by CeCe Osgood
Abby considered the offer. A great dinner, wine, champagne, dessert. What's not to like? And Twila was right. I do need a break. "You're on."
Feeling more upbeat, she returned to her house and was about to get back to the job hunt when she heard a demanding knock on the front door, a knock that shook the joy right out of her.
How dare a reporter violate her privacy. She flung the door open and bellowed at the culprit.
"You have no right….” Her words died in her throat.
Chapter Six
Detective Guthrie squinted. "Ms. Little, I need you to give us a formal statement. You can either ride with me or drive yourself. It's your call. However, with these reporters out here, I'd suggest you ride with me."
Abby merely nodded, afraid if she uttered a word it would be an obscenity.
Guthrie waited while she found her purse and phone. Instead of texting her daughter, she scribbled a note. That way Jill would be safe at home when she got her mother's instructions. I don't how long I might be. Detective Guthrie is driving me to the police station. It's not a big deal. Don't worry. Call your dad and spend the night there. She propped the note up on a bar of candy she'd kept hidden in her sock drawer. That would get Jill's attention.
The police station was a beige concrete two-story building, a building she'd driven by numerous times.
But never in her wildest imagination—and it could be pretty crazy wild at times—had she ever imagined being escorted into the building by a detective and following said detective into a windowless interrogation room.
She took a seat while Guthrie went to get her a bottle of water. Looking around, she shrugged. The room wasn't half bad.
She'd expected the ominous, drab interrogation-type room depicted on TV, but these walls were a pale blue gray like you might find in a nursery. It was, in fact, sort of relaxing.
To amuse herself while she waited, Abby speculated on an innovative new method for an interrogation. You fall sleep and then they wake you up, and you're so groggy you blurt out something incriminating.
She let out a laugh.
"What's so funny?" Guthrie said as he entered the room and settled into the chair across from her.
Detective Ross, as squirrely and unpleasant as ever, stalked in behind Guthrie and dragged a folding chair from its spot against a wall.
Guthrie shifted his bulk in his chair and gazed up at the blinking red light on the camera secured to a wall. "Please answer all the questions out loud for the recording. Are you Abigail Phoebe Little?"
Abby followed his gaze. "I am."
"Ms. Little, you have agreed to be interviewed without a lawyer present."
"I don't need one. I didn't kill Alan." She was determined to be direct, forthright and show these two detectives she had nothing to hide. Absolutely nothing.
They needed to find other suspects and leave her alone.
Abby folded her arms across her chest, realized that was kind of a hostile posture and placed her hands in her lap instead. "What do you want to know?"
"When and where did you meet Alan Durant?" Guthrie asked.
"At the home of Fran Flores, his assistant, in mid-July, so not that long ago. Fran's daughter, Kendra, and my daughter, Jill, know each other from school. I drove Jill to Kendra's birthday party, and Fran suggested I stay for a drink."
Guthrie nodded. "Okay. Go on."
"Alan was Fran's boss at the clinic, and he'd shown up to give Kendra a birthday present, and that was when Fran introduced us. I later learned he had not intended to stay but changed his mind after meeting me. He called me a day later, asked me out, and that's when we started dating."
Ross straightened his rumpled tie before glancing up at her. "How often did you see him?"
"Usually on a weekend. Occasionally during the week. He stayed over a few times when Jill was with her father."
Then she described seeing Alan at Larry Tom's with Gina. "I broke it off that night."
Ross interrupted. "That was the first time you suspected he was involved with another woman?"
"Yes."
Ross puffed out his thin chest. "And that angered you, didn't it? That's why you confronted him at the clinic."
"No. I was entirely over him from the moment I saw him with Gina at Larry Tom's."
Well, not entirely. Ninety-eight percent, give or take a percent.
Guthrie said, "So, it was you who dumped him. Not the other way around?"
"Yes. I broke it off. I swore to myself I'd never go through anything like that again. I have no tolerance for betrayal."
