Free Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_03 by Death in Lovers' Lane

‘wasn’t our kind.’ So, her brother was a prejudiced drip. But everybody says he loved his little sister. As for the usual motives for murder, money’s always at the top of the list. But they didn’t have any. They were collegestudents. His folks were rich. I think Howard had an older brother, so I guess he’ll inherit twice as many millions. But nobody ever suggested Howard’s brother was in Derry Hills that night, and of course the cops would have checked that out. Gail? Her folks were upper middle class. So, what difference does that make? And you can check off all the other reasons—revenge, jealousy, fear, hatred—none of them fit.”
    I didn’t have an answer.
    Helen waggled her fork. “I knew Gail’s roommates. Lovely girls. They were double-dating at an all-night fraternity party that night. I heard the cops really looked at Howard’s roommate. That was Stuart Singletary. He’s on the English faculty now. Stuart had a heavy date, but he wasn’t alibied for the whole night. But why would Stuart kill Howard? Nobody’d ever heard them quarrel. They had no reason to quarrel.” Helen retrieved another breadstick. “There was nothing odd in either Howard’s or Gail’s life. Everyday. Ordinary.” Helen munched on her salad, then added thoughtfully, “But you know, Henrie O, even after all these years I get a funny feeling in my gut when anybody mentions the Rosen-Voss murders. There’s something strange there, stranger than hell.”
    The anchovies were saltier than the crust on a tequila shot glass. I forked over the lettuce, looking for another strip.
    Helen took a gulp of iced tea. “So, why are you nosing around?” Her eyes clung to me avidly, the better to retrieve every morsel of intelligence.
    Quid pro quo.
    â€œDennis says Rita didn’t kill Maggie.” The waitress brought our pizzas. I gave up on the salad. Nomore anchovies. I pulled free a green-chili-laden wedge of pizza. “What do you think?”
    Helen shook Parmesan over her pizza. Her dark eyes were thoughtful. “Rita Duffy’s famous for her scenes. Did you know that? Last year she came in here”—Helen pointed toward a back booth—“yelling her head off. Dennis was tête-à-têteing with a nifty little redhead from Topeka. In August, he and Rita had a screaming match at the Faculty Club. That time, it was about a blonde from Omaha.”
    â€œSo Rita raises hell.” It was easy to sound amused, but there’s nothing funny about that kind of jealousy. Still…“So how many bodies has she left behind her?”
    â€œNone.” Helen took a bite of pizza and chewed. “But Dennis picked a bad day to set her off, Henrie O.” Of course she knew about the Duffys’ daughter.
    Helen looked toward the bar. “The jerk.” Her face was disdainful. “Oh, hey”—now her eyes were avid—“it looks like stud man’s in trouble.”
    I twisted to see.
    Dennis stood, one hand on the barstool for balance. He wavered on his feet.
    The bartender was shaking his head. He scooped up Dennis’s empty glass, shook his head again.
    Bars don’t serve drunks anymore, at least not if the owner has studied the liability law.
    The back of Dennis’s neck flushed an ugly red. He shoved over the barstool and almost fell down after it.
    â€œOh, hell.” Helen was on her feet, tossing down a twenty on the table. “We’d better get him out—” She broke off as a redheaded man hurried from the coffee-bar area to Dennis’s side. In his early fifties,he had a broad, open face spattered with freckles. He slipped an arm around Dennis’s shoulder, bent close to him.
    Helen plopped back into her chair, but she didn’t take her eyes off the bar. “Tom Abbott to the rescue. He used to live next door to the Duffys.” She smoothed her hair, surged