Free Blues in the Night by Rochelle Krich

you didn’t see her.”
    “Maybe you’ve been in the sun too much.”
    “If it was an accident,” I said, “they’ll take that into account. But you should go to the police before they come to you.”
    “I’ve already talked to the police. They’re satisfied. Check my car.” He pointed to the Jeep. “Go ahead. You won’t find a scratch on it.”
    “Body shops do good work.” I’d already given the Jeep and Mercedes a quick once-over, but unlike my brother Joey, I’m not an expert.
    Saunders sighed and massaged the back of his neck. “Okay. Game’s over.”
    “It’s not a game, Mr. Saunders.”
    “It never happened. You’re desperate for a story. Who do you write for,
The Enquirer
?”
    “Witnesses saw you with her and heard you arguing. Why don’t you tell me what happened? The police are investigating, they’ll talk to the same people I talked to.”
    “This block is deserted, as you’ve probably discovered,” he said. “The people who live in the next three houses down have been on vacation since the beginning of July. Who are your witnesses, owls?”
    “They were in the new house on Apollo.”
    “No one lives there yet.” Half turning, he opened the door and stepped onto the stone floor of the entry hall, his smile smug. Checkmate.
    “That doesn’t mean it was empty that night.”
    “Lenore wasn’t here,” he said calmly, not missing a beat. He cocked his head. “How do you know your witnesses aren’t making all this up?”
    “I don’t. That’s why I’m here, verifying the facts.”
    “Verify this,” he said, and slammed the door in my face.
    I was surprised he hadn’t done it sooner.

eleven
    Friday, July 18. 8:08 A.M. 2500 block of Silverwood Terrace. A woman became angry at her husband and threw a frozen chicken at him. The suspect is described as a 52-year-old woman standing 5 feet 6 inches tall and weighing 170 pounds. (Northeast)
    I’m an early riser, but I had overslept and was in my usual morning-after-the-fast state, sluggish and bloated, like a turkey on the day before Thanksgiving. I always eat too fast and too much. (Last night it had been a bowl of my mom’s to-die-for potato-celery soup, basil and tomato pasta, and Greek salad, followed by a pint of Häagen-Dazs Cookies and Cream from my freezer.) What bothers me is that I don’t seem to learn.
    After showering and dressing, I swallowed two Advil tablets with my coffee and toasted English muffin, crunched a Tums for dessert, and after reviewing and e-mailing my
Crime Sheet
column to my editor, I set about preparing the Friday night Shabbat dinner I’d promised to make for the Birkensteins, the bereaved family my mother had told me about. I’m no Emeril, but I enjoy cooking and entertaining, and I had put my kosher cookbooks to good use when Ron and I were married. Living alone, it’s hardly worth the effort, so I welcomed the opportunity and couldn’t help wondering who, if anyone, was preparing meals for Betty Rowan.
    With the phone receiver wedged between my head and shoulder, something that was beginning to give me a chronic pain, I phoned Connors and plucked chicken hairs while I told him what I’d learned. If my readers could see me now. . . .
    “Proud of yourself, are you?” he asked when I’d finished.
    “Are you going to talk to Saunders?” The chicken balded and rinsed, I washed two celery stalks, set them on the cutting board, and began slicing.
    “For your information, we already did.”
    “But that was
before
I told you what those kids saw.”
    “Actually, Saunders came to the station early this morning to clear things up. He told us what happened. We’re satisfied he’s not the hit-and-run driver.”
    I stopped slicing. “You’re kidding, right? They had a heated argument, Andy. He said he hoped she did a better job of trying to kill herself, then drove down the hill after her.”
    “He told me all that. He realizes he should have told us she was there that night when we first