Realizing how that might sound to the detectives, she quickly explained. "My husband cheated on me. I was blindsided, and I felt I could never consider a romantic entanglement ever again. When I met Alan, I allowed myself to glimpse the possibility, but that night when I saw him with Gina, those doors slammed shut again, and that was that."
Ross eyed her. "Then why’d you go to the clinic?"
"I told you already. He was supposed to mail the letter with my payment to the insurance company. But he didn't, and my claim was denied because of the missed payment. That's why I was so upset."
Ross pursed his lips. "Upset enough to kill him? That's what you said. You wanted to kill him. People heard you."
Did this man ever listen? "I threatened him in the heat of the moment, but I didn't mean it. The phrase simply popped out of my mouth."
A scenario flashed in her mind of her being convicted by a jury of twelve men, and every single one of them was a clone of Ross whose closed mind saw her only as a spurned lover seeking revenge.
Guthrie pushed the bottle of water toward Abby. "Okay, Ms. Little. Let's go back to the last time you saw Alan Durant."
Was this a trick question? "You mean, when he was alive?" It came out a bit snarky.
Guthrie squinted, irritated. "Yes. When he was alive."
With a quick twist, Abby uncapped the bottle and took a swig. "The last time I saw Alan was at the clinic when I yelled at him. I didn't see him again. I mean, you know, alive."
"Why did you go to his house?"
A sigh seeped out of her. How many times would they ask the same questions?
"Alan taped a manila envelope on my door. Inside was the insurance payment he'd forgotten to mail for me, and a gold lipstick case. He thought it was mine. It wasn't. I went to take it back to him."
"That must've steamed you," Ross said with a nasty edge.
A surge of anger swept over her, tightening her stomach into a knot. She felt an itch in her palm and froze, flashing on what had happened before. The spinning orb in her palm with those blue sparks. That didn't happen. It was stress. I imagined it. Stay calm, she told herself, and stole a peek at her hand.
It looked okay, and the itchy feeling was going away. See, it's only a nervous tic.
She leveled her gaze at Ross. "You've got it all wrong. I didn't care about the lipstick. My problem with Alan was that I can't reopen the shop without the insurance money."
A smug smile appeared on the scrawny detective's face as if he'd gotten a confession of some kind. "You blamed him. It was his fault, and you wanted him to pay for everything you lost in the fire."
"No." She paused. Was there a kernel of truth to that? "I don't know. Maybe. I guess I wasn't thinking too clearly because, well, it was his fault and I was upset."
Her pulse ticked up. This wasn't going as well as she'd expected. Even to her ears, it sounded like she might have a motive.
She paused, thinking, and remembered the delivery van. "Did you find fingerprints in the van? I mean, besides Johnny's?"
"We'll ask the questions," Ross said, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips.
Abby bristled. One thing was becoming absolutely clear to her now. She was going to have to prove her innocence. No one else would. And she had to prove it beyond the shadow of a doubt.
Otherwise, any lingering notoriety would destroy her reputation if and when she tried to reopen Burt's Desserts.
&
nbsp; No, the only way out of this awful mess was for her to find Alan's killer.
"How about the pink box? Did you find fingerprints on it?" Her eyes darted from Ross to Guthrie. She detected a slight downward turn to his mouth. That was her answer. No. They didn't find any fingerprints.
Guthrie lumbered to his feet. "Ms. Little, please wait near the information desk in the lobby. I'll have an officer drive you home." His tone was formal, distant, all cop.
On her way out the door, Abby recalled where she'd seen Guthrie before. "You came in to Burt's to pick up a raspberry charlotte cake for an anniversary a while back. Your, um, twenty-fifth, if I remember right."
Guthrie nodded and twisted the wedding band on his finger. "I did, and my wife loved that cake. Good memory, Ms. Little."
"And you used to come in for lemon squares."
He nodded once more. "Got me again."
"Why’d you stop? Please don't tell me you started patronizing Sweets-To-Eat."
