Free I Love You More: A Novel by Jennifer Murphy Page B

boy,” Mack said. “Evan. He just turned three.”
    “Oh, I can’t wait until three. Do you have a picture?”
    Mack dug into his pocket, flipped open his wallet.
    “He is so handsome. He looks like you.”
    “Do you think so?” Mack asked as he admired his son’s picture.
    There was something about Roberta Miles that made a man feel instantly comfortable, even special. She was warm, nurturing. She had a certain softness about her that made you want to bury your head in her lap, let her stroke your hair—tell me everything would be okay—
    “You said you had some questions about Oliver’s murder?” I was surprised how easily the word
murder
had rolled off her tongue.
    Mack replaced his son’s picture and adopted his questioning posture. Roberta Miles’s responses were slow, thoughtful. She’d been at a writers’ conference.
    “Wildacres Retreat? In the Blue Ridge Mountains?” She waited for us to indicate we knew the place. We didn’t. “Well, it lasts two weeks. The first week you just write, and the second you workshop some pieces. I only attended the last week, what with Isabelle and all.”
    “You took your daughter with you?” I asked.
    “No, my mother stayed with her. She was visiting from Baltimore. I must admit I was quite exhausted, Isabelle was rather colicky, and I think I may have had a bit of postpartum depression. My mother’s coming was Oliver’s idea. The retreat was a last-minute decision actually. Pure luck it fell while she was here.”
    “Did you go for your job?” I asked. “You manage a bookstore in Boone, right?”
    “Yes, Black Bear Books. But that isn’t why I went, Detective. I’m a closet poet.”
    “What time did the conference start?” Mack asked.
    “Check-in was between noon and three,” Roberta Miles said.
    “How’d you get there?” Mack asked.
    “I drove,” she said. “It’s only an hour and twenty minutes from here. It seems I left the very morning Oliver was murdered; only I didn’t know that then. Gave me the chills when I found out.”
    “What time did you leave?”
    “I’m not certain. Seven, perhaps? I wanted to leave before Isabelle rose. You know, so she wouldn’t cry when she saw me leaving.”
    “Why so early?” Mack asked. “Since check-in wasn’t officially until noon.”
    “Like I said, Detective: Isabelle. But I also wanted to stop off for breakfast at the Woodlands. Do you know it?”
    “Can’t say that I do,” Mack said.
    “Well, you are missing quite a treat. The Woodlands Barbecue is down in Blowing Rock, a little out of the way if you’re going to Wildacres, but it has some of the best barbecue in the state.”
    “Did you pay with a credit card?”
    “Oh my, no. I’m not a big fan of credit, especially when it comes to inconsequential purchases. I did pay the conference fee with a credit card.”
    “So there’s no way you can prove you were at the Woodlands.”
    “Well, not through an actual receipt, if that’s what you mean. But I think the waitress will remember me. I gave her a twenty-dollar bill and told her to keep the change. Can you imagine, my entire meal was under twelve dollars? And I got the chicken and pig platter.”
    “Correct me if I’m wrong, but breakfast couldn’t have taken more than an hour, so what did you do with the rest of your time?”
    “I went into Little Switzerland and did a bit of shopping. It’sa lovely and quaint little village just up the Blue Ridge Parkway from Wildacres.”
    “Did you buy anything?”
    “I’m not much of a spender, Detective Jones. I just wanted to browse. I did have a cup of tea at the inn, but unfortunately I didn’t pay for that with a credit card either.”
    “What time did you arrive at … uh”—Mack looked down at his notes—“Wildacres?”
    “A little before noon, actually, but the director let me check in early. Would you like me to give you her contact information? So you can verify what time I arrived? I’ll give you my mother’s