Dead Wrong. Janice Kay Johnson

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      “I think he wanted her back. But he still didn’t intend to really settle down. You know? He’s this big outdoors guy. He wants to ski all winter and mountain climb all summer. He works up at Juanita Butte in the winter, but he never even looked for a job in the summer. He got mad when she had to work. Plus, she didn’t like to climb.”

      “Her parents described the breakup as amiable.”

      “It was.” Marcie shrugged. “But he kept coming around. She slipped a couple of times and had sex with him, which was dumb.”

      “Did she have other sexual relationships?”

      “You mean, did she screw guys? Sure.” Marcie sounded surprised, as if a single woman being sexually active was a given.

      No, there was more to her tone, Trina suspected; she was just a little envious. Married almost ten years, with three kids, she probably lived vicariously through Amy’s tales.

      “Anyone in particular?”

      “Um…” Marcie thought. “Adrian Benson. She told me the other day he wasn’t that good in bed, even though he’s hot.”

      Benson was one of the men she’d said earlier that Marcie might have dated in the previous week or two. Trina starred his name. He wasn’t anyone she recalled from high school.

      “If she met a man over drinks and liked him, would she be likely to leave with him?”

      “Yeah, why not?” The moment the words were out, Marcie’s mouth formed an O. Amy Owen had very likely paid an extreme penalty for trusting a dangerous man.

      Trina steered her gently back to the final day. Yes, she’d talked briefly to Amy midafternoon. “I told her I’d try to get a babysitter Saturday night so Dirk and I could go out.”

      Trina already knew that Amy had worked yesterday, leaving the salon about four. “Did she mention plans for yesterday evening?”

      “She said she was bored and might go get a drink. She didn’t say where or if she was going with a friend.”

      Trina wrote down Amy’s favorite hangouts and then thanked Marcie. Handing her a card, she said, “Please call if you think of anything at all that you think we should know.”

      The next friend of Amy’s on Trina’s list actually recognized her.

      Bronwen Fessler had started a clothing boutique in town that Trina had heard was very successful. Daddy Fessler was a banker and had had plenty of money to bankroll her.

      The clothes in the window were bold and bright-colored. Stuff that shouldn’t have gone together somehow did, like a hot-pink cashmere turtleneck and lime-green wool slacks. Maybe, Trina decided, studying the display carefully, the skinny loomed scarf worn as a belt accomplished the magic. Personally, she might have bought all three pieces and never in a million years considered putting them together.

      Which, she guessed, was why she was a cop and not a fashion designer or owner of a boutique. And why everything she wore was boring.

      She pushed open the door, making the bell that hung above it tinkle. Bronwen Fessler hadn’t changed much, just become more stylish. A petite brunette with short, artfully tousled hair, she sat on a high stool behind a glass case that held jewelry and on top of which was the cash register. She appeared to be attaching labels to chunky bracelets laid out on the glass top in front of her. Through the window Trina hadn’t noticed the two women browsing sweaters displayed in cubes on the back wall.

      Bronwen glanced up with a practiced smile that she aborted. “Officer…” she began in surprise, then, “Wait. I know you, don’t I? From school. No, don’t tell me. Something like Teresa.”

      “Trina. Trina Giallombardo.”

      “Right.” She seemed pleased by her memory rather than by Trina’s appearance. “You’re a police officer, huh?”

      “A detective.” Being able to say that still gave Trina a thrill. “I’m here to speak to you about a friend of yours.”

      “A friend of mine?”

      “Um, excuse me,” one of the women interrupted. “I’d like to try this on.”

      “Certainly,” Bronwen told her. To Trina, she asked, “Can you wait a minute?”

      “No problem.”

      Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Bronwen Fessler charmed and flattered the two customers, who looked about forty but were probably older. There was nothing like being loaded to help a woman keep her looks. These two had perfectly dyed and coiffed hair, suspiciously smooth faces, skillfully applied makeup and carefully tended figures. In the end, one bought two sweaters and the other a necklace, all for prices that made Trina gape.

      Staring after them, she exclaimed, “Did she just pay almost seven hundred dollars for two sweaters?”

      “And they were on sale. Sweetie, people do, you know.”

      Not people in Trina’s circles.

      “Wow,” she said, then flushed.

      “I take it you dress from J.C. Penney?” Bronwen said with amused disdain.

      “More like Eddie Bauer.”

      “Jeans and flannel shirts?” Her practiced eye swept from Trina’s well-polished but sturdy black shoes to her unpierced ears. “Come in sometime when you’re off-duty and I may convert you. For old times’ sake, I’ll allow you an employee discount. The first time you come.”

      Old times’ sake? Trina doubted they’d ever exchanged a word. She thought they might have been in a class or two together; she’d been advanced enough in math to often be in classes with students a year or two ahead of her.

      Glancing at a mannequin dressed in a beaded bustier and a pouffy black skirt, she was tempted, though. Maybe the right clothes could accomplish magic. She could probably afford them if she wanted them….

      Yeah. Sure they would. And why do you want to be transformed? she mocked herself. So that you catch Will Patton’s eyes?

      Uh-huh. That was going to happen. Like he ever dated a woman who wore bigger than a size four and wasn’t blond.

      “Thank you for the offer,” she said formally. “But I’m here in my official capacity today.”

      “Right. I forgot. You wanted to ask me about a friend.” Her tone became flip. “Do I know someone who’s held up the bank?”

      “I understand you’ve remained friends with Amy Owen.”

      “Well, sure.” She laughed. “Amy’s not the bank robber type.”

      “I regret to tell you that she’s dead. She was murdered last night.”

      Bronwen stared at her with a complete lack of comprehension. “She can’t be dead. I saw her last night. We had a drink.” She reached for the telephone. “I’ll call her. There must be a mistake.”

      Trina СКАЧАТЬ