"No. We moved to the other side of town, and my wife ordered me to lose twenty pounds." He slapped his belly with a grin. "Fourteen more to go."
Abby noticed that the grin didn't quite reach his dark eyes.
A police officer escorted her to the rear parking lot directly behind the police station where another officer sat in a squad car waiting to drive her home.
Moments after she slid into the backseat and the cop drove off, her phone pinged with a text from Jill. Meet us at the Burger King down the street from the police station.
Us? Who's us? Did Jill ask her father to drive her here? Oh, please, no. Seeing Charles would be so aggravating right now.
To the officer behind the wheel, she said, "Could you turn around. My daughter's waiting at the Burger King."
As soon as the squad car rolled into the parking lot, Abby spotted Jill and her tennis coach, Rita, standing in front of a black SUV examining a racquet.
The cop tapped the horn; Jill and Rita glanced up then hurried to the police car.
Abby climbed out of the backseat and hugged her daughter who said, "Rita dropped me off. I called Dad, but he was busy, so I called Rita and she drove right back to pick me up."
Rita shrugged. "It's no big deal. I'd stopped for a milkshake, so I was right around the corner." She heaved out a sigh. "This is all so unbelievable, Abby. How are you holding up?"
"Okay, I guess. Thanks for bringing Jill."
"Anything for my star student."
Jill blushed. "I'm not a star."
"You will be. You've got the chops and I've coached enough people to know that," Rita said, flicking a wayward strand of dark hair from her mouth. "Listen, if you need a defense attorney, Abby, call me. I coached this guy's son last summer and I hear he's a shark."
"Thanks. I hope it doesn't come to that."
Rita tapped the racquet against her thigh. "I need to get going, but Jill please remember what I said. You don't have to stick to the class schedule. Come play anytime I'm at the courts."
Her gaze turned to Abby. "And it's gratis, not part of the package already paid for, okay?"
With a wave, Rita left them standing by the police car.
As they climbed into the backseat, Abby nudged Jill. "I want you to take her up on that offer."
Jill glanced out at the passing landscape. "You should come too. Sweating on a hot court relieves a lot of stress."
Abby ruffled the kid's hair. "Me and sports, no, that's not a good idea for Abigail the klutz."
On the way to the house, Abby thought about the interview with the detectives and how Guthrie seemed to grow cold and distant.
Was it her imagination? Or was he, like Ross, now looking at her as their number one suspect?
And that itch she'd felt in her palm? Was that real or just the crazy-making stress of being a homicide detective's number one suspect?
Chapter Seven
There were fewer reporters on the curb when the black and white police car pulled into the driveway.
The noise volume revved up when the uniformed officer exited the car to escort Abby and Jill to the front door.
"Come talk to us, Abby," yelled one reporter. "Let's hear your side of the story," said another.
Abby rushed inside right behind Jill who went straight to the kitchen. "I'm getting a soda. You want one?"
"Sure," Abby replied, finding a comfortable spot on the nutmeg brown sectional couch before clicking the TV remote.
The first thing that appeared on the screen was a news report on the murder. She quickly switched it off and surfed until she settled on a cooking show with a woman in a gingham apron slicing into a luscious cherry pie.
Jill returned with the sodas. As Abby took hers, she said, "Did I tell you I'm going out with Twila tomorrow night? She won a dinner at Emile's and invited me to join her."
Jill sniffed. "Thanks for the invite."
"Sorry. It's a dinner for two."
Jill clucked her tongue. "I'm kidding. You need a nice night out, Momma." She headed to the stairs. "I feel sticky. Star student sticky. I'm gonna take a shower."
"Best news ever," Abby snickered.
"Hey, maybe there could be a sandwich waiting for me when I’m done? Hint, hint," Jill said, bounding upstairs.
Abby pushed out of the chair and walked outside. On both sides of the front steps, she kept clay pots with herbs and tomato plants near the front steps. Growing your own herbs and tomatoes was a Little family tradition.
