Free Double Shot by Diane Mott Davidson Page A

trying to recall what had happened next. What had happened exactly.
“Then what?” Blackridge prompted me after a few moments.
“I walked around to the garage.”
“Where was your son?”
“I told him to wait at the front door.”
“You said, ‘Let’s try one more time.’ Why didn’t you have your son go with you?”
“I don’t know.” Why did the truth have to look so bad? Just wait here, honey, while I go pretend to discover Dad, dead. Heat rose to my cheeks. I added, “I told my son I was just checking to see if the Audi was there.”
The detectives traded another look.
Blackridge said, “Go on.”
“The garage door was half open, which was bizarre, or at least unusual for John Richard.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because John Richard loved that car, that new Audi. He was manic about his stuff. He’d never risk someone being able to break in through the garage.” Blackridge nodded for me to continue. “I ducked down. I could see that the Audi was still there. So I scooted under the garage door — “
“Why not call Arch over at that point?” Blackridge wanted to know. “You’d been at the front door together, trying to summon his father.”
I let out a deep breath. “I don’t know.” This seemed to be my refrain for the day. “Anyway,” I went on quickly, eager for this to be over, since I knew I was going to have to repeat the whole thing, down at the department. “I went in, walked across the garage, and then . . .” I paused, remembering the horrid sight of John Richard’s twisted body. “Then I saw him. In his car. I saw he’d been shot and that he was dead. So I called Tom and got his voice mail. I left a message about what I’d seen, and I asked him to come up here. Then I called you all.”
“Did you touch anything in the garage? Move anything? Take anything?”
“No, no, no, of course not.”
Reilly tapped the clipboard with his pen. “We’ll be analyzing the tape of your call to 911,” he put in.
“Go ahead,” I retorted, feeling fury flare. So what if I’d hung up on the 911 operator? I’d been worried about Arch, still out front. I hadn’t wanted him to make an appearance in the garage and see his father, so grotesque in death.
Blackridge lifted a warning eyebrow at Reilly. “And next, Mrs. Schulz?” he asked gently.
I bit the inside of my cheek. Ina homicide case, the cops traced all the calls you made, so omitting the call to Marla was a bad idea. “I called my best friend, Marla Korman. She’s John Richard’s other ex-wife. I got her voice mail, too.” I took a deep breath.
“And why did you call the other ex-wife of the man you’d just found dead?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think. Because she’s my friend, I suppose. I left her a message saying John Richard was dead. Then I went to tell my son there had been a terrible accident. That his father was dead. I knew he’d need me. Then the two of us waited for you all to show up.”
Blackridge had hooked his meaty arm over the front seat so he could turn and look at me. “Do you have any idea who could have done this, Mrs. Schulz? Did Dr. Korman have enemies? Say, particular people who didn’t like him?”
I thought of Courtney MacEwan’s cold eyes and hardened visage this morning. He owed me. but she was only one of many women — present company included — whom John Richard had made love to passionately for a while before moving on to someone else.
“He had ex-girlfriends,” I said lamely. “Lots of them. Fifty-some.”
“Fifty-some? Can you give us names of the most recent ones?”
I felt horrid pointing the finger at Courtney, but I was being truthful here, right? “I’m pretty sure the most recent ex-girlfriend is named Courtney MacEwan.”
“Spell her name, please.” Reilly’s thin voice startled me. Feeling like a total heel, I spelled Courtney’s name.
“Anyone else?” Blackridge asked.
“His current girlfriend is named Sandee Blue. I think she works at the country-club golf