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20
Round and round we go, I thought. I wanted badly to step off this merry-go-round, but it was my own fault for getting so involved. I waited to hear Michael's reaction to the accusation, but he said nothing. Instead, he walked past the white fluted columns and into the small entryway. A rush of hot air mingled with the artificially cooled atmosphere of the house. I knew he'd opened the front door even though I couldn't see it from where I'd just reseated myself.
Sheila looked toward the door and then at Scott. He shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of noninvolvement. "I'm sorry," she said to Betsy and the two of them left the house. A moment later, I heard Scott's motorcycle start up. I couldn't tell if he were gunning the engine in defiance or if that was how he always drove, but the noise faded and Michael returned to the living room.
"Well, now you know what it's been like for Betsy," he said to me.
"Everyone's accusing everyone else. That won't catch the murderer."
"The police questioned me for more than three hours yesterday." Michael sighed heavily and sat down again. "If they had evidence against anyone at all, I don't think they would have wasted so much time on me."
"Maybe they don't consider it wasted time." I could have bitten my tongue for saying that.
Michael considered me impassively. "You still don't trust me."
"That's not the point. What happens when they find out you lied?"
"Are you going to tell them?"
I wanted to cry out that I wouldn't be the one to turn him in even if he'd killed Joey, but I just shook my head. "I suppose Detective Moreway will question me again," I said.
"You have no first-hand information about Sunday night," Michael told me. "Only hearsay, and that's not evidence."
Now he was throwing legalisms at me. I wondered how long it would be before he hired an attorney for himself and Betsy. Ironically, I'd come there to find out what really happened Sunday night so I could stop suspecting Michael. Instead, when I left the Stokes house and got back into my car, I was no closer to the truth, and still suspicious of him.
At home, I slathered mustard on two slices of rye bread and sliced some salami to go with it. I didn't feel up to lunch in the coffee shop, where I'd have to talk to Denise. There was nothing about this morning's visit that I wanted to discuss with her, so I was careful to clock in and go straight to the pharmacy. Detective Frank Moreway, neatly dressed in a white shirt, red-figured power tie, and lightweight blue pants, the fabric of which looked like seersucker but wasn't, was waiting for me. I looked quickly at his shoes to see whether they were black or brown. Brown would mean that he was not infallible.
"I tried to see you at home this morning," he said.
"I was out."
"So I discovered. Where can we talk?"
Tim's and my shifts overlapped on Wednesdays, so the pharmacy was covered. I turned around and walked over to the employee lounge with Frank Moreway, hoping we could find a quiet corner. One of the bakery clerks was on break, reading a movie magazine, but she didn't even look up when we entered the lounge. We sat as far across the room as we could get from her. When he crossed his legs, I saw that he was wearing navy blue socks and brown shoes. He was not infallible after all.
"The other pharmacist told me when to expect you." He looked around. "I wanted to talk to you privately."
"Then it's either after nine-thirty tonight or about five tomorrow afternoon."
"Yes, he said you're on early tomorrow. Tell me, how do the shifts work? I thought you worked one late week and one early week, but now I see that doesn't necessarily follow."
Why did I feel so nervous around this man? He was doing his job, and I should be glad to help him track down Joey's killer. I studied his face. He had dark circles under his eyes and seemed different from the self-confident policeman who'd questioned me before. I wondered if he could be objective about the case now that his brother-in-law was a victim, and why they hadn't put someone else on it.
A produce clerk and one of the meat cutters walked into the room, and Frank Moreway must have realized a private conversation was now impossible, especially when the meat cutter took a seat at our table.
"Is this cop pestering you, Ruthie?" he asked.
"No," I said. "Not at all."
"Well, we want you to catch the turkey who did Joey in," he said to Detective Moreway. "But if you're going to waste time questioning my favorite pharmacist here, you'll never find him."
Frank Moreway looked annoyed at the interruption, but told him politely that this was just routine. He waited awhile, evidently trying to decide whether to continue despite the lack of privacy. After some minutes in thought, he asked me more about my working hours. "I take it you have a definite schedule. It doesn't just change from day to night to day randomly."
