between the rack of threadbare velvet gowns from the thirties and a dis-play case with beaded purses and felt hats adorned with very tired feathers. “And she grabbed the gun,” I added, picking up my pace. “Peter thinks it’s possible she might have fired it. Has the girl never watched a cop show on TV? Rule number one is don’t pick up the gun!”
Luanne cut me off before I floundered into the merchandise. “But she swore she didn’t do it, and her story makes some sense. First, an unauthorized entry, key or not. A gunshot, and her father on the rug, bleeding. She heard a noise and panicked.”
“I suspect her lawyer won’t get anything else out of her. All she wants is what’s best for Skyler, but she doesn’t believe she can provide it—or anything else. She might be able to if she inherits some money from her father’s estate.”
“If she didn’t kill him,” Luanne said dryly.
“Well, there’s that.”
“And that would require you to come up with someone else who happened to have been seen running out of the house at midnight. Any ideas?”
“No,” I admitted, “and she didn’t really explain why she went to the house. Her father threw her out when she announced she was pregnant and refused to have an abortion. I don’t know what part in this Adrienne played, but I doubt Daphne was invited for dinner on a regular basis.”
“And I doubt Adrienne is going to invite you for coffee and details.”
“I don’t even know where the house is, although I gather it’s near Oakland Heights. Did you notice any formidable iron gates?”
Luanne shook her head. “There were some driveways, but I couldn’t see the houses. Are you going to peddle paperbacks door-to-door until you find it?”
“I guess not,” I said. “Have you heard from Caron?”
“Oh, yes. We’ve moved on to Burping 101.”
I went to the Book Depot, made coffee, and spread the newspaper on the counter. Once again, it failed to engage me. My science fiction hippie showed up with a sack of week-old doughnuts, and we discussed alien transmutations until it was time for him to wander home and watch reruns of Dr. Who.
Daphne Armstrong was off-limits unless I scaled the exterior of the police station and whispered at her through the barred window. I had noted that Peter said Daphne had been seen driving away from the parking lot at Oakland Heights, but I had no idea how to pursue it. Joey, purportedly the father of her baby, had been turned loose on society and owned a car.
But what would happen if I tracked him down? Even if Daphne was charged with the murder of her father— which seemed likely—could I prevent Joey from taking Skyler? He was the biological father. I had no claim beyond the scribbled note.
I chewed on my lip for a long while, then found the telephone directory in a desk drawer and looked up an address for Sheila Armstrong. I hadn’t promised Daphne I wouldn’t speak to her mother, after all.
Sheila Armstrong lived in the same neighborhood as Miss Parchester. Here, houses were as much as a hundred years old, trimmed with gingerbread molding, rejuvenated with painfully authentic hues of paint and flower beds filled with fiercely dedicated perennials. Sheila’s house was shabbier than those on either side, the lawn in need of a trim, the shutters in need of alignment, the garden in need of a backhoe. Those who strolled in the evening, as many of the residents surely did, no doubt tut-tutted and averted their eyes as they passed by.
I had not a clue what I would say as I knocked on the door.
“Yes?” trilled a woman as she flung open the door. “Are you the terminator? You don’t look like a terminator, but of course the only one I’ve ever seen was in some silly movie!”
In that she was wearing only black cowboy boots, gossamer harem pants, and a red bra, I was taken aback, to put it mildly.
“Not the terminator,” I said at last.
“I meant to say‘exterminator.’ The termites are eating
Luanne cut me off before I floundered into the merchandise. “But she swore she didn’t do it, and her story makes some sense. First, an unauthorized entry, key or not. A gunshot, and her father on the rug, bleeding. She heard a noise and panicked.”
“I suspect her lawyer won’t get anything else out of her. All she wants is what’s best for Skyler, but she doesn’t believe she can provide it—or anything else. She might be able to if she inherits some money from her father’s estate.”
“If she didn’t kill him,” Luanne said dryly.
“Well, there’s that.”
“And that would require you to come up with someone else who happened to have been seen running out of the house at midnight. Any ideas?”
“No,” I admitted, “and she didn’t really explain why she went to the house. Her father threw her out when she announced she was pregnant and refused to have an abortion. I don’t know what part in this Adrienne played, but I doubt Daphne was invited for dinner on a regular basis.”
“And I doubt Adrienne is going to invite you for coffee and details.”
“I don’t even know where the house is, although I gather it’s near Oakland Heights. Did you notice any formidable iron gates?”
Luanne shook her head. “There were some driveways, but I couldn’t see the houses. Are you going to peddle paperbacks door-to-door until you find it?”
“I guess not,” I said. “Have you heard from Caron?”
“Oh, yes. We’ve moved on to Burping 101.”
I went to the Book Depot, made coffee, and spread the newspaper on the counter. Once again, it failed to engage me. My science fiction hippie showed up with a sack of week-old doughnuts, and we discussed alien transmutations until it was time for him to wander home and watch reruns of Dr. Who.
Daphne Armstrong was off-limits unless I scaled the exterior of the police station and whispered at her through the barred window. I had noted that Peter said Daphne had been seen driving away from the parking lot at Oakland Heights, but I had no idea how to pursue it. Joey, purportedly the father of her baby, had been turned loose on society and owned a car.
But what would happen if I tracked him down? Even if Daphne was charged with the murder of her father— which seemed likely—could I prevent Joey from taking Skyler? He was the biological father. I had no claim beyond the scribbled note.
I chewed on my lip for a long while, then found the telephone directory in a desk drawer and looked up an address for Sheila Armstrong. I hadn’t promised Daphne I wouldn’t speak to her mother, after all.
Sheila Armstrong lived in the same neighborhood as Miss Parchester. Here, houses were as much as a hundred years old, trimmed with gingerbread molding, rejuvenated with painfully authentic hues of paint and flower beds filled with fiercely dedicated perennials. Sheila’s house was shabbier than those on either side, the lawn in need of a trim, the shutters in need of alignment, the garden in need of a backhoe. Those who strolled in the evening, as many of the residents surely did, no doubt tut-tutted and averted their eyes as they passed by.
I had not a clue what I would say as I knocked on the door.
“Yes?” trilled a woman as she flung open the door. “Are you the terminator? You don’t look like a terminator, but of course the only one I’ve ever seen was in some silly movie!”
In that she was wearing only black cowboy boots, gossamer harem pants, and a red bra, I was taken aback, to put it mildly.
“Not the terminator,” I said at last.
“I meant to say‘exterminator.’ The termites are eating
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