Free Black Water by T. Jefferson Parker Page B

she pulled in and parked in front of the garage. When she got out the smell of cattle hit her hard so did the heat. Ninety-five at least, she thought.
Earla Kuerner answered the knock and let them in. A little jingled when she shut the door behind them. She looked to be in early fifties, average height and weight. Wavy, gray-black hair and a good face.
    The living room was cool and the windows were draped to keep out the afternoon heat. An air conditioner hummed. There was a small TV with the sound turned down and two recliners set up in front of it, with a round occasional table between them. Green carpet. A brown plaid print sofa with heavy oak arms, a bookcase neatly stocked with paperbacks, family pictures on one wall, a china cabinet against another. Two framed paintings by Gwen hung beside the cabinet. One was of the front of the house and the two big pine trees, the other a kitten sitting in front of a barn. Merci noted that the stereo system still had a turntable.
    Lee Kuerner rose from the left chair, offered his hand to each detective and introduced himself.
    "Have a seat," he said.
    "I've got lemonade," said Earla.
    "I'd like some of that," said Paul.
    "Yes, that would be great."
    "I'll get it, honey," said Lee. Merci watched him walk toward the kitchen, a tall, slender man with a slowness about him that she instantly liked. Glasses, plaid shirt, jeans. Reminded her of her father, though Lee Kuerner was probably almost ten years younger. His hair was graying brown and full, long enough to touch his shirt collar.
    Zamorra carried the burden of small talk while they waited. Merci looked at the pictures on the wall. It looked like the Kuerners had four children, all girls. Gwen was either the youngest or second youngest, Merci saw, but she couldn't say for sure. The girls were all bony and toothy, pretty faces.
    Lee Kuerner came back with two glasses of lemonade balanced in one hand, and a TV tray under the same arm, which he snapped open with the other. To Merci it looked like the tray practically opened itself and locked its own legs into place. Well used. Lee set the tray between them, put the glasses on the tray, went back and got two more.
    "We got a tree in the back," he said. "Earla makes good lemonade off it."
    Merci sipped hers and agreed. Then, after a long pause: "I'm sorry."
    Lee looked away and nodded. Earla looked down into her lemonade glass. A tear ran off her cheek. A tissue appeared in her hand and she dabbed her face.
Merci led, as usual. "Mrs. Kuerner, tell us about Gwen. Tell us who would want to kill her."
"Oh, oh my. I'm just hoping and praying it wasn't Archie. Was it?"
"We don't think so, but we don't know," said Paul. "There is some evidence pointing to him, and some evidence pointing away."
"No," said Lee. "It wasn't Archie. The papers made it sound like he was a suspect."
"The papers don't make that judgment," said Merci. "We do, and as of right now, he isn't."
"But a neighbor said he'd heard them fighting earlier that day. Her birthday, the twentieth," said Zamorra.
"People do fight sometimes, don't they?" asked Earla.
"Gwen hadn't made any domestic violence complaints," said Zsmorra. "Did they fight a lot?"
"We don't know of anything like that," said Earla.
Neither Zamorra nor Merci spoke for a long moment. Merci picked it up again, which was how they usually worked—Rayborn leading and exploring, Zamorra clarifying, following up, shaping.
"Tell us about your girl, Mr. and Mrs. Kuerner," she said. "And tell us about Archie." She slipped her blue notebook from the pock of her sport coat, got a good pen ready. Gwen was easy. Gwen was happy. She was beautiful from the hour she was born. She was a good student, a good girl. Beautiful voice and liked to sing. Good at drawing. When early adolescence came she was still a good girl. Had a lot of friends and earned them. Still had friends from back then when she . . . Never any drinking or drug problems, though she probably tried things. Worked