Free Unholy Matrimony by Peg Cochran Page A

through the contents. “Here’s my wallet,” she said, putting it down on the coffee table. “I know I didn’t put it in there. I should, Frankie is always telling me to pay more attention to things, but I was in a hurry and just threw it in my purse.” She continued to dig around in her handbag. “Here’s my lipstick and compact and a packet of tissues.” She pulled out a crumpled piece of paper with a cry of triumph. She smoothed it out. “Here it is.” She handed it over to Sambucco.
    He pulled a pair of reading glasses from his pocket. “The time and date are missing from this here receipt.” He waved the paper at Lucille. “Looks like the clerk tore it off wrong. See.” He held it out toward Lucille. “This part here looks like it belongs to the person who bought something before you.”
    Sheesh, Lucille thought. For once she didn’t lose the receipt and here it wasn’t going to do her no good.
    “But you can see I did go to Macy’s,” she said and gestured toward the paper in Sambucco’s hand.
    “Sure, sure. It just doesn’t prove you went on Saturday while Donna Grabowski was being murdered.”
    Lucille felt sick to her stomach. She was glad she hadn’t eaten no lunch yet. Suddenly she smacked herself on the forehead. “I went to the Clip and Curl to get my hair done. How could I forget? Any of the gals there will tell you that’s true. Carmela, she washes my hair—Rita, she does my cut and—”
    “This was after you went to Macy’s?”
    “Yeah. Right after.”
    “How long did your trip to Macy’s take?”
    Lucille thought back to Saturday morning. She had had to drive around a bit to decide where to park, then she had had a job of it finding the hosiery section in Macy’s. “An hour? Hour and fifteen maybe?”
    “What time was your hair appointment?”
    “It was at eleven thirty a.m. Normally I go on a Tuesday, but because of the wedding—”
    “So you left for Macy’s at—”
    “Right after I called Donna. The mall had just opened when I got there so it must have been a little before ten.”
    Sambucco pursed his lips. “I wish I could say that helps, Lucille. I really do. But the dry cleaner saw Donna’s car pulling into the church parking lot around ten o’clock. He said he noticed it because it’s not every day you see a Mercedes like that. That was about fifteen minutes after your call to her cell. You could have easily met her there, killed her and still made it to your hair appointment.”
    “But, but . . .” Lucille sputtered.
    “And,” Sambucco said, holding up a hand, “Donna’s cell phone is missing. It wasn’t in her purse, her car or anywhere at the church. See how that makes it look? The killer calls her on the phone and then steals the cell so that we can’t find it. They don’t know about my gal over at the phone company. She was able to tell us you were the last one to call the victim.”
     
    • • •
     
    Lucille had another bad night, tossing and turning. When she finally got out of bed, her eyes felt gritty and she ached all over. Maybe she was getting arthritis, or, as her mother called it, “Arthur Itis,” like it was some guy she knew. When did she get so old?
    She couldn’t believe that Sambucco thought she was a murderer. They’d known each other forever—surely he knew her better than that. Lucille had a momentary thought about how well Sambucco had almost gotten to know her and she could feel her face get hot. But, like Sambucco said, evidence was evidence.
    Lucille tiptoed out of the bedroom—Frankie was still sleeping—and went into the bathroom to splash some cold water on her face. The shades were down in the bedroom and the room was in shadow. Lucille grabbed some clothes she’d tossed over a chair the other day, pulled on the T-shirt and capri pants and headed down to the kitchen.
    While she was waiting for the coffee to brew, she began to cry. It was all too much. Bernadette still wasn’t married, Frankie was acting