Free Rosemary and Crime by Gail Oust

any more than I did. Pressing a button on his intercom, he said, “Precious, would you have Sergeant Tucker fingerprint Mrs. Prescott?”
    Innocent until proven guilty. Wasn’t that one of the principles this country was founded on? Wasn’t it written somewhere? Bill of Rights? The Constitution? The Declaration of Independence? I wished back in the day I’d paid more attention in civics class. You can’t lock a person up and throw away the key because they were first on the scene. Or because they might’ve “accidentally” picked up what might turn out to be the murder weapon.
    Or can you?

 
    C HAPTER 9
    “ F INGERPRINTED? IS THE guy loony tunes?”
    Reba Mae’s outrage was music to my ears. Balm to my wounded spirit. “I guess it’s standard operating procedure in a murder investigation.”
    “Hmph!” Reba Mae snorted.
    “McBride said something about eliminating me as a suspect.” We were relaxing in Reba Mae’s sunroom. A partially eaten platter of nachos and half-empty glasses of margaritas rested on the coffee table in front of us. “He sounded pretty positive the knife I found at the scene will turn out to be the murder weapon.”
    “He can’t seriously think you killed Barrone?”
    I wiggled my toes, happy to have kicked off my shoes and to be curled up in a comfy chair. “It’s impossible to figure out what’s going on behind that cop face of his. And there’s more,” I said, helping myself to another nacho gooey with cheese and chili.
    Reba Mae took that as a cue to top off our glasses. “Shoot, girlfriend. I’m all ears.”
    I proceeded to tell her about me finding a wounded mutt and rushing him to the vet’s, ending the account with Dr. Winters’s opinion that the dog had been stabbed.
    Reba Mae shook her head. “What’re the odds? I’d bet a month of Sundays that whoever stabbed Mario stabbed the dog, too.”
    “The same thought occurred to me.” I crossed my ankles on the flowered ottoman and sipped my drink. “Dogs are darn good judges of character. The poor thing was probably barking his head off when the murderer came out of the Tratory.”
    “… and whoever it was tried to silence him—permanently.”
    “Exactly.”
    “Who could do that to a little pup?”
    “Who could do it to a human being, albeit a surly, temperamental one?” I countered. I watched Reba Mae scoop salsa onto a nacho chip. Personally, I thought the salsa could have used another dash of cumin with its wonderful earthy flavor.
    “Barrone would never be voted Mr. Congeniality, but who’d think someone would actually off the guy. Nothing like this ever happens in Brandywine Creek.”
    “But it did.”
    My words dropped like a boulder, squashing further conversation for all of three minutes.
    “Soooo…,” Reba Mae said, breaking the silence. “Who do you suppose killed Mario?”
    “I haven’t a clue.” I found the idea of a murderer walking the streets of Brandywine Creek a scary one.
    “If I had to venture a guess, I’d say it was a botched robbery attempt.”
    I considered the possibility. The more I thought about it, the more I warmed to the notion. “You might be on to something, Reba Mae. Picture this: it’s late at night, Mario’s alone. Most likely he still hasn’t deposited the day’s receipts. The … perp … cut through the alley, saw a light on in the Tratory, forced his way in. And the rest, as they say, is history.”
    “Yeah, that might explain it,” Reba Mae agreed. “Probably someone zoned out on drugs.”
    “Could have been a drifter passing through town.”
    “Someone needing quick cash.”
    “Or looking to score,” I said, borrowing a phrase I’d heard on numerous TV cop shows.
    “Makes sense.”
    Then doubts started corroding my perfect scenario. “Wouldn’t a robber likely carry a weapon of some sort?”
    Reba Mae nodded sagely. “A .44. Maybe a .357.”
    I stared at Reba Mae incredulously. “Since when did you become an expert on guns?”
    She