"No, of course not. We have to be able to plan things if we want to go out with friends or go to plays or ballgames or whatever."
"So, how does it work?"
"Basically, it's a two-week schedule, with every other weekend off. I have it posted in the pharmacy, if you want to see it."
"That's retail for you," the meat cutter said. "Terrible hours."
Frank Moreway ignored him. "Were you off this past Sunday?"
Until that question, I hadn't realized what he was leading up to. I looked straight at him. "Detective," I said, "why don't you just ask me where I was that night. It doesn't matter what my schedule is here because the pharmacy closes at six o'clock on Sundays. I worked from opening to closing and then went home, so I have no alibi."
"And how did you know what time you need the alibi for?"
"Give her a break," the meat cutter said. "We all saw it on TV."
Now Frank Moreway turned to him. I could see he was holding in his anger, whether because of the interruptions and lack of privacy or because television news had interfered with his job, I didn't know. "Don't believe everything you see on TV," was all he said.
The meat cutter winked at me and got up. "Break's over. Gotta go."
"What was the time of death?" I asked.
"Just what you heard. Between midnight and five-thirty in the morning."
"Then why are you wasting time asking about my work schedule? Are you trying to intimidate me that way?"
"I told you, this is routine questioning. Anyhow, Food Go is open twenty-four hours a day. I didn't know the pharmacy hours were different."
"They're posted."
"Yes, I suppose they are." He looked so unhappy, I suddenly regretted arguing with him. After all, if I hadn't been worried about implicating my friends, I would have cooperated fully. I decided to do so unless the questions veered toward them.
"I'm sorry," I said. "It's been a strain for all of us, but I'm sure it's worse for you. Ask me whatever you'd like."
"You worked with Joey for a long time, and I know he had only good things to say about you. I need to know if he said anything at all these last few weeks that seemed odd."
"Odd," I echoed.
"Let's say out of character, unusual, surprising. Anything at all that I should know."
"I've been trying to think along those lines, too, but I haven't found anything. His folks told me he'd been different since the Stokes funeral, but I never noticed."
"Yes, the Stokes funeral. Why did Joey attend?"
"I don't know."
"He went with you and Mrs. Seaford?"
"That's right."
"Tell me how that happened."
I tried to remember the funeral. It was only nine days ago, but it seemed like a month or more had passed. Joey had invited himself a few days beforehand. Although I didn't want to reveal Denise's plea that I go with her, I told Frank Moreway she had offered to do the driving and Joey had asked to join us.
"And where did she pick him up, at Food Go or at his home?"
Uh, oh. I was on the merry-go-round again, and Frank Moreway was searching for the one who had the brass ring. I decided this was too easy to check and told the truth.
"So you were both familiar with the complex. And you couldn't help seeing the fountain when you drove in."
"Just a minute," I said. "Thousands of people must have seen the fountain. What are you trying to do?"
"Just routine," he insisted again. "Why are you so upset?"
"I'm not upset."
"Then why are you raising your voice?"
"You're making me sound like a suspect. First you questioned my work schedule and now you're asking if I'm familiar with the place where Joey died."
"I told you, this is routine. We're asking the same questions of everyone who knew Joey or worked with him. And we're also going back to those who knew Harry Stokes."
"So you have connected the two deaths," I said.
"Not officially, but we can't rule out a relationship. I take it from your comment that you see a connection?" His tone alerted me that this was a question and, as he waited pointedly, I knew he expected a response from me.
"Coincidences do happen, but I thought all along there was something strange about Harry Stokes' death. And together with what your in-laws said about Joey's behavior since then ..."
"That's too vague. Do you have any concrete reason to suspect the Stokes death wasn't from natural causes?"
When I admitted that I had only vague suspicions, he was silent for a minute, staring at the door to the employee lounge. I twisted in my seat to find out the reason and saw that Denise had walked into the room. She was wearing her green Food Go apron with the patch pockets over an electric blue skirt. Her blouse was green, too. The colors should have clashed, but on Denise they looked interesting.
She sent one startled look our way, seemed to be on the verge of rushing off, hesitated, and came over to our table. "Have you found Joey's murderer yet?" she asked.
"We're working on it."
