Free Footprints in the Sand by Mary Jane Clark Page B

picked up the receiver. The woman identified herself as a reporter with the local television station.
    “Mr. Engel, I’m hoping you would be willing to do a short interview with us about the woman found buried on the beach at the end of the Whispering Sands property. I’ve just about finished shooting at the scene and could be over to your office within half an hour.”
    Calculating, Walter quickly decided it would be better to accept the request. He could take the opportunity to declare how shocked and saddened everyone at the inn was and simultaneously give reassurances that the Whispering Sands Inn was a safe and totally reputable establishment. What was that saying? Any publicity is good publicity. If he declined, it could look as if he had something to hide.
    W alter was waiting in the lobby to greet the reporter. She carried a black equipment bag and a tripod over her shoulder.
    “Where’s your crew?” he asked, glancing behind her.
    The reporter laughed. “There is no crew. Only me.”
    Walter looked at her quizzically.
    “Budget cuts and advanced technology,” she said. “I shoot the pictures, conduct the interviews, write the story, and edit the piece all by my little ol’ self.” She glanced at her watch. “Shall we get started?”
    The reporter surveyed the room and decided that the area was too dark. With time at a premium, she didn’t want to bother setting up extra lighting and suggested they go outside instead. Walter led the way.
    “How about here?” he asked. “With the Gulf in the background.”
    She set up her tripod and attached the camera to it. When she had it positioned properly and had fastened a microphone to Walter’s shirt, she announced she was ready to go.
    “I’ll stand behind the camera and ask you questions,” she said. “Ready?”
    Walter took a deep breath and nodded.
    “Mr. Engel, the body hasn’t been formally identified, but a man on the beach said he recognized the young woman. He wouldn’t appear on camera, but he said she’s Shelley Hart and she worked here at the Whispering Sands Inn.”
    Swallowing hard, Walter paused for a few minutes before answering. “Until there is a formal identification, I wouldn’t want to comment on that,” he said.
    “What was Shelley Hart’s job here?” asked the reporter.
    “I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s appropriate to comment.”
    “Why not?” asked the reporter. “What does it hurt to disclose the dead woman’s employment?”
    “Because Shelley Hart has not been identified. Until that time comes, Ms. Lehane, I’m not going to talk about her.”
    The reporter shrugged and took another tack. “All right. What do you think about a dead body being discovered on your property? We can agree to that much, can’t we?”
    “Of course. This is a terrible thing, a tragic thing. It’s especially upsetting since it’s so close to home. Unfortunately, things like this happen too much in our society. It could happen anywhere.”
    “One more question, Mr. Engel. Do you have an opinion as to who might have wanted to kill Shelley Hart?”
    Damn this woman. She just won’t give up, will she?
    Walter hesitated before sputtering out his answer. “Shelley is the kind of woman . . . I mean, she wasn’t the kind of woman . . .” He stopped to compose himself before completing his comment. “ If it is Shelley—and that’s a very big if—I don’t know the answer to your question. I can’t imagine who would want her dead.”

Chapter 30
    W hen Piper returned to Roz Golubock’s town house, the elderly woman was sitting with a blood-pressure cuff on her arm and her legs up on the sofa. Kathy was frowning.
    “It’s a little low, Roz,” she said, unwrapping the cuff. “You’ve got to be more diligent about taking your medication.”
    “I know,” said Roz. “I just forget sometimes.”
    “Well, hang a calendar on your fridge or somewhere. Mark it off every time you take it. You’ve got to keep track, Roz.