Free Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite by Selma Eichler

“You have begun,” he observed dryly. “Besides, don’t you think questioning the neighbors is something we should do together?”
    “Well, of course, if you can make it, but if you already have plans with your son . . .” The look I was getting was hardly filled with partner-like affection. “Naturally, I’ll write out a complete report for you,” I added quickly. “You’ll have it first thing Monday morning. And if I learn anything really worthwhile—which I tend to doubt—I’ll call you right away and leave a message on your answering machine.”
    Lou’s sustained scowl made me feel I should justify myself. “The thing is,” I said—and quite reasonably, I thought—“if I don’t try to catch people at home tomorrow, it’ll have to wait until Monday evening, after the majority of them get back from work. Unless . . .” My voice kind of trailed off; I had had second thoughts about the alternative I’d been about to propose.
    “Unless what?”
    “Well, we could always do it tonight, if you’d like,” I suggested timidly.
    “No, I’d not like,” he snapped. “It’s Saturday night, for chrissake. Most everyone’ll probably be out. Even in Riverton people have lives, Desiree. Not only that, but I’m bushed. I’ve been putting in fourteen-hour days all week, working a double homicide and a bank robbery, in addition to the Vincent case. Anyhow, those other cases got reassigned so I could devote a hundred percent of my time to this Vincent thing, which seems to take priority over everything else around here. What I’m trying to say is that this is my investigation, too. And, yeah, I know you’ve been brought in by some big politician or whoever. And I know I’m supposed to cooperate with you—something I’m trying my damnedest to do, believe me. But I have to tell you, I resent your taking over and trying to call all the shots like this.” And now he shifted his eyes to my desktop, picked up a pencil, and very purposefully snapped it in two.
    I caught myself unconsciously rubbing my neck. I mean, I don’t have to tell you, do I, what he’d have preferred to get his hands on just then.
    At any rate, I was all set to respond to this mean-spirited behavior with an appropriately nasty comment (although I hadn’t figured out what it would be yet), when I realized that if I were in Lou’s position, I’d probably be no more kindly disposed toward me than he was. So employing my most conciliatory tone, I said, “I’m not calling any shots, Lou. It’s only that I’m anxious to get things moving, like I said. And it’s always possible their neighbors—particularly that close friend of the widow’s—might have something interesting to tell us about the Vincents. But if you feel so strongly about this, why don’t I just meet with Ross tomorrow, if he can make it. Since you’re already familiar with his information, that shouldn’t be any big deal. I’ll leave the neighbors until after the weekend, when you’ll be available. Okay?” Before he had the chance to respond, I tacked on—but mostly to reassure myself—“After all, it’s not as though any of them witnessed the shooting and might forget the details. So what difference does it make if we question them a day or two later?”
    For what seemed to me like a very long time, Lou just sat there, staring down at the broken pencil on the desk. At last he muttered, “Oh, hell. I’m sorry, Desiree. I didn’t get to bed until two o’clock this morning, and I always start acting like a first-class jackass when I don’t get my beauty sleep. Look, I’ll call Ross right now and try to get him to come in tomorrow, preferably in the a.m.”
    “I really appreciate—”
    “And after we’re finished with Ross, we’ll do the neighbors.”
    “But your son—?”
    “I’ll just give him the tickets. You want the honest-to-God truth? He’ll be happier going with one of his friends.”

Chapter 10
    Driving home that evening, I thought