Free Murder Most Persuasive by Tracy Kiely Page B

said.
    “Exactly,” Reggie said, nodding in my direction. Without a word, Ann turned in the direction of the kitchen, presumably to get Reggie her wine.
    “Lord,” said Reggie, “whatever are the police going to think? You know they’re going to think one of us did it.”
    “Not necessarily,” I said, more out of politeness than any real conviction.
    “Well, if they don’t, then they have no imagination.” She turned on her heel and glided into the living room. With almost feline grace, she made herself comfortable on the couch.
    A confident knock sounded on the door, and it opened. It was Frances and Scott. Frances was wearing one of her standard A-line tweed skirts with a red blouse. Scott was casually dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Unlike Reggie, neither presented a calm façade. “Dear God,” said Frances when she saw me, her voice shrill, “this is just like a nightmare! Who would have ever believed that all these years Michael was actually dead !” Next to her, Scott did not speak. He stood awkwardly with his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans, his body tense. “Is Reggie here?” Frances asked.
    I nodded and gestured to the living room.
    “Reggie, I just can’t believe this,” said Frances, rushing over to her sister. “How are you ? Are you all right?”
    Reggie sighed with annoyance. “Of course, I’m all right, Frances. Please don’t be melodramatic. We already have enough drama as it is. Besides, you seem to forget, I broke it off with him . It’s not as if he left behind some lovesick pale copy of the girl he loved. Besides, that was eight years and three marriages ago.”
    “Yes, but he’s dead!” Frances said. “You can’t be happy that he’s dead!”
    Reggie rolled her eyes in disgust. “Frances, I didn’t say I was happy that he was dead. I’m just not crying into my hankie. There’s a difference.”
    Frances looked unconvinced but said no more. There was a loud, officious knock on the door, immediately followed by a collective intake of breath around me. The police, it would seem, were here. Frances and Reggie looked at me, while Scott stared at the floor. Apparently I had just been appointed official greeter.
    I am by no means someone my friends would describe as being calm under pressure, but I was still taken aback at the surge of adrenaline that swiftly raced through my veins. With shaking hands, I grabbed the cut-glass doorknob and swung open the door.
    Before me stood one woman and one man. The former was in a crisp, blue uniform, her light blond hair tucked underneath her hat. I couldn’t tell you much else about her other than the fact that she had blue eyes and a trim figure, because my real focus was on the second person.
    He hadn’t changed much. No gray marred his thick, dark hair. From the way his Burberry overcoat clung to his broad shoulders, he appeared to be as lean and fit as ever. Seeing me, a flash of recognition appeared in his blue-green eyes, but no welcoming smile accompanied it.
    Before I could speak, I heard Ann approaching from behind. Turning, I saw her just as she saw him. The color drained from her face and her grip on the glass of wine tightened, turning her knuckles white.
    With a strained whisper, she got out his name. “Joe!”

 
    CHAPTER 7
    Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable.
    — EMMA
    J OE’S RESPONSE to hearing Ann utter his name was a brief tightening of the muscles in his jaw. With an overly polite nod in her direction, he said, “Actually, it’s Detective Muldoon now.”
    Ouch. It was clear that even after all these years, Joe hadn’t forgiven Ann. I glanced at her to see how she was taking all this. From the stricken look on her face, I deduced not very well. Ann blinked and pressed her lips together tightly, her face etched in silent misery.
    I stuck out my hand, “Hello, Joe … er … Detective Muldoon. I don’t know if you remember me, but