Free Pink Balloons and Other Deadly Things (Mystery Series - Book One) by Nancy Tesler Page A

superior male way. I wanted to punch him.
    “Listen, I’m not stupid. You people think I’m guilty. If I don’t find out who killed Erica, you’ll probably throw me in jail.”
    “Every time I come to this office, it’s not to arrest you, Mrs. Burn--” He glanced at my nameplate. “Which do you prefer? Burnham or Carlin?”
    “Why don’t you just call me Carrie?” I said. “It works with both names.”
    Method to my madness. You can’t call anyone you believe to be a murderer by their given name.
    He shrugged and said awkwardly, “Well—-Carrie, it doesn’t look good, your husband disappearing just now.”
    “Not good for whom?”
    “He was advised to stay put. The fact that he took off...” He let the sentence hang.
    From out of the corner of my eye, I watched him as he absentmindedly spun the spiral I keep on my desk for clients who don’t know what to do with their hands. “He’s probably not thinking clearly. When I saw him, he was pretty upset.”
    “Aren’t you?”
    “I wasn’t in love with Erica.”
    The spiral spun around and around. “Did you know about the row in the minister’s study?”
    “Rich had a row with the minister?”
    “With his intended.”
    At least all hadn't been peachy-keen in paradise. “Over what?”
    “He wanted her to sign a prenuptial.”
    “No kidding!” So Rich hadn’t entirely lost his marbles.
    “The minister said they almost came to blows. She nearly called off the wedding.”
    I was delighted to hear it. But they had apparently worked things out, because there’d been no mention of agreements, signed or unsigned, in the phone conversation I’d overheard. I said so.
    “So you don’t think he did it?”
    Shocked, I asked, “Do you?”
    He shrugged. “I keep my options open.”
    “Rich isn’t a violent man.”
    “Moment of passion. In a rage.”
    I shook my head. “He’s not a passionate man either.”
    “Does he drink? Do drugs?”
    “Not drugs.”
    “But he drinks.”
    “Well, yeah, sometimes.”
    “Excessively?”
    “He’s not an alcoholic, if that’s what you mean. He never loses control---” Then I stopped, because I recalled a night a month before Rich had moved out.
    We’d gone to dinner for our anniversary at the Union Square Café on Sixteenth Street, in the city. It was a place we reserved for special occasions. I gave Rich a sleek Rado watch I’d saved up for months to buy to replace his old Seiko. He got an odd expression on his face and asked if I’d mind if he returned it, he didn’t need a watch.
    “Rich, you’ve had that Seiko forever. The Rado is so---”
    “This isn't my Seiko. It's a Rolex.”
    Dumbstruck, I stared at his wrist. “A Rolex? Where’d you---”
    “A customer I did a favor for.”
    It must have been quite a favor. I should have left the restaurant then. I should have left him then. But I didn’t. I just sat there trying to believe that story, trying not to think about the emerald earrings Erica had been flashing around the office.
    He handed me my gift—-a pearl pin that looked like old teeth. I gritted my teeth and said it was beautiful. Beyond that we hardly spoke. Rich was drinking heavily. Heavily into denial, I kept a smile on my face, but it felt painted on, as though I were a wooden puppet. I don’t remember what I ordered. Whatever it was, I’m sure it was delicious, and I’m equally certain I didn’t eat it.
    It was snowing and very cold as we walked back to the car. Rich offhandedly dropped the news that he'd be away on business over the Christmas holidays. I stopped walking, my heart gone as cold as the snowflakes on my lashes.
    “On Christmas? You have business meetings on Christmas?”
    Everything came together then. The Rolex, Rich’s frequent “business” weekends, the marked change in the quality of our sex life, Erica's late-night calls needing Rich’s advice on some design or other, the time we’d gone to a party and she’d taken his arm-—very possessively I’d