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Authors: Denise Swanson
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was still alive,” Boone answered.
“So you touched her?” I said almost to myself. That wouldn’t be good.
“Just her neck,” Boone explained. “I was looking for a pulse.”
“Was the gun there?” I latched on to the one thing I thought might clear him, since his fingerprints wouldn’t be on it.
“No.”
“What do the cops think you did with the weapon?” I asked, figuring they had to have some theory or we wouldn’t be sitting here.
“According to them, I hid it somewhere before I called nine-one-one.”
“Great.” I checked my watch. We were running out of time, so I asked the most important question I could think of. “Why did you want to talk to me? Shouldn’t you have requested a lawyer?”
Before Boone could answer, the door to the interrogation room swung open. Chief Kincaid marched in and stood behind Boone.
“Your five minutes are up,” he said to me as he put his hand on Boone’s arm and pulled him to his feet. “Time to go, St. Onge.”
As Boone was being led away, he said in a rush, “Dev, you solved Joelle’s murder; I need you to figure out who killed Elise.”
I ran after him, but an officer blocked the hallway, so I shouted, “Should I call a lawyer or your folks?”
“My attorney, Tryg Pryce, is on his way from Chicago. Get in touch with him,” Boone yelled back. “But if you could tell my parents before they hear it from someone else, I’d appreciate it.”
Damn! Boone’s folks hadn’t spoken to each other in twenty-five years. Even though they were still married and lived in the same house, they communicated only through notes. Talking to them was never easy, and conveying this kind of news would be really tough.
Boone had disappeared into the jail wing of the police station, so there was nothing left for me to do except find Poppy and leave. Hey . I brightened. So far, I’d done all the heavy lifting. It was Poppy’s turn. She could break the news to the St. Onges.
Poppy didn’t believe me when I said that her father had let me talk to Boone because he loved her. She did agree it had been a concession on his part, so she promised not to do something outrageous just to embarrass him. At least, she promised once I emphasized how much her behavior could hurt Boone.
She also weaseled out of telling the St. Onges. Poppy argued that it was nearly one a.m. so they’d be asleep, and waking them up when they couldn’t do anything to help Boone would be cruel. Instead, she talked me into meeting her at their house at eight the next morning. We both agreed that even if they weren’t early risers, we couldn’t wait any longer than that, or else one of the town gossips would get to them first.
Before crawling into bed, I set my alarm for six a.m. There was no way I was facing Boone’s folks on an empty stomach—or without a shower and some makeup. Four hours later, when the radio announcer’s chipper voice woke me from an uneasy sleep, I reconsidered my need for food and tried to convince myself that untamed curls and under-eye circles were currently in fashion.
After a couple hits on the snooze button, I finally dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom, where I hoped hot water and expensive concealer would compensate for lack of sleep. Thirty-five minutes later, not entirely convinced that either had been successful, I put on a pair of khakis and a black silk sweater. Then, bracing myself for Gran’s cross-examination, I headed in to breakfast.
As I entered the kitchen and said good morning, Gran turned from the stove and waved a spatula in my direction. “What are you doing up so early on a Sunday? Don’t tell me my prayers have been answered and you’re finally going to church with me.” She shook her head. “No. That can’t be it. I haven’t seen any signs of the apocalypse or the Second Coming.”
Instead of responding, I studied Gran’s latest outfit—a dress straight out of the 1950s. It was a Wedgwood-blue wool crepe with a narrow
“So you touched her?” I said almost to myself. That wouldn’t be good.
“Just her neck,” Boone explained. “I was looking for a pulse.”
“Was the gun there?” I latched on to the one thing I thought might clear him, since his fingerprints wouldn’t be on it.
“No.”
“What do the cops think you did with the weapon?” I asked, figuring they had to have some theory or we wouldn’t be sitting here.
“According to them, I hid it somewhere before I called nine-one-one.”
“Great.” I checked my watch. We were running out of time, so I asked the most important question I could think of. “Why did you want to talk to me? Shouldn’t you have requested a lawyer?”
Before Boone could answer, the door to the interrogation room swung open. Chief Kincaid marched in and stood behind Boone.
“Your five minutes are up,” he said to me as he put his hand on Boone’s arm and pulled him to his feet. “Time to go, St. Onge.”
As Boone was being led away, he said in a rush, “Dev, you solved Joelle’s murder; I need you to figure out who killed Elise.”
I ran after him, but an officer blocked the hallway, so I shouted, “Should I call a lawyer or your folks?”
“My attorney, Tryg Pryce, is on his way from Chicago. Get in touch with him,” Boone yelled back. “But if you could tell my parents before they hear it from someone else, I’d appreciate it.”
Damn! Boone’s folks hadn’t spoken to each other in twenty-five years. Even though they were still married and lived in the same house, they communicated only through notes. Talking to them was never easy, and conveying this kind of news would be really tough.
Boone had disappeared into the jail wing of the police station, so there was nothing left for me to do except find Poppy and leave. Hey . I brightened. So far, I’d done all the heavy lifting. It was Poppy’s turn. She could break the news to the St. Onges.
Poppy didn’t believe me when I said that her father had let me talk to Boone because he loved her. She did agree it had been a concession on his part, so she promised not to do something outrageous just to embarrass him. At least, she promised once I emphasized how much her behavior could hurt Boone.
She also weaseled out of telling the St. Onges. Poppy argued that it was nearly one a.m. so they’d be asleep, and waking them up when they couldn’t do anything to help Boone would be cruel. Instead, she talked me into meeting her at their house at eight the next morning. We both agreed that even if they weren’t early risers, we couldn’t wait any longer than that, or else one of the town gossips would get to them first.
Before crawling into bed, I set my alarm for six a.m. There was no way I was facing Boone’s folks on an empty stomach—or without a shower and some makeup. Four hours later, when the radio announcer’s chipper voice woke me from an uneasy sleep, I reconsidered my need for food and tried to convince myself that untamed curls and under-eye circles were currently in fashion.
After a couple hits on the snooze button, I finally dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom, where I hoped hot water and expensive concealer would compensate for lack of sleep. Thirty-five minutes later, not entirely convinced that either had been successful, I put on a pair of khakis and a black silk sweater. Then, bracing myself for Gran’s cross-examination, I headed in to breakfast.
As I entered the kitchen and said good morning, Gran turned from the stove and waved a spatula in my direction. “What are you doing up so early on a Sunday? Don’t tell me my prayers have been answered and you’re finally going to church with me.” She shook her head. “No. That can’t be it. I haven’t seen any signs of the apocalypse or the Second Coming.”
Instead of responding, I studied Gran’s latest outfit—a dress straight out of the 1950s. It was a Wedgwood-blue wool crepe with a narrow
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