Read Online Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_03 by Death in Lovers' Lane - Free Book Online Page A

women—unless they prized fidelity.
    â€œDid it ever occur to you to keep your hands off women reporters?”
    â€œI don’t rape anybody.” His glare was defiant.
    But this was not the time for a discussion of sexual harassment, in all its infinite varieties.
    â€œSo what did Rita say this morning?”
    Dennis blinked, shook his head. “I never saw her. I slept in the den. I got up early and got the hell out and had breakfast at the Green Owl. Then Kitty Brewster called in about Maggie. I couldn’t believe it. I thought it was crazy. The next thing I knew, the cops had brought Rita in.”
    â€œAnd you still haven’t talked to Rita about what happened last night?”
    â€œNo. But, Henrie O, she didn’t do it.” He looked at me earnestly, hopefully. “That cop won’t listen to me. But you can find out what happened.”
    He heaved himself to his feet, leaned toward me. I smelled sweat and fear and the sweet muskiness of bourbon.
    â€œHenrie O, it has to be one of those old crimes. It has to be. Nothing else makes sense. Listen, you can figure it out.” His voice was eager, clear. If he’d been drinking, he was still able to speak distinctly. “You can see Rita in the morning. I talked to her lawyer. He’s going to set it up. I’ll let you know what time. When you talk to Rita, you’ll believe me. She didn’t do it.”
    â€œDennis…” I started to shake my head.
    â€œHenrie O, I’ve never begged in my life. Except when Carla died. And that didn’t do any good. But I’m begging you. Because you’ve covered the news big time. If it’s out there to be found, you’ll find it. Please. Not for me. For Rita. For Maggie. Please.”
    I straightened my desk, but it didn’t corral my thoughts. I wasn’t looking forward to tomorrow. I’d not promised Dennis that I would talk with Rita.
    But I knew I would.
    I couldn’t ignore the kind of plea Dennis had made.
    Even though one cold, analytical portion of my mind wondered about Dennis, wondered a lot. Was he a panicked husband determined to save his wife? Or was he a killer posturing as a devoted (in his own fashion) husband?
    And I couldn’t forget the look of panic and fear in Rita’s eyes as she was led away.
    But I’m not a reporter anymore. What the hell did I think I could do? Cops don’t make an arrest in a capital murder case on a whim. There had to be evidence, and plenty of it.
    Irritably, I pushed back my chair. But maybe the truth was that I needed to talk to Rita Duffy on my own account. For my own peace of mind, I had to know what had caused Maggie’s murder.
    So, if I was going to play in this game, I’d better get some chips.
    I looked out into the newsroom.
    Helen Tracy’s fingers flew over the keyboard of her computer. She thought fast and typed fast. If you want to know what’s going on in any small town, who the movers and shakers are, where the skeletons are buried, who’s sleeping with whom, take your favorite LifeStyle editor out to dinner. As a guest. Her restaurant of choice.
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    The doughy smell of pizza and the sour scent of beer washed over us as we stepped inside the Green Owl. We were enveloped in sound, a roar of conversation punctuated by peals of laughter, the bang and crash of dishes, the Beach Boys immortalizing California girls. The Green Owl has an eclectic juke-box—the owner claims it has been in nonstop use since 1938—with every kind of music from Benny Goodman to Hootie and the Blowfish.
    Helen was scanning the huge room, waving hello in every direction. The horseshoe bar, reputed to have come from a Colorado mining town, was to our left. Straight ahead was the coffee area. No matter the hour of day—or night—these tables were always nearly all taken, students studying, checker and chess players sunk in concentration, newspaper and magazine readers