Free Ride a Painted Pony (Superromance) by Carolyn McSparren Page B

set of glossy eight-by-tens and passed them to Beaumont with a flourish. He winked at Taylor.
    She rolled her eyes.
    Beaumont took the pictures, glanced at them dispassionately and passed them to Josh. Josh caught his breath and averted his eyes. Taylor thought that made him look even more like a frog. He even seemed to be turning green. “I’m sorry,” he said apologetically. “I’ve never had a strong stomach. Poor woman.”
    Margery took them from her husband, stared at them a moment, and handed them back to Vollmer.
    “Thank God, she’s not one of my committee women,” Margery said.
    “Do any of you recognize her?” Vollmer asked.
    “Oh, my, no. At least I don’t think so,” Chessman said. His thick white eyebrows met. He frowned and clicked his tongue against his teeth. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it across his sweating pate, then rubbed it between his palms.
    Vollmer turned back to Margery Chessman. “Mind telling me where you were last night?”
    “Good grief, am I a suspect? Surely no woman could do what was done to that poor soul.”
    “Didn’t take much strength. That chisel was as sharp as a razor.”
    Taylor heard the edge of impatience in Vollmer’s voice. He spoke to Margery, but his angry eyes were on her. Did Danny know what she’d been up to with Nick and Clara’s car? No way. Still, his patience was wearing thin. Taylor was certain she was to blame. She simply didn’t know why. She smiled at him blandly.
    “So, if you could just tell me where you were?” Vollmer repeated.
    Margery raised her shoulders and clasped her hands across her bosom. “Very well. I was at home cooking dinner for Josh.” She turned to her husband. “He got home around—what—eight or so?”
    Chessman nodded. “That’s right.”
    “And Mr. Chessman?”
    “Dr. Chessman, Sergeant,” Josh corrected. “I was in my office finishing a paper that I had to send to my journal referee this morning.”
    “Anyone with you?”
    Chessman gulped, and his Adam’s apple moved convulsively.
    Taylor half expected to see a four-foot-long tongue dart out to capture a passing fly.
    He continued, “The place cleared out around six. My lights were on, of course, but I shut my door. Nobody stopped to chat.” Then his face brightened. “Margery called me, though, didn’t you, darling? About seven-thirty?”
    “That’s right. Sergeant. I wanted to ask him how soon I should start the grill for the lamb chops. He was definitely there. He answered the telephone on the second or third ring.”
    Taylor watched their smooth interplay. Obviously they were used to working in tandem. She’d seen her mother and father do it. They might not have an ideal marriage, but they certainly ran a well-oiled partnership.
    Vollmer turned to Max Beaumont.
    “Working at home alone. Nobody called, nobody came. No alibi.”
    “What were you working on, Mr. Beaumont?”
    “I am restoring my family’s old home. I inherited it several years ago—just after I retired from the military. I needed a project. At the rate I am progressing, it should be finished the day before I die. My family is remarkably long-lived.” He tried to chuckle, but it fell flat. “Last night I was trying to get a dozen layers of enamel off the fireplace tiles in the living room.”
    “Could anyone have seen you from outside?”
    Beaumont shook his head. “I have plantation shutters across the front windows.”
    “I see.”
    At that moment Veda slipped out of Nick’s office and handed Taylor a steaming mug of coffee and a glazed doughnut in a paper towel. “Here, dear,” she whispered.
    Taylor smiled her thanks.
    “Ma’am? You’d be...?” Vollmer asked.
    “Veda Albright, Sergeant. And no, I do not have an alibi. I left here sometime before seven and drove straight home. I didn’t leave until I saw the story in the papers this morning. My only companions are my cat and my bird. Neither would do very well in the witness box, I’m