Free Wild Goose Chase by Terri Thayer

drink.” She took a step back and was immediately swallowed up by the crowd.
    Lark’s fascination with Claire didn’t extend to Myra, for some reason.
    Myra had changed into navy pants with a pale-blue silk blouse. The last time I’d seen her, she’d been covered in blood. The only sign of upset was the slight tremor in her hand. I pulled out a chair for her to sit down next to me.
    “Hello,” she said quietly, twisting the colorful bracelet on her arm.
    “How are you?” I asked.
    She shrugged.
    “If you need to talk,” I said, “I’d be willing. After all, I was there with you. They say talking helps. We could get a more private table …”
    “Ha!” The syllable burst out of her; her eyes were flashing with anger. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. Why would I want to talk about what happened today?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. I felt singed by her tone of voice. I didn’t dare look around, but figured every eye must be on us again. I shrunk against the seat back.
    She continued her rant. I fought off the urge to jump up and leave. “Do you want me to sear every detail in my brain, guarantee myself a lifetime of nightmares? Ensure that I never forget a single detail? So I can always remember what Claire looked like, lying in her own blood? No thanks. Give me good old-fashioned repression. People talk way too much.”
    Her words stung. I sipped my drink, watching her over the top of the glass. I would cut her some slack. She was grieving; I knew people grieved differently. Dad went fishing; Kevin sought solace in his marriage, sublimating his own personality so much as to disappear; my brother Sean threw himself into his work, building stage sets at twice his normal speed; and Tony, the oldest, sought solitude in the desert, coming home every couple of months to do laundry before going back to categorizing succulents.
    Where was Freddy? I could use his silliness right about now.
    “Great jewelry,” I said, trying to shift focus.
    Myra looked down, and stopped twisting. Her shoulders relaxed. “I made it from the buttons we’ve used in our projects over the years.”
    “Buttons? They look like beads.”
    I took her wrist in my hand and examined the bangle. It caught the light, and the buttons glittered.
    Myra took her hand back. “Nope, I glued them on a Bakelite bracelet I found at a flea market. All of them came from Claire’s button collection.” Her eyes misted.
    My throat closed up. “Detective Sanchez thinks I killed Claire,” I blurted, to avoid telling her that every little thing would be fraught with meaning now that Claire was gone. I faced that feeling every day when I went into the shop.
    Myra looked shocked. “That’s crazy. Why would he think that?”
    I looked around the bar. The jukebox was playing loudly but I wanted to make sure no one heard me. I moved my chair closer.
    “He found an empty rotary cutter package in my backpack,” I whispered.
    Myra sneered. “So what? Does he seriously think you would open a new cutter, kill someone, then put the cardboard in your backpack and go back up to her room and find her body?”
    “Guess so.” Out loud, that scenario sounded ridiculous. I relaxed against the back of the chair, feeling the plush sink beneath my shoulders.
    Myra leaned in and said, “Dewey, it was obviously an accident. She was sitting on the edge of the bed and cutting fabric. I told her that was not the way to use that blade. Did she listen? Of course not.”
    Myra’s conviction that Claire had just had an accident was beginning to calm my nerves. I hadn’t realized how much Sanchez’s accusations had unsettled me.
    “I’m glad you don’t think I killed Claire.”
    Myra laid her hand on my shoulder. “I know you didn’t, Dewey.”
    A geeky guy with wire rims and a small goatee appeared next to Myra’s chair and insisted she come to his table and meet his wife. I told Myra to go ahead. I needed time to think.
    “I can see