Free Help the Poor Struggler by Martha Grimes

them made Jury think of a high-speed train braking. She could sense Macalvie’s hostility, even before he opened his mouth.
    Jury offered her breakfast, and Macalvie offered her a grim-reaper smile, which was enough to kill anyone’s appetite. Jury doubted she had one to begin with. She asked for coffee.
    Today she looked different. Her eyes were less molten gold and more honey-colored. That might have been because of the gold cape she wore. Her dark hair was pulled back, but the shorter ends clung to her face as if they were wet with seaspray or rain.
    â€œI just wanted to have a little talk with you about last night,” said Macalvie. “Your handling of the situation was kind of odd.”
    â€œYes, I suppose it was. Though at the time I wasn’t thinking too clearly —”
    â€œDid you panic, or something?” His tone was almost friendly.
    â€œPanic. Yes, I suppose you could say that.”
    â€œThat’s why you threw your cape over the girl?”
    She nodded and looked away.
    â€œNot because you wanted to hide the body.” The tone was simply matter-of-fact.
    Quickly, she looked at him again. “That’s ridiculous. If I’d killed her, I certainly wouldn’t leave my cape behind to lead police right to my door.”
    Macalvie shrugged. “You’re not the only one in Lyme or hereabouts who owns a cape.”
    â€œYou think I’d take a chance like that?”
    â€œI don’t know. Do you know the Thornes?”
    She shook her head, looking down at the coffee brought by the patrician waitress, but not drinking it.
    â€œHow did you know where to take the dog?”
    â€œThe name of their place was on the tag.”
    â€œVery humanitarian. There’s a pub in Dorchester called the Five Alls. Ever been there?”
    â€œNo. I don’t go to pubs.”
    â€œNot a drinker?”
    â€œOn the contrary, I drink a lot. But alone.”
    Wiggins, who seemed to have taken a liking to Molly Singer as another victim of life’s vicissitudes, looked sad. Jury was afraid he might take them all for a stroll down Gin Lane.
    â€œAs I’d guess,” Molly went on, “you already know.”
    Macalvie’s eyes grew round as a cat’s. “How would I know that?”
    She looked at Jury. “The superintendent might have told you. More likely you’ve already been at the dustbin men.”
    Macalvie laughed. “You’re pretty smart.” He made it sound like an indictment. “Where were you early yesterday morning? Around six, say?”
    â€œIn my cottage. Asleep. Why?”
    â€œAnd where the afternoon of the tenth?”
    â€œIn my cottage. Or walking on the Cobb.”
    â€œLike last night?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnyone see you?”
    â€œProbably not.”
    â€œYou don’t go out much.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou don’t see people.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œFunny way to act.”
    â€œI think I’m agoraphobic.” What there was of an embarrassed smile was quickly erased when Macalvie slammed his fist on the table.
    â€œI don’t care sod-all about some phobia. If you’ve been to psychiatrists, I’ll subpoena their records if I have to. You don’t go out, don’t see people, and yet —” Macalvie pointed toward the street “— in that short-stay parking lot by the ocean you’ve got a great little Lamborghini that’s clocked up over sixty thousand on a ‘C’ registration. You do a hell of a lot of traveling, don’t you? In that car you could make it to Dorchester and back in a little more than an hour and to Wynchcoombe in two, I’ll bet — provided a cop didn’t get in your way. What’s a little stay-at-home like you doing with a Lamborghini?”
    Molly Singer got up slowly. “I think I’ve answered your questions.”
    â€œNo, you haven’t. Sit