"Well, you won't find anything here. You need to check out all of Harry Stokes's family, including the ones related by marriage."
"What makes you say that?" he asked her.
"Isn't it obvious?"
"Maybe it's not to me. Why don't you sit down and explain what you mean?"
Denise took the seat across the table from Detective Moreway and proceeded to tell him all about the quarrel at the Stokes house Sunday evening. I was sure he'd had all the details from Michael on Tuesday, but I kept quiet. I was hearing the story for the third time, and I wondered if it would be exactly the same. Although I thought Denise was dramatizing the details for Frank Moreway's benefit, her basic story hadn't changed.
"And what did you do after Betsy Stokes returned to her own house?"
"After all that commotion, I was exhausted. I went right to sleep, Detective," she said
I couldn't figure Denise out. When she discussed the situation with me, she seemed to relish her role as a possible suspect. But now she had opened her eyes wide in a parody of innocence. Maybe Frank Moreway didn't know her well enough to recognize that this pose wasn't Denise's normal look, but I did. It was as though she were playing a game with me or with the police.
Detective Moreway stood. "Thank you both for your cooperation," he said. "And Mrs. Morris, will you do me a favor and send the other pharmacist over here for a few minutes? I'm sure you can spare him once you're back on duty."
Denise left with me, although I knew she hadn't used up her break time. "What do you think?" she asked as soon as we were out of the room.
"I think he has no hard evidence at this point."
"That's not what I mean. Does he suspect me?"
I realized for the first time how self-centered Denise could be. Usually, this aspect of her character was hidden beneath her concern for others, but now I wondered which was the real Denise. And how far would that person go to get what she wanted. "You see that he's talking to everyone. If you hadn't walked in, he wouldn't have asked you those questions."
"He would have come after me next. After Tim, anyhow." She lowered her voice. "Why Tim? He hardly knew Harry Stokes."
I remembered some of the comments Scott had made, remarks to which I hadn't paid much attention. "It seems to be routine, but it may be because Tim knew the family down in Tucson."
"Be serious," Denise said. "Tim may have a negative personality, but murder two people?"
"I'm beginning to think we can't rule out anyone," I told her.
"You suspect me, too. I know you do."
"Denise, please." We had just reached the pharmacy and several people were waiting at the window. I excused myself, gave Tim the message, and took over at the computer.
Greg Blackstone, the store manager, had promised me some help from other departments until we could find and train a new technician, but so far no one had materialized. I filled the prescription Tim had been working on, handed it over to the young woman who was waiting, and braced myself for a busy afternoon. I recognized the other two people at the window, a middle-aged woman and her elderly mother, although I didn't remember their names.
"I need a refill, but I don't have the prescription number," the daughter said timidly. "Is it okay?"
"No problem," I assured her, even though it meant more work for me. "What was the prescription for?"
"Thank you so much," she said. "It's for those nicotine patches. Now that Mother is with us, I'm worried about her emphysema. I've just got to stop smoking."
What a pleasure to help an appreciative customer, I thought, as I asked her name and looked the record up in the computer. I refilled her Nicoderm and handed it over, to a chorus of thanks from daughter and mother.
For the next half hour, I was too busy to worry about Harry Stokes and Joey Franklin, but when Tim returned looking sullen, I tried to find out about his interview without overt prying. He was unforthcoming at the best of times, and I tried to be tactful.
"Detective Moreway doesn't seem to have anything definite," I said. "I think he's on a fishing expedition."
Tim just grunted and busied himself at the computer, leaving the telephones and the window to me as usual. Knowing I would have to be more direct, I tried again at the first lull. "Someone told me you used to date Betsy Stokes."
He compressed his lips into a thin line and was quiet for so long, I thought he wasn't going to respond. "It's no secret," he said finally.
"I suppose not. Scott Robbins seems to know all about it. He seemed to think her father caused the breakup." I was guessing here, because Scott could have been exaggerating. "That surprised me. After all, she's not a teenager."
"She's thirty-one. Same as me."
I persisted, knowing I had no right to ask. "And both of you were willing to listen to her father?"
"That shows how much you know," Tim said. "We went on seeing each other long after that phony intellectual tried to interfere."
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