Free Grace Under Pressure by Julie Hyzy

Wearing a dark baseball hat, dark jeans, and a navy blue T-shirt.”
    “That’s it?” I asked. “No other description, like skinny? Heavyset?”
    Flynn snorted. “Everybody looks skinny next to that guy.”
    Almost out the door, Rodriguez started when he bumped into Frances in her favorite eavesdropping position. Recovering, he twisted to talk to me. “The fat kid was a patsy. He saw a way to make a quick buck and he took it. Dumb as a box of rocks, that one. We’ll keep an eye on him but until we come up with a suspect and a chance for a positive ID, there’s no reason to hold Mr. Lepore. We got everything out of him we’re going to get.” Rodriguez started to walk away, then turned back. “For now, that is.”
    For the first time all morning, I sensed determination in the relaxed detective’s demeanor. His eyes sparkled when he added, “Do me a favor, Ms. Wheaton. Look around, speak with your staff. See if there’s anybody we need to talk to who we might have overlooked. We’ll be in touch.” He tapped his notebook to his temple and turned to Flynn. “Let’s go upstairs,” he said. “Have another walk around the crime scene.”
    Flynn gave me one last glare—warning or confusion, I couldn’t be sure—and sauntered off to follow his partner.

Chapter 8

    THE MINUTE THE TWO MEN LEFT, I HEADED for Frances’s desk. “What do you know about Bennett’s involvement with the T. Randall Taft case?”
    She shrugged as if to say “not much,” but her eyes glittered. “Why? You think Randall Taft hired a hit man? I heard what you said about Bennett and Abe looking alike from the back.” Folding her arms across her ample chest, she nodded sagely. “I was thinking the exact same thing. Why don’t the cops look into possibilities like that? I mean, pheh , a robbery? Give me a break. If they were smart they’d take a look at Frank Cassano.”
    “Cassano?” I said skeptically. “Capable of murder?”
    “Did you know he’s divorced because he got caught cheating on his wife?” In her element—gossiping—Frances didn’t take a breath. “He probably would’ve gotten away with it, too, except the woman he was seeing had a mean little dog who jumped up on the bed and bit him in a . . .” she wagged her eyebrows, “. . . very sensitive spot. How do you explain that to your wife?” Looking pleased with herself, she added, “Brings new meaning to the term lapdog , don’t you think?”
    “Thanks for sharing, Frances,” I said, wishing she hadn’t. “But Cassano doesn’t really strike me as a killer. More like an angry blowhard.”
    “A man who cheats on his wife is probably capable of murder, too,” she said. I didn’t quite understand how one followed the other, but I kept my mouth shut. “And he’s a pain in our backsides. The Mister really doesn’t have any enemies except him.”
    A man in Bennett Marshfield’s position often had adversaries he didn’t even know existed. I couldn’t discount Cassano completely but I believed the timing with the Taft news was more than coincidence. That was the angle I wanted to explore. “How long have Bennett and T. Randall Taft known one another?”
    She considered that. “Long time. Twenty, thirty years, I’d say. Bennett’s older than Randall by quite a bit, but I seem to remember hearing their names together a lot. Their wives were good friends, too.”
    “Bennett’s first wife, or second?”
    “Second,” she said sadly. “The first wife, Sally, died young. Then came Marlis.” The look on Frances’s face told me exactly what she thought of wife number two. “Sally was barren—or so everyone said. I think Bennett was so desperate to have kids that he married the first woman who looked fertile. Marlis already had Hillary, proving she was capable of giving birth, so he snapped her right up. Big mistake. No babies here.”
    “Do you know anything about Randall Taft’s Ponzi scheme?”
    “Only that I’m glad Taft didn’t come knocking