“What did you want to know, Deputy? I’d like to get back to what I was doing before you interrupted me.”
He picked up his lemonade once again, casually swirling the liquid in the glass. He wasn’t surprised that it was homemade. She looked the sort to make homemade lemonade on hot August afternoons. Truth be told, she looked the sort to be rocking babies and baking cookies. But it was her secretive nature that nagged at him. “Which was what?”
“None of your business.”
He smiled faintly. “Is it me you don’t like, or men in general?”
“What did you say your reason was for intruding on my afternoon?”
“Don’t you want Harriet’s murderer to be found, Molly?”
Her face paled a little. She carefully set aside her lemonade. “Of course I do.”
“Then help me.”
“Help you what?” She rose to her feet, hugging her arms around her as if it were cold outside, instead of just shy of Hades. “I’ve already told you everything I know. I went to Harriet’s home that Monday because she hadn’t shown up for work. It was completely unlike her, and though I’d called a few times, she didn’t answer. So I drove over to her house because I was concerned. The door was unlocked and she was…was—”
Seated in a chair, a single .22 caliber GSW to the head. The weapon that fired the shot was on the floor right beside her, intending to look like suicide. Chelsea Kearns, the forensics examiner who’d been called in on the case, had conclusively ruled this out.
“I don’t need you to go over what you found again at Harriet’s home, Molly,” he said quietly.
The relief that crossed her face was nearly painful to see and more in keeping with her quiet blond prettiness than her barely veiled antagonism. “Then, I…I don’t understand what you do want,” she said. “I’ve already told you everything I know.”
“Tell me what you don’t know.”
She looked at him, her eyes shadowed. “Shall I make up things, then? Is that the kind of law enforcement officer you are?”
“No, I don’t want you to make up anything. Look.” He sat forward, resting his wrists on his knees. “Sit down. Relax. Please,” he finally added.
She slowly sat. Tugged her dress down closer to her knees again, as if she knew he had a hard time not looking at them. He could have told her that her smooth, lightly tanned calves and trim ankles, clad in tiny white socks were just as much a distraction, but figured it wouldn’t help the situation. She already looked at him as if he were something to be scraped off her shoe.
“There’s got to be something we’re missing,” he told her. “Harriet obviously had a private life that nobody knew about. She was four months pregnant at the time of her death. She didn’t get that way by Immaculate Conception. And from everything that her sister, Louise Holmes, has told us, it doesn’t seem as if Harriet was likely to have been artificially inseminated.”
Molly’s cheeks went pink, and for a minute he was in danger of losing his train of thought.
“You think the father of her baby killed her?”
Tessa Madison, the clairvoyant who’d been brought in by Harriet’s nephew, Colby, had gotten the sense that Harriet was resisting an abortion. But Holt was more interested in physical evidence than psychic impressions. He didn’t discount them, but a jury wasn’t gonna convict on “feelings.”
He rubbed his forehead, wondering at that moment why the hell he’d ever believed moving to Montana would be a lifesaver. “I think that there was more going on in Harriet’s life than some people knew. Look at the way she had an ex-husband turn up.”
“I read in the papers that Warren Parrish isn’t a suspect, after all. He had an alibi or something, didn’t he?”
Holt had liked Parrish a lot for the crime. But facts were facts and there was no way Parrish could have killed his former wife. “The more I find out about Harriet,” he said, “the more complete a picture I can create of her life. The better I understand Harriet, the better I’ll understand her murder.”
“I can’t think there is anything that would make murder understandable.”
“Understandable. Not condonable.”
“Do you have any other, um, suspects?”
Not one we can find. “I can’t comment on that,” he said.
For the first time, her lips twitched. “How wise of you, considering I’d hotfoot it right to the newspaper office to give them a scoop for the Monday-morning edition. Or worse, I might run immediately over to the Calico and blab your report.”
“The news at eleven has nothing on the speed of the Rumor grapevine.”
Her eyes met his in shared humor for the briefest of moments.
Even then it was too long.
He pulled his small notepad out of his pocket and deliberately thumbed through the pages. The humidity and heat was even having an effect on the thin pages. In some places his ink was smudging.
Harriet’s writing had been smudged during the last moments of her life as she sat at her desk, he reminded himself grimly. She’d used only what she’d had available to her to leave behind three scrawled initials—a novel and her own blood. “Did Harriet keep a journal? A diary?”
“I told you before that I never saw one.”
“Then you can tell me again.”
Her shoulders visibly stiffened. “Why does this feel like an interrogation?”
Holt looked at her. “Trust me, Molly. If I were really interrogating you, you’d know it.”
Her lashes swept down, and color suddenly rode high on her velvety cheeks. “It’s you,” she said suddenly. “I don’t like you.”
He’d been a cop for more than fifteen years, and he had a fair ability to read people. Maybe that’s why he could see that she was more surprised at the soft, fierce words that had escaped her lips than he was at hearing them. And for a moment he let himself focus on Molly Brewster. Not as an irritatingly inconvenient component of his investigation but as the puzzle that she was, all on her own.
Oh, yeah, she was surprised at the words that had popped out from her mouth. She was also bracing herself, as if she expected him to slam her in the hoosegow for speaking her mind.
“It’s good to say what you feel.” He picked up the lemonade and finished it off, wondering why his suspicious nature had taken that moment to step back in favor of wanting to put her at ease. It was just more evidence that when it came to women, his instincts were all messed up.
Her smooth forehead crinkled slightly. “Is it? I suppose you make a habit of doing so.”
Now that was a laugh. “A diary, Molly. Or journal. Think about it. Did Harriet doodle on her desk pad at work?” Tessa had
