Free Muller, Marcia - [McCone 02] - Ask the Cards a Question 3S(v1)(html) Page A

greeted me as I entered.
    Things must be picking up, I thought. She’s taken a shower.
    I went into the bathroom and flicked on the light. The mirror was polished, the basin scoured clean. Fresh towels hung on the racks, the old ones dumped into the wicker hamper. A note, Scotch-taped to the mirror, said:
    “Sharon—Sorry about the mess. I’ll try to do better. Love, L.”
    I looked beyond the note to my face, which wore an expression of shame. Linnea meant well. I didn’t give her enough credit for trying.
    I felt my way down the hall to the main room, where a night light burned. It revealed Linnea’s sleeping form in the bag on the floor, the cat curled up beside her. The room was orderly, and a Ghirardelli chocolate bar was propped against a vase of fresh daffodils on the coffee table. My stomach knotted as I thought of Greg.
    Calm down, I told myself. So what if he was here? So what if he discovered Linnea was staying with me and talked to her? There’s nothing suspicious about the fact I haven’t mentioned her to him; we haven’t been seeing one another since she arrived.
    But I still felt uncomfortable and knew it was directly linked to that missing piece of drapery cord.
    I undressed, sniffing appreciatively at the clean, scented sheets as I slipped into bed and pulled the heavy quilts over me. I should get my mind off that elusive piece of cord and concentrate on the facts of the murder.
    Try motive, Sharon.
    What motive could Linnea possibly have? She liked Molly. So they quarreled. So Molly bawled her out about her drinking. You don’t strangle a person over something like that.
    Not if you’re rational.
    Is Linnea?
    Of course she is.
    Is she?
    Well, maybe not all the time. But look at the other facts: Molly’s apartment was searched. And she was preoccupied—worried, really—about something the day of her death. That alone should tell you her murder was well motivated. Maybe even well planned.
    Why don’t you get off Linnea and look for the real killer? When you find him, you’ll know your friend is innocent.
    Give it a try, huh?
    My next impression was the smell of freshly brewed coffee. I struggled up on one elbow as Linnea emerged from the kitchen, wearing a yellow terrycloth caftan, her wheat-colored hair in childish braids. She looked at me with the expression of a naughty six-year-old.
    “Are you mad at me?”
    I could remember her asking the same thing in exactly the same way when she’d knocked me into the creek at the Girl Scout picnic. “Not now. Thanks for the coffee.” I made space for it on the bedside table.
    “You’re welcome.” She sat down crosslegged on the bed. Her fresh-scrubbed face was cheerful, and her lips curled up contentedly. “I tried to clean the place up last night, and I promise I’ll finish the job today.”
    “You must have really dervished around here,” I said, recalling how she and Clemente had left the Blind Center after nine-thirty.
    Linnea chuckled. The verb “to dervish” was one of our old terms, part of that private language that springs up between close friends. “You should have seen me. It was sort of like doing penance.”
    “Penance was easier than cleaning house.” I remembered the comforting shape of the rosary beads as I knelt in the shadows of Holy Name back home, then shook off the thought. I’d quit going to church many years ago. “So what do you have planned for today?”
    “I thought I’d go to the Laundromat and do some ironing. Maybe I’ll bake us some bread. I want to be home in case…” She flushed prettily.
    “In case Herb calls?”
    She nodded, her eyes alight. “Sharon, he took me up to the Blind Center last night. You should see his place!”
    “He lives in what used to be the rectory, right?”
    “Yes. It’s beautiful—all parquet floors and dark wood and adobe. He’s got these handwoven Mexican rugs on the walls, and pottery and statues that look pre-Columbian, and a waterbed that I’m looking forward