Free Death Come Quickly by Susan Wittig Albert Page B

career out of making enemies.’ Can you tell me more about that?”
    Ruby picked at her salad. “Well, I guess you could say that Christine was the kind of person everyone loves to hate. She was an outsider to Pecan Springs, so her criticisms—and there were lots of them—rubbed people the wrong way. She was always feuding with her neighbors, fighting with the zoning and planning people, badgering the city council. She was beautiful, thin, platinum blond, always dressed fit to kill. But as far as most people were concerned, she was a royal pain in the neck.”
    Sheila made another note. “I went back and read the Morris case file. Unfortunately, the police work on the case seems to have been a little sloppy.”
    â€œA
little
sloppy?” I raised my eyebrows. “I don’t know the details, but according to Johnnie Carlson, the police work was downright criminal.”
    Of course, that’s what the defense always says—or tries to. I’ve said it more than once or twice myself. In fact, the surest way to win an acquittal is to introduce reasonable doubt by pointing out some carelessness—accidental or deliberate—in the cops’ handling of evidence or witnesses or warrants. If the carelessness involves a search warrant, or the lack of one, the fruits of the search, no matter how damning, can be tossed out. And cops are exactly as human as the rest of us. It’s only in cop fiction that they do everything right, every time.
    Sheila looked at me. “Carlson didn’t happen to show you his trial notes, I don’t suppose.”
    â€œNope. No reason to.” I hesitated. The jury had acquitted and the attorney and his client were both dead. Privilege was a moot issue. “They’re probably still around somewhere, though,” I said cautiously, thinking of what Johnnie had said about having evidence of an alternative suspect that was excluded by the trial judge. “Why? Something you need to know?”
    â€œMaybe. Probably nothing I can’t get from the transcript, though.” Sheila gave me a frowning glance. “Skimming the file quickly, it looked to me like Bubba and his boys made the right call, although they screwed up when it came to the physical evidence.” She paused. “Based on what you’ve said, though, Ruby, I wonder if Dick Bowen was acquitted because the jury decided that Morris deserved what she got. The . . . um . . . careless police work merely gave them a convenient excuse to acquit.”
    â€œIt’s possible.” Ruby tilted her head. “Personally, I always thought the jury acquitted him because—”
    â€œHere we go, ladies.” Ruby was interrupted by Becky, who appeared with a tray and three attractive luncheon plates. In the center of each was a mound of thin pasta in a light creamy sauce flecked with orange-pink rose petals, and a half-dozen pretty, pink cooked shrimp. Each plate was decorated with a tiny bouquet of rosemary, parsley, and a single pink rosebud. Sheila looked down at it dubiously.
    â€œTaste it before you say a word,” Ruby cautioned. “It’s delicious.”
    It was. And even Sheila had to admit it. “Never in my wildest dreams,” she murmured, “did I imagine I would be eating pasta and shrimp with roses—and loving it. Forgive me for doubting.”
    â€œForgiven,” I said, and there was a brief silence while all three of us indulged ourselves. At last, Ruby put down her fork. “I think it might benefit from a little more Parmesan,” she said thoughtfully.
    â€œI think it’s perfect,” Sheila said.
    â€œWe could put Parmesan on the table,” I suggested. I looked down at the pasta. “I was wondering about adding just a bit of snipped chives.”
    â€œOr minced fresh rosemary,” Ruby said.
    â€œOh, that’s a good idea,” I replied appreciatively. “Or how about