Free A Murderous Glaze by Melissa Glazer Page B

with the chocolate milkshake. Carolyn, I watch what I eat most of the time, but sometimes I want a hamburger, some fries, and a shake, and I don’t see any reason not to have them.” He sounded so stubborn, I could almost see his pout.
    “You know what? You’re right. You’re a grown man. Just don’t make a habit of it.”
    There was a pause, then he said, “You gave in way too easy. What have you been up to?”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Hah. And you said I was a worse liar than you were. You’ve been snooping around town, haven’t you?”
    “I’m not going to dignify that remark with an answer.”
    His suddenly barked out a laugh. “That’s because you can’t.”
    “If you’re finished braying, I have to figure out what I’m eating for dinner.”
    My husband’s voice was contrite as he said, “I should have taken you out with me. You could have had a burger, too.”
    Usually I was pretty careful about watching what I ate, but with the stress I’d been under recently, a milkshake and burger might have been worth the calories. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll manage.”
    “You always do. If you need me, call me. And if you’re at that shop of yours after dark, give me a buzz, and don’t leave until I get there. You understand? Don’t get all huffy, Carolyn. I’m just worried about you.”
    It was one of my husband’s longer speeches, and I knew he meant well. “I’m locking up and heading out as soon as we get off the phone. I’ll see you later.”
    “You can count on it,” he said.
    Since my husband had given in to one of his whims, I thought about what I’d like to eat if I were to ignore my worries about extra calories. A dessert dinner sounded great, filled with banana splits, hot fudge sundaes, and parfaits, but I knew I could never eat that kind of junk without feeling guilty about it. I decided to see what was in my refrigerator at home. As I grabbed my keys, I remembered Larry Wickline. Should I call him again, or leave it until morning? Chances were his line would still be busy, and then I could forget about him for the night with a clear conscience.
    Blast it all, the man had the gall to pick up on the first ring. After his abrupt hello, I said, “Mr. Wickline, my name is Carolyn Emerson, and I just called to extend my sympathy on the loss of your wife.” I figured if I made myself a sympathetic ear, he might be willing to talk about his ex.
    “She was my ex-wife, and I’ve been celebrating since I heard the news.”
    I could hear the drunken tone in his voice. Maybe I could get him with his guard down, if I played it right. “If you don’t mind my asking, why are you so happy about it?”
    “Why? You’re kidding, right? Are you sure you knew her? The woman was a hag, through and through.”
    I couldn’t necessarily disagree with his assessment, but that hadn’t been the role I’d chosen to play. “Surely there must have been something good about her. You married her, didn’t you?”
    “And I didn’t live a single day after that I didn’t regret it. But now she’s gone.”
    “When was the last time you saw her?” I may have been pushing him a little too hard, but I was afraid he was going to get bored with me and hang up. One thing I knew. I was not going to that man’s house while he was in a drunken state and brace him about his ex-wife. That would be a whole new level of foolishness, one I didn’t want to reach.
    “Gave her a check the day she died. She cashed it, can you believe it? I guess I shouldn’t mind. It was a going-away present, wasn’t it?” Then he laughed so hard I thought he was going to drop the telephone. The laugh turned into a hacking cough, and I heard the phone hit the floor.
    “Mr. Wickline? Are you all right?”
    “Think I’m going to be sick,” he said, and then he hung up on me. So Larry Wickline admitted seeing his ex-wife the day she died. That meant he had motive and opportunity, and anybody could