Her mother, Phoebe, had had a real garden in the backyard, which Abby didn't recall at all. She'd heard stories from her father about her mother's remarkable knack for gardening and how they very seldom had to buy any vegetables since the garden always seemed to be in bloom.
Abby didn't have the knack. She managed a few potted tomato plants and herbs. That was it.
She also wasn't a great dancer. Her mother used to have a small studio where she taught kids to dance. Abby didn't have any memories of that either. She actually knew very little about her mother or any relatives on that side of her family.
Her phone pinged. It was a text from Fran, Alan's assistant, giving her the details for the funeral. Sunday at 4. Clancy St. Church.
She pocketed the phone and had just placed four tomatoes in a basket when she heard footsteps behind her.
Turning, her eyes landed on Rita who was coming down the walkway holding out Jill's backpack. "The star student left this in my car," she said with a grin.
Abby shook her head. "She can be as forgetful as me."
Rita's gaze shifted to the tomatoes in the basket. "Those are beauties."
"Three fat Beefsteaks but this smaller one, I'm not sure what it is."
Rita peered closer. "Looks like the kind my botany instructor used to bring to class. I think it's a Valencia. Not too juicy but it does have a tart citrus edge."
"C'mon in and join us for tomato and mayo sandwiches."
"Sorry. I can't." She tugged at a lock of her dark hair. "Getting this mop of mine trimmed."
Her face sobered and she pulled a card out of her pocket. "I found that lawyer's card in my glove box." She placed it in the basket. "Just in case you need him, but I hope you don't."
In the kitchen, Abby set the basket on the countertop, plucked out the card and stared at it.
She wouldn't need it, would she?
After tossing the card in a drawer, she toasted two slices of bread and then cut off the crusts for her finicky little girl.
She heard footfalls on the staircase. "Jill. Fran sent me a text. The funeral is Sunday."
They ate their mayo and tomato sandwiches in silence until Jill said, "I have that black dress with the cap sleeves. I could wear it to the funeral, but I need new leggings. Mine are grubby looking."
"Sure."
Another silence. Jill said, "Did I tell you my serve's improving. It'll be killer by next spring." She grimaced. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said killer."
Abby patted the kid's hand. "It's okay."
"Momma. Abou
t what Rita said. Do you think you'll need a defense lawyer?"
"No," she answered, making light of the notion. "So, don't you worry that starry student head of yours, okay?"
"Okay."
But later that night, Abby sank into a hot bath, wondering just that, What if I do need a lawyer?
Her fingers threaded into her scalp while her mind replayed everything she'd told the detectives in the interrogation room.
I should have played it cooler. Innocent people do go to jail. Her cautious nit-picky side corrected her. Prison. Innocent people do go to prison.
With a shudder, she made the bath hotter and tried not to stop the images from plaguing her. The heat helped ease the constriction in her shoulders and relaxed her somewhat, giving her hope she would fall asleep quickly tonight and not have any dreams.
She used to be a good sleeper. Nothing could wake her. And if she did dream, she didn't remember. Now she had a recurring dream that woke her up in a cold sweat, a dream that stayed with her when she rolled out of bed and even sometimes when she'd been up for a while.
In the dream, she'd find herself soaring up into the night sky with a cadre of birds, black shiny ones flying next to her. One would come close to her and she could see a sinister glint in its eyes.
Then suddenly she'd find herself plummeting to earth, falling faster and faster with the ground swelling up to meet her.
That was when she woke up.
The dreams had started the night she turned thirty-five. All that day, she'd felt off and discombobulated, and she didn't want to celebrate.
But Jill had been saving her babysitting money to take her out to eat. And she'd made a cake, Abby's favorite: a creamy Hummingbird cake which only had a mere thousand calories per slice.
After the lobster dinner which Jill proudly paid for, they'd come home for cake. Jill had two huge wedges, with a glass of milk, while Abby limited herself to a thinner slice, with a glass—well, two—of wine.
After she finished with her wedges, Jill said, "I have another present for you," and ran upstairs to get it.
