Free The Magic of Murder by Susan Lynn Solomon Page A

me.
    “Whoa, slow down, Trigger,” Roger said. “I just got here, remember? Start from the beginning so I can catch up.
    “That was Kevin’s pickup outside. He knows who killed Jimmy,” I began, only to be stopped by his raised hand.
    “Who did it?” He slid to the edge of his seat. It was as if he intended to run from my house as soon as he knew who to chase after.
    “I don’t know. Kevin left before he told me.”
    Again I was stopped by a raised hand. His cell phone pulled from his jacket pocket, Roger moved quickly from the kitchen, and yanked open my front door. “Truck’s gone,” he said while punching numbers into his phone. Leaning out the door, he spoke so softly I couldn’t hear what he said.
    Now he was back in the kitchen. With a sigh, he slid onto the chair opposite me. “Okay, maybe we’d better do this a different way,” he said.
    “What different way? You’ve got to stop that slimy bastard before he disappears!”
    Frustrated, I forgot I held a mug of hot coffee. So, when I gestured toward the door, the amber liquid slopped over the brim and burned my hand. I yelped.
    Roger jumped from the table and pulled a bar of butter from the refrigerator. While he rubbed it on the burned spot, he said, “Calm down. I just called the precinct, told them what Kevin said. They’re sending a unit to look for his pickup.”
    He put down the butter and took my hand. “Now, pretend you’re a witness and I’m a detective asking you questions.”
    Because a police bulletin had gone out to find my ex, I was finally able to relax. In fact, I was relaxed enough to enjoy the way Roger fussed over my burn. I smiled at him. “You are a detective, so this isn’t make-believe.”
    “Good. Now you’ve got it. Okay, one question at a time: you were out tonight—”
    Before he could finish, I jumped back in. “I went to visit Marge Osborn—brought her a casserole. It’s nice to do things like that. She shouldn’t have to worry about dinner so soon after—”
    Barely able to hold back the deep laugh I liked so much, Roger again raised his hand. The gesture stopped me as I was about to confess to having made a fool of myself by all but accusing Jimmy of being a dirty cop.
    “What did you talk about?” he asked.
    My face must have turned as red as the burn on my hand when I recalled what wasn’t one of my finest moments. I could only hope Margaret Osborn wouldn’t stop talking to me.
    “Oh, this and that,” I hedged. “It has nothing to do with what Kevin told me.” Nothing would be gained by admitting my stupidity.
    Clearly, Roger noted I held something back. When he tried to press me, I winced.
    He frowned. “Okay, we’ll come back to that. So, then you came home”
    I nodded.
    “What time did you get here?”
    “About nine-thirty, I guess.” I usually have a fair idea of what time it is. But, I felt so guilty about accusing an old friend, I’d lost track of time.
    “Can you be a bit more precise?” he asked.
    I twisted my wrist to consult my watch, as if it might provide the answer. “Uh, let me see. I left Marge’s house shortly after nine and drove around a bit. So, I guess it could have been ten or later by the time I got home.”
    “Good,” Roger said. He sounded pleased to have gotten me into the rhythm. “And when you arrived, you thought someone might be waiting for you?”
    I sipped at my coffee. “I saw his four-by-four when I came around the bend—just past the gas station.”
    “A stranger might have been waiting outside your house, and you opened the door when he knocked?” Roger’s face took on the same expression as the cat had when she all but told me I was crazy to do that.
    As if to say I told you so, Elvira sauntered in from the living room, parked her butt next to Roger’s chair, and stared up at me. I expected any moment she would stick out her tongue.
    “He wasn’t a stranger,” I said.
    Roger’s face grew stern. “But, did you know it was Kevin before you