Free Lizzie! by Maxine Kumin Page B

discuss it with the police. As of now I have offered my services. Of course I presented my credentials from Montandino, California.”
    I said, “We promise, we promise. Now tell us.”
    â€œThe murderer was left-handed.”
    â€œIs that all? How could you tell?”
    â€œThe murderer had to creep up on the victim from behind, just as I did. He had to use his left hand to cut the man’s throat from right to left, do you follow me? If he were right-handed, he would have cut from the left side of the victim’s throat.”
    Teresa tsk-tsked. “We’ve only been here six months and already you’re involved in solving a homicide.”
    â€œDigger, I just thought of something.”
    â€œWhat, chica ?”
    â€œJeb Blanco is left-handed.”
    Digger let out a low whistle. “This is a detail you must not mention to the reporters, you understand? I must tell it to the authorities first.”
    â€œI promise. Do you want me to raise my right hand?”
    Digger smiled. “Lizzie, I trust you.”
    Well, you ca n just bet Digger’s story got in the newspaper. Not just the local Woodvale paper, but the Miami Clarion & Bugle too. His picture was on the front page in both of them. And alongside the Digger we knew in sweatpants and baseball cap was a different Digger in a proper shiny chief of police hat and uniform with gold braid on the cuffs of the sleeves and upside-down v ’s on the arms. Teresa told me the v ’s were called hash marks and they stood for all the years he served as chief in their hometown in California.
    The detail about which hand the murderer used was not in the papers. Digger said the police had agreed with him to withhold this information for the time being. They interviewed two local police officers also but they didn’t add anything to what Digger had said. It was “The case is under investigation” and so forth, which Digger said was the usual.
    When Digger gave a television interview for our local station, the reporter asked him how he felt about all the attention he was receiving. We saw his answer that evening on the six o’clock news.
    â€œI’m used to it,” Digger said. “It happened often enough in California. Even in a little town we had our share of excitement.”
    Teresa kind of snorted. “My modest husband.”
    I could hardly wait to get to my computer so I could email Trippy all the latest info. I was dying to tell her that Digger knew the murderer was left-handed but I had promised not to, so I just told her about how he found the body. Just imagine opening an email from your best friend and finding out that a man had been killed practically on top of where she lives.

 
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    CHAPTER 13
    W ell, the next day right after Mom drove me home from school, there was Digger dressed in his chief of police uniform again, waiting with two police officers in front of our cottage. In my whole life this has never happened to me before. For just a second I thought they had come to arrest me because I knew about Julio from the day Trippy and I discovered the warehouse and I hadn’t told right away, and that the woman officer was there to strip-search me before they put me in a jail cell.
    But it turned out they only wanted to interview me and Mom (which of course should be Mom and me ), because we had both met Jesús Ernesto Blanco, who said to call him Jeb.
    Mom invited them in and we all sat in a row in the living room as dumb as doorstops and then the male officer, who said to call him Officer Frank for Frank Franklin, began.
    â€œNow Lizzie, your mother has described how you and she first met Mr. Blanco. Do you remember anything special about him?”
    So I had to tell about the royal-blue shirt with some sort of monogram and the shoes with tassels. And the blue eyes and the rimless glasses that made him look like a professor. And then I said that I thought I knew him from somewhere