Free One Hot Mess by Lois Greiman Page B

through the spotless window.
    “Why not?”
    “'Cuz of Shithead.”
    “Her… ex?” I guessed.
    Taking a long plastic container from the refrigerator, she removed the cover and set it in front of me. Rows of shortbread stared back at me.
    “Who's the friend?” she asked.
    “I'm sorry?” I said, startled from my observation of the cookies. Shortbread's almost good enough to turn me Scottish.
    “The friend who sent you—who is it?” she asked.
    I didn't know how much to say, but she had been kind enough to refrain from shooting me. “His name's Miguel.”
    She took a cookie, sat back down, and nodded as she ate. “Do you think I'm psychotic?”
    “What?”
    “I'm relieved that it's a man.” She sighed. “You're a shrink, right? Does that make me psycho? That I still care even…” Her voice watered up. She cleared her throat.
    “I think you've been through a terrible shock.” When in doubt, spout gibberish.
    She nodded again, jerkily. “The neighbor found her. Should have been me. I should have been around when she was in the shop, but she was usually so careful. Wore a face mask. Kept the blade shields in place.” She winced, fighting tears.
    “Were the shields still in place?”
    She cleared her throat. “No. She must have been having trouble with the saw again. Must have thought she could fix it herself. Could…” Her voice broke. She fought for control and won. “I should have been here, but she … she didn't want to live together. Said her daughter wouldn't understand. But it was really because of Shithead.”
    “Her ex.” It would be nice to have one solid answer.
    She nodded.
    “Was he causing her trouble?”
    “He used to—you know, name-calling, lots of yelling. But things have been quieter lately. She said she wanted to keep it that way, for Jess. Didn't want to cause a scandal. Like this is the Middle Ages or something.” She winced. “Kat hated confrontations.”
    While this woman had no qualms about pointing a gun at a perfectly nice, if somewhat deranged, stranger. Love's funny.
    “How long had you and…” I paused, stumbling over the words again.
    “We were lovers,” she said.
    “Of course. Yes.” Geez, I was a trained professional. And an adult. And generally not retarded. “How long were you lovers?”
    “Six years.”
    Wow. And I thought it something of a wonder that Harlequin and I were still together after a few months.
    “I wanted to get married. Skip off to Vancouver and make it official, but she thought the announcement might show up in the paper. I told her if she loved me she'd do it. But I know she loved me.” Her brow wrinkled. “I know it.”
    Doubt showed in her eyes. I wondered, perhaps uncharitably, if she had doubted enough to kill.
    “So her relationship with her ex was pretty serene?”
    “Nothing overt, but he always resented the fact that she'd ruined his perfect life.”
    “How so?”
    “They were the ideal family. Him a”—she made quotes in the air with her fingers—”real estate tycoon. She the perfect wife, the perfect mother. Then she ups and files for divorce.”
    “How long ago was that?”
    “Seven years. The town was abuzz.”
    “Did you know her then?”
    “I'm from Frisco. Just moved here after Crazy Bet.”
    “Bet?”
    “My ex.”
    I nodded, wondering about Bet's gender but managing to keep my curiosity to myself.
    The kitchen went quiet. The cookies watched me. The gun did the same.
    I screwed up my nerve. “Do you think her ex-husband was somehow involved in her death?” I asked.
    She stared through me. Tension bloomed like Canadian thistles. Her lips twisted up in a smile, her eyes narrowed. “God, I'd love to see him swing.” She said the words through gritted teeth with enough venom to make my skin crawl, but finally she drew a breath and focused on me as if just remembering I was there. “No,” she said. “It was bad luck. Just dumb, bad luck.”

9
    He's just a flash in the pants.
    —
The Magnificent