Free Cross-Stitch Before Dying by Amanda Lee

on
to Detective Bailey as soon as I’d said it, given the circumstances; but once said, I couldn’t very well reel the words back so I let them go, acting as if it wasn’t awkward after all.
    Warmer weather had made him trade the tweed sport jackets I’d previously seen him in for a lighter-weight navy jacket. His dark blond mustache still obscured his upper lip, though, and his bald spot reflected the overhead fluorescent lights as we walked down the hall.
    “How’s Detective Ray?” I asked, glancing at the framed photos of groups of officers that lined the hallway.
    “Ask him yourself.” Detective Bailey opened the door to an interrogation room.
    Amid the sea of yellow and green plaid carpet, Mom sat at a gray metal table that had been bolted to the floor. I’d expected her to appear frightened or intimidated. Maybe it was some sort of projection of my own feelings because it was not a projection of hers.
    “Detective Ray, would you be a dear and top off my coffee please?” she asked.
    “Sure,” he said. “Ms. Singer—Marcy—you can have ten minutes with your mother in the company of Detective Bailey and me.”
    I looked over at the square-bodied, gray-haired Detective Ray, and he raised his hand in a gesture that was not so much a wave as an acknowledgment of my presence. I nodded.
    “I’ll be right back.” Detective Ray took Mom’s coffee cup from the table. “Bailey?”
    “Nah, I’m good.”
    I wasn’t offered a beverage. I sat on the rust-cushioned metal chair across from Mom. “Are you okay? What happened?”
    “I’m fine, darling. How are you? You look upset.”
    “Mom, I
am
upset. You’re being questioned in a homicide investigation. This is not simply coffee and catching up with our buddies, Detectives Bailey and Ray.”
    “Oh, I know that,” she said. “Although it
has
been delightful catching up with you.” This comment was directed to Detective Bailey. “But don’t get so jumpy, Marcella. I’m not the only one being questioned, and I’ve called Alfred. He’s on his way.”
    Alfred Benton had been Mom’s attorney for the past thirty years. My father had died when I was young, so Alfred had been a surrogate dad to me almost all my life.
    “You heard that,” I said to Detective Bailey. “Her attorney is on his way. You have no right to question her without her attorney being present.”
    “That’s correct,” he said. “We don’t. Your mother chose to speak with us voluntarily.”
    I turned back to Mom. “Are you sure that’s wise? Wouldn’t you rather wait until Alfred gets here to give a statement?”
    “Not really, darling. My statement is simple: I’m innocent. In fact, I’m not sure Babs’ death was a murder at all. She might’ve just slipped and fell.”
    Detective Ray returned. He put Mom’s coffee in front of her and then sat on the chair beside me.
    “Mom, what happened?” I asked.
    “Babs was messing around that old mill, and she fell,” Mom said.
    “Blunt-force trauma to the back of the victim’s head combined with a possible murder weapon found at the crime scene indicate that the victim didn’t fall but was knocked down through the hole to the floor eighteen feet below,” Detective Bailey said.
    “How do you know she didn’t get the trauma when she fell?” Mom asked. “Falling eighteen feet is bound to have an adverse effect on one’s body.” She looked at me. “This is the issue the detectives and I keep going around and around on. We simply can’t agree.”
    “Trust us,” said Detective Ray. “We know that some of the victim’s injuries occurred perimortem.”
    “How can you be sure of that?” I asked. “Has the autopsy been done?”
    “No, but I saw the body myself,” Detective Ray said. “When you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you know some things without having the benefit of the autopsy.”
    “Why do you think my mother had anything to do with Ms. Tru’s death?”
    “Like she said, we’re talking