Free 3 Malled to Death by Laura Disilverio

“Oh.” She studied my face. “Was she really still alive when you found her?”
    I nodded. “For a moment. I did what I could, but . . .”
    “Did she say anything?”
    “I think she was unconscious.”
    “Oh.” She looked down into her coffee cup again, seeming to forget she still held my hand. I pulled it away gently and that brought her head up. “We fought, you know. Yesterday. The last words we said to each other were angry ones.” Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, fogging the lower half of her wire-rimmed glasses.
    I joined her on the bench, not wanting to loom over her and intimidate her. “When was that?” I asked softly.
    “Right before production wrapped for the day, about six. I’m the key costumer for this movie and I had just retrieved the police uniform from Tab Gentry, the poor kid who shot off the gun, when Zoë stopped by. She saw the uniform and made a remark about Tab being an idiot who deserved to get fired. I didn’t know the kid well, but it was only an accident, after all, and I told her she was being too harsh. Well, that set her off and we argued. If you’ve got a significant other, you know how it is.” She gave me a tired smile. “You start off disagreeing about one thing, and then you find yourselves squabbling about who didn’t clean up the breakfast dishes or who feeds the cats more often. It was nothing, silliness.”
    Drinking half the coffee remaining in her cup, she looked up and said, “But it’s the last memory I have of her.”
    “You weren’t worried when she didn’t come back to your hotel room last night?” I imagined the cast and crew were being housed in a nearby hotel since most of them weren’t from this area. My mom and dad had rented a magnificent home near Mount Vernon, but I didn’t imagine a props master and a key costumer—whatever that was—could afford similar accommodations.
    “We didn’t share a room,” Margot said.
    I flushed. “I’m so sorry. I heard that you . . . that you and she—”
    “Oh, we were partners,” Margot said, taking pity on my embarrassment, “but we liked our own space. We had connecting rooms, but after our argument, I wasn’t too surprised when Zoë didn’t join me last night. I spent the evening reading poetry—Do you know the poet Mary Oliver? She writes such lovely, uplifting poems!—and then went to bed early, maybe nine thirty or so.”
    Was she a shade too quick offering an alibi? Not that reading poetry—alone—and sleeping—alone—made for much of an alibi.
    “I didn’t hear the TV in Zoë’s room, or hear her bumping around at all, so I don’t think she was back before I fell asleep. Sometimes she did that,” Margot said unhappily. “Stayed out, chatted someone up at a bar, when we’d had words. She was younger than I am,” she added, “and so much prettier. I knew other women came on to her sometimes, but I didn’t say anything. I don’t know if she ever . . . She loved me, though. I never doubted that.”
    Rising, Margot let her cup fall into a nearby trash can. She took a step away from me, then turned back, long skirt flapping around her calves with the sharpness of her movement. “Find out who did this to her,” she said, a muscle jumping at the corner of her mouth. “She didn’t deserve to die like that, in pain, lying on a bathroom floor. No one does.”
    “The police—” I started.
    “Them.” She dismissed the police with a wave of her hand. “You’re a good listener. That counts for as much as fingerprints and DNA testing and all the scientific bells and whistles.” She sighed and her momentary burst of resolve and anger seemed to leak out of her. “Well, then.”
    Without a good-bye, she started down the hall toward the production office, clogs slapping against her heels. I watched her for a few moments, until enough shoppers surged between us that I couldn’t see her clearly.

Nine
    • • • 
    After the morning’s influx of security