Free Double Shot by Diane Mott Davidson

two of us locked in a shouting match.
“Mrs. Korman? I mean, Mrs. Schulz?” said the first detective, a young, red-haired fellow with a name tag that said “Reilly.” His clipboard, I noticed, was filled with bright white paper. Behind him was someone else I didn’t recognize, a taller, older man with black hair, a ruddy complexion, and “Blackridge” on his name tag. “Could you get out of your vehicle and talk to us for a few minutes?”
I obeyed him. Tom had put his career on the line by checking my glove compartment, to see if the weapon they’d found was mine. My dear husband. How different he was form the one who now lay dead up in the garage.
Everything will be all right, I told myself. But it sure didn’t feel that way.

<6>
“Will you give us permission to search your vehicle?” Reilly asked in the same formal tone.
“yes, yes, of course,” I said automatically. And then I had a horrible thought: What if the killer who’d taken my gun had planted something in my car? The detectives had already nodded at two crime-scene guys; one of them clambered into the car. Tom looked at me and gave a thumbs-up. I wanted to feel confident, but I didn’t.
I took a deep breath and followed the detectives halfway around the cul-de-sac, until we arrived at a department car.
“When did you get here, Mrs. Schulz?” Reilly asked, his blue eyes flat.
“Just before four. Maybe five, ten of.”
He scribbled. “And why were you here?”
“John Richard Korman, the man who was . . . shot, is, was my ex-husband. This morning, well, actually, this afternoon, eh . . .” Suddenly I couldn’t stand it. Literally. “I need to sit down.”
They opened the doors of the department car, and the three of us slid in. Blackridge sat in the driver’s seat. Reilly, beside me in the back, told me to keep on with my story.
“He, John Richard, said he had a late tee time for playing golf with Arch. Arch is our fifteen-year-old son who just left.” Neither detective spoke. Reilly motioned for me to go on. “John Richard said for me to bring Arch over at four, which I did.”
When Reilly wrote, his short, pale, freckled fingers moved very fast. Blackridge’s face, meanwhile, was impassive. When a groan escaped me, the detectives exchanged a glance.
“When you got here,” Blackridge asked, “was anyone else here?”
“Yes, someone was.” I described the down-at-the-heels fellow with the skeletal face. Blackridge wanted to know about the man’s car, and seemed surprised that I’d written down the license number. Reilly retrieved the piece of paper I offered from my pocket and took more note.
“What made you do that?” Blackridge again. “Take down this man’s license number, I mean.”
“He called me ‘Mrs. Korman.’ I guess he assumed I was John Richard’s wife because Arch was up at the door yelling, ‘Dad! Dad! Open the door!’ Anyway, the man wanted to know if I had his money.”
“ ‘His money,’ “ Blackridge repeated. “What money?”
“Well,” I said, “obviously, money the Jer — uh, John Richard owed him!” As Arch would say, Duh. Through all this, Reilly wrote.
“Then what did you do?” Blackridge demanded.
“Nothing. The guy seemed to get nervous. He left. Then I went up to the door with Arch. We both ganged on it and rang the bell.”
“You banged on the door?” Blackridge’s dark brown eyes pierced me. “Why?”
I sighed. “Because I was sure John Richard was in there.” I ordered myself to get the anger out of my voice before saying any more. In a calmer tone, I went on: “You have to understand. John Richard had been very insistent that I bring Arch over promptly at four. I was convinced he was hiding out from this fellow, one of his creditors, who wanted his money. But I figured that since the guy had driven off, John Richard just wasn’t aware that the coast was clear. So when he still didn’t answer the door, I said to Arch, ‘Let’s try one more time.’ “ I stopped talking,