Free The Unraveling of Violeta Bell by C.R. Corwin Page A

truth.”

    “The truth is always a tough one,” I said.

    “I forgot I was talking to a couple of liberal arts majors,” she said, adding a few more of those duck-like “heh-heh-hehs.”

    Her mother was right about her. She was a horse’s patoot. I turned to Gabriella, hoping that she could read the Morse Code that my eyes were twitching at her: Hurry up and s ay something before I throw a lamp at this insufferable woman!

    Gabriella thankfully got the message. “So professor, how well did you know Violeta Bell?”

    “Well enough.”

    “And Eddie French?” I asked. “Were you okay with him? Driving your mother and her friends all over the place, I mean.”

    Her answer was equally cryptic. “With all the money those women have, you’d think they’d hire a limo.”

    I pretended to be on the same page. “A cab isn’t very classy.”

    This time her response was as clear as Saran Wrap. “What kind of man drives a cab, for God’s sake?”

    To my delight, Gabriella proved she was born with that egging-on gene that all good reporters need. “In this case, a man with a long police record,” she said.

    “Exactly,” the professor said. She was now grinding the fur ball between her thumb and finger like it was an effigy of Eddie French.

    “And now Violeta Bell is dead,” Gabriella said.

    “On the other hand,” I pointed out, “the police haven’t been able to pin the murder on him.”

    Barbara checked her watch. It was a delicate watch. More than likely an antique. More than likely real gold. “I’m sorry my mother isn’t here yet.”

    “We can wait a while longer,” I said.

    “I wish I could,” she said. “I’ve got an appointment I simply cannot be late for.”

    Gabriella and I followed her to the door. I asked a final question. “One more thing about Eddie French—was it usual for him to come up to your mother’s condo? The condos of the other women? Helping with the things they bought at garage sales? Or their luggage when they traveled?”

    Barbara deposited the fur ball into the brass wastebasket under the foyer table. She eyeballed her hair and makeup in the mirror above it. “That was always my biggest worry,” she said.

    I poured on the empathy. “Well, thank goodness you won’t have to worry anymore.”

    She tried her best to smile. Twisted her wrist to check her watch again.

    “That’s such a beautiful watch,” I said.

    This time her smile succeeded. But it was a strained, somewhat embarrassed smile. “It’s a Rolex. A very early one.”

    “White gold, I suppose?”

    Her smile faded. “The diamonds are real, too. If you’re wondering.”

    “I was. I suppose it’s a family heirloom.”

    “Just a gift from a friend,” she said.

    She opened the door for us. On the way out I stopped to admire the wastebasket. It was the shiniest thing I’d ever seen. Not a bit of tinge. Embossed on the side was a happy cat wearing a huge tam-o’-shanter. It was playing a bagpipe and dancing a jig. “Isn’t that just darling,” I said. “Is it an antique?”

    Barbara rolled her eyes. “A gift from Violeta.”

    “Then I suppose it is—simply darling.”

    Gabriella and I retreated to the elevator. Gabriella pushed the button for the first floor. I cancelled her selection and pushed the B.

    “The basement?” she asked.

    “It’s time we get to the bottom of this thing,” I answered.

    The elevator deposited us at the intersection of two dully lighted hallways. The cement block walls were painted a cheery peach. Every door was painted the same Bic-pen blue. One door was adorned from top to bottom with a huge yellow X made of crime-scene tape. “I’d say that’s it,” I said, locking my arm in Gabriella’s.

    “Which one of us gets to play the Cowardly Lion?” she asked as we padded down the stubbly gray carpet.

    We reached our destination. Just in case I couldn’t read, Gabriella read aloud the raised white letters on the door: “Fitness