Free Hearse of a Different Color (Hitchcock Sewell Mysteries) by Tim Cockey Page B

on the cheek anytime.
    “Jay is reporting on the Waggoner case,” Bonnie said to me.
    “I know. We’ve spoken.”
    Adams grinned out of one side of his mouth. “As I recall, you didn’t have a lot to say when we spoke.”
    “Nope,” I answered. “I didn’t.”
    “Well?”
    “Well?”
    “Do you have any more to say now?”
    I shrugged. “You know what I know. Probably more at this point.” Of course, this wasn’t the case and I knew it. I knew about the white Pontiac. I decided to hold on to that tidbit for the time being.
    Bonnie spoke up, “Jay thinks that you know more than you’re telling, Hitch. That’s why he called me.”
    “Why didn’t he just call me?” I turned to the man himself. “Why didn’t you just call me?” I added, “Were you afraid I wouldn’t ask you out to lunch?”
    “Hitch, I asked Jay to join us. He can help,” Bonnie said.
    “Bonnie told me about your visit out to the airport last night,” Adams said to me.
    “Well, I know how to show a girl a good time.”
    “I’m glad to hear it.”
    “And I’m glad to report it.” I couldn’t keep the irritation out of my voice. Then again, I wasn’t trying too hard. Bonnie was glaring at me. She wasn’t used to seeing me in a pissing contest like this. Frankly neither was I. The fine-boned reporter was having an immediate and unpleasant effect on me. And he knew it. And he was enjoying it.
    “I thought maybe we could pool our efforts,” Adams said blandly, pretending to ignore my snit. The reporter’s almond-shaped eyes flicked for a nano-instant from me to Bonnie. I didn’t much care for the flick. “I tried to talk to the sister. She wouldn’t talk to me. But you’ve talked with her, right? She’s given you some information? Some background?”
    The pompous little prick.
    “You tried to
interview
a woman whose sister has just been murdered? Christ, don’t you guys at least have some sort of forty-eight hour rule?”
    “You spoke with her.”
    “I didn’t
question
her. I’m handling her sister’s funeral arrangements. It’s customary to talk with members of the family when one is arranging a funeral. I was doing my job.”
    “So was I.”
    “I didn’t badger the poor woman.”
    “Neither did I.”
    “Good!”
    Adams lifted his glass—it looked like iced tea—and took a tiny sip. Bonnie was looking confused and displeased. I was feeling a sudden onslaught of claustrophobia. I don’t like booths. I like barstools.
    “What else did the sister tell you?” Adams asked as he set his glass back down. Delicately. “Besides the fact that the mother was a slut.”
    Bonnie gasped. “I didn’t say that, Hitch. Jay, I didn’t say that.”
    “It’s okay.” I patted her hand. To Adams I said, “Vickie Waggoner spoke to me in confidence. In case you don’t know what that is, let me explain. It means that it wasn’t her intention that I run to our intrepid Sunpapers reporter and recite our conversation.”
    Adams brushed a nonexistent piece of lint from his sleeve. “Off the record then.”
    “Out of the question.”
    “What are you protecting, Hitch?”
    “I’m protecting someone’s privacy, Jay. And don’t call me Hitch.”
    “What do I call you?” he asked. The smirk was back on his face. If it ever truly left.
    I ignored his question. “The police are investigating the murder. I know Detective Kruk. He’s good. He’ll figure it out.”
    “I know Kruk too. It would be nice for Bonnie if she beat him to it.”
    “For Bonnie. So you’re really just being a pal here, aren’t you.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Well, Jay old buddy, I know how to say bullshit in six languages, but English will do.”
    “So you don’t believe me.”
    “Your insight frightens me.”
    And so goes a standoff.
    I decided not to stick around for lunch. I told them that I had business to attend to. Bonnie’s big blues were filled with apology as she told me that she was going to stay put and talk a bit more with