Free Engaged in Murder (Perfect Proposals Mystery) by Nancy J. Parra Page A

deal—proposal and engagement. After all, I would know what the bride-to-be wanted, wouldn’t I?
    “That’s settled, then.” Mom stood. “Come on, girls, let’s coordinate our calendars. Oh, Felicity, I know the perfect woman to sing at your wedding . . . and Mrs. Shelton can play the organ . . .”
    I followed them into the kitchen. My thoughts were less on the planning and more on how I would figure out if Warren was guilty or not before this engagement got too far.

Chapter 9

    “What are you doing here?” Officer Vandall asked.
    “I wondered if you needed anything further from me for your investigation,” I said. I had dressed like a professional so that the police would take me seriously. A quick glance around told me that they didn’t deal with professionally dressed people too often. Besides, I didn’t want to come off as a kook.
    I tugged my navy skirt down to ensure it hit at my knee. The fabric had a way of hiking up when I walked. Mom used to tell me all the time to slow down and walk like a lady so that wouldn’t happen. Some things a girl never learns.
    Officer Vandall tilted his head. “Did you remember something else?”
    I recognized that as a gatekeeper question. I was prepared to lie. “I have information about Warren Evans.” That statement was true, and my skin stayed blushless as he eyed me.
    He glanced at me and his mouth pursed. “Fine. I’ll see if Detective Murphy has time to talk to you now.”
    “Thank you.”
    Officer Vandall went through the door that I assumed led to the officers’ cubicles. I was left to cool my heels in the waiting area out front. I took a moment to check that the patterned blouse I wore was appropriately buttoned. The thin belt at my waist had not slid to the left.
    My hair, well, I had learned long ago that it had a mind of its own. We had come to a deal. I didn’t expect it to do anything fashionable and it didn’t stick out . . . too much.
    “Ms. Pomeroy?” I glanced up to see the hound dog face of Detective Murphy. He wasn’t unattractive. He had that older Humphrey Bogart kind of look. It made you think he put on a fedora when he walked out the door. Today his broad shoulders were encased in a white shirt. A red and blue striped tie was pulled loose at his neck. Black dress slacks and standard-issue black dress shoes finished the look. Even if I hadn’t known he was a police detective, I would have imagined that he was.
    “Yes, hello again.” I held out my hand.
    He shook it. “Detective Murphy. Officer Vandall told me you have information on the airport murder?”
    “I was the one who called 911,” I said.
    “Yes, I know.” He opened the door wide. “Why don’t you come back and we’ll chat. Can I get you some coffee? It’s cop coffee, but it’ll do in a pinch.”
    “I’m fine, thank you.” I followed him down a hall that was made by the edge of cubicles and a wall that held windows and doors. From what I could tell, the doors led to small rooms. I had watched enough
48 Hours
to know they were most likely interview rooms.
    His office was in the room at the end of the hall. The room was about twelve feet by twelve feet and held four desks, a bank of file cabinets, and two printers. It smelled of stale coffee and aftershave.
    “Have a seat.” He waved me toward a chair next to a desk with his name plaque. I noticed that he had the desk farthest from the door and his back was to a wall.
    I sat in the green plastic chair, my purse on my lap and my hands gripping the handle. I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. It was kind of scary in the police station. Odd to think I was more frightened in here than I was when I found the body. Maybe because the man was dead. While Detective Murphy looked as if he could read my every thought.
    I steeled myself. “Do you know his name? The dead guy . . . That night all Officer Vandall would tell me is that he didn’t have any identification on him.”
    “His name was Randy