Free Idyll Threats by Stephanie Gayle

crime.
    â€œHad you met her before?” He shrugged, his hands limp in his lap.
    â€œAnswer,” his father said.
    â€œWe went to middle school together. And I saw her at the store sometimes. Mostly to fill her car with gas.”
    â€œHow did she seem that night?”
    Mr. Browning put his hand in front of his son, as if protecting him from sudden braking. “You want my son to speculate as to Miss North's mental state?”
    Stop grandstanding, Perry Mason. There's no judge here.
    â€œIt would be helpful to know if she was agitated,” Revere said. I hadn't wanted him here, but he'd caught the tape. So he got to sit at the big boys’ table. He lounged in his seat, not a care in the world. Not his usual attitude. An act for the Brownings.
    â€œShe seemed fine. She bought Pop Rocks and a Coke. They used to say that if you ate them at the same time, you'd explode. She said she was going to take a big risk.”
    â€œYou're sure she was joking about the candy?” Revere asked.
    â€œSure. What else would she be talking about?” He pushed his lower lip out. The resemblance to a chimp was uncanny.
    â€œDid she say anything about this friend she was meeting?” I asked. “A name? Maybe she said ‘he’ or ‘she’?”
    â€œI don't think so. I asked if she was headed out for the night or if she was going home, and she said she was meeting a friend. I told her to have a good night.”
    I leaned forward. “Donny, why didn't you mention this? We've been asking everyone to come forward with any information they have.”
    His eyes started up like a pinball again. “I don't pay much attention to the news. I didn't know she was dead until this morning.”
    â€œBut you didn't call us when you realized.”
    Mr. Browning said, “Donny sold her a soda. I don't think he thought that was going to help you find a killer.” He glanced at the walls, then down at his wrist. Checking the time. I'd had the men remove the large school clock from the wall my first week here. I liked to keep the men deposited in here guessing about the time, about how much they had left as free men.
    â€œYour son is the last person we know who saw Cecilia North alive. You think that's irrelevant?”
    â€œI think you should be looking for this woman's friend, the one she was meeting.”
    â€œThe one we wouldn't have known about if we hadn't talked to Donny.” Not exactly true. But he didn't know that. None of them did.
    â€œI think he's told you everything he knows.” Mr. Browning looked at his briefcase. His small supply of patience was nearly spent.
    â€œDo you know any kids who hang out on the golf course?” I asked. Donny looked at his father, then away. “Do you?”
    â€œNo,” he said, fast. Too fast?
    I left some breathing room for him to elaborate. He didn't, so I asked, “Do you know anyone who owns a gun?”
    His eyes got skittish and he tapped the table. “Do you?” I repeated.
    â€œDad,” Donny said. His voice crept toward a whine.
    Revere said, “Do you know who killed Cecilia North?”
    That took everyone aback. Donny recovered first. “No.” He bit a fingernail.
    â€œWe're through here,” Mr. Browning said. “My son answered your questions. I'm going to take him to his place now.” His place. So they didn't live together.
    Donny took his cap from the table and followed his father from the room, eyes glued to the carpet. “Interesting,” Revere said.
    â€œWasn't it?”
    We exited the room to find Mrs. Dunsmore waiting, arms crossed. You could lose a dime in her frown lines. “I just saw Douglas Browning,” she said. It sounded like an accusation.
    â€œHis son, Donny, saw Cecilia North the night she died,” I said.
    â€œWatch out for Mr. Browning. He's a big-time lawyer. Sued the town years ago. Claimed building permits were being blocked