Free The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle by Laura Disilverio Page B

reminded myself, and I was a suspect. At least on paper.
    I drew in a long breath to regain my equilibrium. “So,” I said, relief flooding through me, “he fell?”
    Hart was shaking his head before I finished speaking. The humidity had made little curls stick up all over his head. “Not without help.” He stood beside the wall. “This wall is waist high on me and nine or ten inches wide. No way could someone trip or stumble, even drunk, and fall over accidentally. But look at this.” He used a pen to point at faint grooves and scrapes that were lighter than the surrounding masonry. “These happened recently. My money’s on tonight. I’ve got to get a crime scene team up here.”
    He herded me away from the wall and made a call. Waiting, I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself again. The breeze raised goose bumps on my bare arms, and my beginning-to-dry hair flapped around my face. I was cold, miserable, worried, and even a little sad. I hadn’t liked Gordon—he’d been a grade-A jerk in many ways—but no one deserved to be heaved off a roof into a Dumpster, to lie there broken until he quit breathing.
    When Hart hung up, I stayed quiet as he shepherded me downstairs. He gave me a supervised moment with Derek, sequestered in a booth. He looked pale and ill, hunched over the table and holding his temples as if his head would explode if he let go. He didn’t notice me at first.
    â€œI can wait for you, Derek,” I said when he looked up, bleary-eyed. “I can drive you home.”
    He started to shake his head, thought better of it, and said, “Go home, Amy-Faye.” His voice was drained of all emotion, expressionless. “Just go home.”
    â€œI’d rather wait and drive—”
    â€œGo.”
    I hesitated, but then nodded. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
    He didn’t say anything and after another moment of hesitation, I let Hart pull me away.
    â€œI wouldn’t call him too early,” Hart said.
    My gaze flew to his face. Why? Were they planning to arrest Derek?
    â€œHe’ll have the mother of all hangovers,” Hart explained.
    He ushered me out to the parking lot. It was choked with police cars and vans, including a K-9 vehicle, an ambulance—too late—and the coroner’s van, which left as I watched. Tree limbs shivered with the wind’s gusts and sent eerie shadows chasing one another across the gravel. Raindrops beaded on the hood of my van. My limbs suddenly felt heavy and it was all I could do to hold my eyelids open. Reaction. Exhaustion.
    â€œWant me to have someone drive you home?” Hart asked, eyeing me with concern. “I’d do it myself, but I can’t—”
    â€œIt’s okay,” I said. “I’m good.”
    He laid his hand against my cheek. “You’re not good.”
    â€œWell, maybe I’ve been better.” His hand felt good, big and warm, and I put mine over it for a moment.
    â€œWe’ll talk tomorrow.”
    I knew he’d have hugged me if there weren’t so many cops and official folks around.
    I bit my lip and nodded.
    â€œCome to the station when you get a chance so we can make your statement official. I may have a few more questions once I talk to Derek and Kolby Marsh.” He opened the van door, closed it when I got in, and banged the side as I started it up. I watched him return to the pub and walk under the now sagging E LYSIUM B REWING G RAND O PENING sign.
    I couldn’t make myself leave. Not until I knew Derek was okay. I sat in the van and cranked up the heat, which dried me out eventually. The windows steamed over. I turned the van off until the chill got to me again and I turned it back on. Over the next hour, a handful of pub employees trickled out, having been interviewed by the police, I assumed, until only Derek’s car and the police vehicles, including Hart’s Tahoe, were left