Free Family Practice by Charlene Weir

mother ever teach you to knock?”
    â€œFrom her I learned it’s never advisable to let your presence be known.”
    Whatever that meant. “You have anything for me?”
    â€œBits and pieces. Let’s get something to eat, and I’ll tell you.”
    Yes. Good. Why not? She hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Build up a little blood sugar.
    He stood. “Coffee Cup Café?”
    She nodded and slung the strap of her bag across her shoulder. “I’ll meet you there.”
    â€œWhat have you got?” she asked when they were seated in a booth in the rear.
    â€œThe patients, those scheduled in the morning, have all been questioned, and—” He broke off as the waitress handed them each a menu and continued when she left. “They saw the good doctor, got whatever it was attended to, and have nothing useful to say. Except for Mrs. Clinkenbeard, who’s ninety-three and suffers from arthritis. She claims she had a feeling in her bones. Now, you might just put this down to arthritis flareup, but she knows it was a premonition of impending death.”
    When the waitress returned, Susan ordered a turkey sandwich and coleslaw. Parkhurst asked for chicken-fried steak.
    Susan closed the menu and handed it back to the waitress. “No weapon?”
    â€œNot yet. Not the right one, anyway. Carl owns a handgun. 9-mm Browning. It’s not the murder weapon. Nothing useful in the Barrington house. Although that place is so large, it’d take a month and even then we couldn’t be sure.”
    â€œPrints at the office?”
    â€œSure. Latents all over the place. Probably none of them helpful. You ever get a lock on a case with fingerprints?”
    â€œOnce. Made me feel like a real detective.”
    â€œAccording to Dr. Willis Barrington, no drugs missing.”
    â€œThere wouldn’t have been time. Couldn’t have been more than five seconds before I was chasing him, and then I found Jen. The shooter barely had time to scoot out that rear door.”
    The waitress brought the food, and Susan kept her eyes averted from the chicken-fried steak, a piece of midwestern cuisine that was right up there with fried brains when it came to appeal.
    â€œNone of the nearest and dearest have what you might call an alibi,” Parkhurst said when the waitress left. “Dr. Willis was home alone most of the afternoon, although he did go out to the post office to pick up some stamps. Wife Vicky was shopping. We’re tracking down clerks or whoever who saw her, but even so she could have nipped in, shot Dorothy, and rushed back to fingering lingerie.” He cut a bite of steak.
    Susan picked up a fork and poked at the coleslaw.
    He chewed and swallowed. “That goes for all of them. Dr. Marlitta was home alone except for a trip to the grocery store. These people spend a lot of time home alone. Her husband—whose name is Brent Wakeley, by the way; Barringtons like to hold onto that name—claims he was at Emerson.”
    â€œWhy at Emerson?”
    â€œThe brilliant physician is also a dedicated teacher.”
    â€œOn Saturday?”
    â€œMostly dedicated to the pursuit of female students, if the rumors are correct. Dr. Carl, home alone. Except when he went out to run some errands. There’s a man not happy with his life.”
    â€œIf he’s not happy, why doesn’t he change it?”
    â€œSomething we might want to find out. The husband, Taylor, in his perusal of new cars could have slipped in and iced his wife between the BMW and Mercedes.”
    â€œAny motive for any of them?”
    â€œMoney.” Parkhurst gave her a wolfish grin. “Always a good one. More on that when I get the scoop on wills. As in last and testament.” He speared a French fry, dipped it in catsup, and popped it into his mouth.
    â€œNot one of them knows why she asked them all to come to the house this evening?”
    â€œSo they say, and not one