the locker room. Changing.”
The sirens got louder. His jaw pulsed. Anger? Nerves? I couldn’t tell.
The sirens got really loud, and then stopped. I heard car doors slam and boots grind into pavement furiously. The crowd bustled and parted and Chief Henderson himself was standing in front of me. He, too, was bigger than he looked from a distance. A lot bigger. And his face was a lot meaner in the daylight. And more mustachey than I remembered it being.
“We got some trespassers here?” he said, addressing Paulie but keeping his eyes locked on me.
I swallowed. “I’m Hollis Bisbee with the Knock ‘em Dead podcast. I was just hoping to ask Paulie some questions about the hit-and-run here last w—”
“I know who you are, and I already told Mary Jean it was no hit-and-run. It was just the man’s time. Lucky he died doing what he loved best.”
“Walking across a parking lot?” Daisy asked. “Seems like an odd thing to love best.” The chief shot her a look.
“I’m sorry, Chief,” I said. “But this was not a natural death. You had a witness.”
“Agnes isn’t a witness, she’s a hassle. She witnesses stuff all the time, and funny thing is there’s never anyone else around to corroborate her story. Consider your source, Miss Big City Reporter. Time to move along.” He motioned at the crowd and they shuffled again, making an opening for us to leave.
“You have a suspect,” I said, the words popping out before I could think it through. “Sounds to me like you don’t really believe the natural cause thing, either.”
“How would you know what I have?” he asked, his eyebrows drawing together. Which, by the way, wasn’t a denial. Also, I felt a pang of guilt because if he believed that I really knew about his suspect, he would probably be able to guess where the information came from. I didn’t like the idea of throwing Brooks under the bus, even accidentally. And I wasn’t sure, given our…uncertain…relationship, that Brooks would believe me that it was unintentional. The crowd closed in again, rapt with attention.
“It was just a
