Free Murder in a Nice Neighborhood by Lora Roberts Page B

parking lot, so intent on my conversation with Drake she almost ran over a grocery cart.
    “When I find out something you need to know, I’ll tell you,” Drake said, smiling a little to take the sting out of his words. “But I did wonder if you could help me. We’re looking for a guy who was a drinking buddy of Murphy’s—Alonso Beaudray. Do you know where he can be found?”
    “Alonso.” I thought about it for a minute, tucking my notebook back in my bag. “I told you already, they were part of the underpass gang. Maybe they had some other place, too.” It would be all over the street soon that I was being followed and questioned. "They might know. I didn’t hang around with that group.”
    “Who did you hang around with?” He made it sound like a casual inquiry.
    “Nobody,” I smiled sweetly. “I’m a loner, Mr. Drake.”
    “But you weren’t always, Ms. Sullivan. Or should I call you Mrs. Naylor?”
    I thought I had prepared myself for it—the police’s discovery of my unsavory past. And yet the sound of that name made my heart stop and start again in slow, uneven jerks. Through the fog that seemed to veil my eyes, I could see Drake’s face, his smile changing to concern.
    “It’s always best, when you run away,” he added lamely, into my frozen silence, “to do more than just use your maiden name. We traced you very easily.” He cleared his throat and added gruffly, “Guess I know now why you hate men.”
    Words wouldn’t come out through the dryness of my throat. I swallowed and fought my face for control.
    Drake watched me, his glasses winking in the sun. “We know what happened to you,” he added. “You must see that it makes you more interesting to us.”
    “Did you—did you tell—” This time I managed to speak. It hurt.
    “We didn’t interview your ex-husband.” There was a flash of uncertainty behind the glasses. “He won’t know where you are.”
    “He’ll find out.” I rounded the front of the bus, Drake at my heels, and climbed into the driver’s seat. “He’s very good at that. He’ll find out.”
    “Look, Ms. Sullivan—Liz. I’m sorry. But you didn’t come clean with us, and you should have. Then we wouldn’t have had to ferret around.” He shuffled his feet. “Listen, just let us know if there are problems, okay?”
    “Sure.” I stared down at him bitterly from the driver’s seat. “I’ll call you right up on my two-way wristwatch. I have to go now."
    He was still standing in the parking lot when I left. I drove back to Claudia’s as fast as I could, and I wasn’t worried about the ice cream.
     

Chapter 12
     
    Claudia was still sitting at the kitchen table, but she had switched to the bucket of hot water with Epsom salts. She was deep in a pile of photocopies, her elbows on either side of the stack, her face bent territorially over it.
    I set two bags of groceries down with a muttered hello, and went back for the third one. My hands had started shaking again as soon as I’d let go of the steering wheel. I felt numb, as if all my synapses were paralyzed.
    “What’s the matter?” Claudia ceased to focus on her papers, and turned her sharp eyes on me. I avoided them as long as I could, but at last the cans and bottles were all put away, the bread stashed, the refrigerator stocked. I shut the freezer door and turned to look at her.
    “Nothing.” I didn’t know yet what I’d tell her, how I’d get away. I needed time to think.
    “Has there been another murder?”
    “Not yet.” I had planned a fancy salad for our lunch, but now I set out bread and sandwich fixings and let it go at that.
    Claudia made herself an immense tower of cheese, tomatoes, sprouts, avocado, and lettuce—everything I’d put out. I stuck my spoon into a carton of yogurt and pretended to swallow.
    “Are you a vegetarian?” Claudia’s question broke the silence. “I notice there’s no meat here.”
    “I bought salmon for dinner.” Fresh fish was no longer