Free Strangled Prose by Joan Hess

you ask her?” A perfectly sensible answer, I thought. I presumed that the connection was through Maggie, but I had no intention of throwing her to the wolf. Sheila could do the dirty deed.
    â€œAnd you have no idea where Douglas Twiller might be at this time?”
    â€œNone at all.”
    Lieutenant Rosen gnawed on his lip. “We seem to be missing quite a few people at the moment: the maid, the husband, your daughter, this mysterious friend, the gardener who lives in the carriage house—and a killer. Any suggestions, Mrs. Malloy?”
    â€œI earn a living selling books; I do not receive any renumeration for solving homicides, nor do I operate a missing-persons bureau for the general community. That is more your field, Lieutenant.”
    â€œNow, Mrs. Malloy, I agree that you’re not an employee of the CID, but citizens are usually willing to help us in a murder investigation. You seem—ah, a shade reticent.”
    As irritating as it was, it was also true. And I had no idea why I had taken such a truculent posture with the man. I try very hard not to make rash judgments about people, but the man had provoked me into one. Madison Avenue suit, sweet smiles, deferential tone—I wasn’t buying any of it. He had the look of a piranha posing as a discolored goldfish. However, it is not prudent to offend a detective who is looking around for a perpetrator.
    â€œI apologize, Lieutenant Rosen,” I murmured, lowering my eyes as I sank back on the sofa. “Mildred was a friend, and I’m upset—quite naturally, considering the circumstances. I’ve never had someone I know get strangled with a silk scarf. Emily Post does not deal with such situations.”
    The second detective stuck his head in the door. “I’ve finished with the scene of the crime, Rosen. I’m going to the hospital to see if the pathologist has anything to add about the time of death. Do you know who the victim was?”
    â€œBeyond the obvious?”
    â€œThe victim was a well-known romance writer. She wrote a string of sexy novels, right up there with Harold Robbins and Rosemary Rogers. My wife reads them, then keeps me up half the night for a week trying out these really kinky things. I can’t play racquetball for months afterward.”
    Lieutenant Rosen gave me a wounded look. “Mrs. Malloy mentioned that Mrs. Twiller wrote novels, but she didn’t elaborate on the content. Scout around and see if you can find some of the books.”
    The man nodded and disappeared. The lieutenant and I studied various corners of the ceiling for several minutes. I wondered where Douglas was. I prayed I wouldn’t still be in den-detention when he finally returned home to hear the news.
    â€œMrs. Malloy,” Lieutenant Rosen finally said, “I wish you’d be a bit more candid with me. We’re not dealing with a case of shoplifting or a failure to yield. Someone—specifically, a friend of yours—has been murdered in a very brutal way.”
    â€œGranted. But I don’t know why you think I have any information about it. Mildred most likely surprised a burglar or caught the gardener digging up a hybrid to sell on the botanical black market. I certainly didn’t kill her, nor did anyone I know. Everybody liked Mildred Twiller; hence, we tolerated Azalea Twilight.”
    â€œThat is an interesting point. Who was murdered, Mrs. Malloy? A romance writer or a housewife?”
    â€œThat is your interesting point, Lieutenant. I need to run by the Book Depot to make sure I locked the back door, then go home and drink a toast to my friend. Call me if I can add anything else,” I said firmly. I grabbed my purse and started for the door.
    â€œOne other thing,” he said as we walked into the foyer. “I’ll have to have an official statement about the reception and Miss Belinski’s telephone call. I’ll let you lock up your store and drink the