Read Online An Equal Opportunity Death by Susan Dunlap - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan Dunlap
Tags: Suspense
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trivial—and the sheriff suspected me of murdering a man.
As I walked to the pickup I shifted back to thinking that surely he couldn’t envision me as a murderer, surely this questioning was just for show, surely … but it wasn’t. He manipulated me as he would any suspect.
And from what I knew of this type of investigation (learned mainly from prime-time police shows), I suspected that the sheriff would focus on his best lead until something better was presented to him. In other words, he was going to concentrate on me.
CHAPTER 7
B Y THE TIME I left the sheriff’s department, the air was thick with the threat of rain and the sky was dark, though it was just a bit after four.
I considered driving into Santa Rosa. Probably the Chinese Laundry was there, but I wasn’t sure. I also wasn’t sure the hand launderers would speak English. Probably not. And I had purposely avoided the laundry truck at Frank’s Place. So even if the driver had noticed Frank, he wouldn’t know whether that was before or after I was there.
I shifted the pickup into reverse and backed out. The Chinese Laundry could wait till tomorrow. Better I should concentrate on what and who might have caused Frank’s death.
I turned onto North Bank Road toward Henderson. Live oaks hung over the road from both sides. Even at midday the pavement was shaded by a wonderfully verdant canopy. I loved this section of road.
Frank, I thought. He wanted to get out of San Francisco, and he’d heard about Henderson from Chris Fortimiglio, so he came here and bought the bar and ran it for two years, until he was shot. That left a lot of questions. Why did Frank want to leave the city? Had I asked him? I couldn’t remember doing so. No. When he mentioned wanting to leave, it seemed natural to me, since I had left. But Frank could have had more pressing reasons than a change of scenery. Still, he had enough money to buy, or at least put a down payment on, the Place. So he wasn’t leaving the city because of bad debts or anything like that. And Henderson was too close to the city, with too many city people coming back and forth, for Frank to consider hiding out here—particularly in a job as visible as tending bar.
Whatever his reasons for leaving San Francisco, they couldn’t have been too pressing. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to know more about them.
But if the motivation behind Frank’s murder wasn’t something in San Francisco, then it must be here. I recalled the conversation at the Fortimiglios’ the night before—was it that recent? Madge Oombs said if the killer couldn’t have been a stranger trotting down South Bank Road for all the world to see, then it must have been someone local, slipping in along the river.
Then, too, the cause must have been something local. What? What had Frank done in his two years here? He ran the bar. And? Well, he dated a lot of women, but most of them were tourists, who would see him as a summer fling. Even if they hoped for more, it was unlikely that they would arrive one afternoon in flood season and shoot Frank in the forehead.
Of course, he dated local women, but not many. The only one I could think of who had even been speculatively linked with him was Patsy Fernandez, and I felt sure there was no truth to that rumor. She and Paul were too close. Surely. Well, pretty surely. Of course, Paul and Patsy were from San Francisco. Could they have known Frank there? I should find out about that.
If the cause was not women, what about men?
A truck passed me and cut in front of me, missing my bumper by inches. I hit the horn, but by that time the truck was yards ahead of me. Glancing at the speedometer, I saw that I was driving twenty-five miles an hour. The speed limit here was fifty-five, and few drivers observed that. I stepped on the gas.
But Frank and men; Frank gay? It seemed impossible. If he had been gay, he had been hiding in the back of his closet. Considering the growing gay population in the Russian River
As I walked to the pickup I shifted back to thinking that surely he couldn’t envision me as a murderer, surely this questioning was just for show, surely … but it wasn’t. He manipulated me as he would any suspect.
And from what I knew of this type of investigation (learned mainly from prime-time police shows), I suspected that the sheriff would focus on his best lead until something better was presented to him. In other words, he was going to concentrate on me.
CHAPTER 7
B Y THE TIME I left the sheriff’s department, the air was thick with the threat of rain and the sky was dark, though it was just a bit after four.
I considered driving into Santa Rosa. Probably the Chinese Laundry was there, but I wasn’t sure. I also wasn’t sure the hand launderers would speak English. Probably not. And I had purposely avoided the laundry truck at Frank’s Place. So even if the driver had noticed Frank, he wouldn’t know whether that was before or after I was there.
I shifted the pickup into reverse and backed out. The Chinese Laundry could wait till tomorrow. Better I should concentrate on what and who might have caused Frank’s death.
I turned onto North Bank Road toward Henderson. Live oaks hung over the road from both sides. Even at midday the pavement was shaded by a wonderfully verdant canopy. I loved this section of road.
Frank, I thought. He wanted to get out of San Francisco, and he’d heard about Henderson from Chris Fortimiglio, so he came here and bought the bar and ran it for two years, until he was shot. That left a lot of questions. Why did Frank want to leave the city? Had I asked him? I couldn’t remember doing so. No. When he mentioned wanting to leave, it seemed natural to me, since I had left. But Frank could have had more pressing reasons than a change of scenery. Still, he had enough money to buy, or at least put a down payment on, the Place. So he wasn’t leaving the city because of bad debts or anything like that. And Henderson was too close to the city, with too many city people coming back and forth, for Frank to consider hiding out here—particularly in a job as visible as tending bar.
Whatever his reasons for leaving San Francisco, they couldn’t have been too pressing. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to know more about them.
But if the motivation behind Frank’s murder wasn’t something in San Francisco, then it must be here. I recalled the conversation at the Fortimiglios’ the night before—was it that recent? Madge Oombs said if the killer couldn’t have been a stranger trotting down South Bank Road for all the world to see, then it must have been someone local, slipping in along the river.
Then, too, the cause must have been something local. What? What had Frank done in his two years here? He ran the bar. And? Well, he dated a lot of women, but most of them were tourists, who would see him as a summer fling. Even if they hoped for more, it was unlikely that they would arrive one afternoon in flood season and shoot Frank in the forehead.
Of course, he dated local women, but not many. The only one I could think of who had even been speculatively linked with him was Patsy Fernandez, and I felt sure there was no truth to that rumor. She and Paul were too close. Surely. Well, pretty surely. Of course, Paul and Patsy were from San Francisco. Could they have known Frank there? I should find out about that.
If the cause was not women, what about men?
A truck passed me and cut in front of me, missing my bumper by inches. I hit the horn, but by that time the truck was yards ahead of me. Glancing at the speedometer, I saw that I was driving twenty-five miles an hour. The speed limit here was fifty-five, and few drivers observed that. I stepped on the gas.
But Frank and men; Frank gay? It seemed impossible. If he had been gay, he had been hiding in the back of his closet. Considering the growing gay population in the Russian River
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