Part 24 (2/2)

”Good.” I tried footwork variations and found it easiest to walk on tiptoe. In the squad room, the eleven o'clock news was on. We stopped to watch McDowell shouting his outrage over his home being broken into.

”He'll do anything to get on the news,” I said, glad he wasn't using any names. Then again, he couldn't know whether Eve and I were still at his house when the police arrived. ”He's trying to plug his dike,” I said, ”in case Vinney might be thinking of using him, or his guesthouse, as an alibi or hiding place sanctioned by McDowell-which the old goat most a.s.suredly did not.”

Werner nodded and I got the urge to tell him about McDowell practicing his fire speech the night before the playhouse fire, but I was pretty sure that was Lolique using us as dupes. Maybe. ”The councilman isn't honest,” I said. ”I'm sure of that, because he's lying about what happened tonight. But I think he might be worse than a liar.”

Werner looked at me with speculation. ”Does McDowell know that's how you feel?”

Possibly, I thought, since he saw Eve's car in the woods by his house tonight, so he must know we were nosing around. He'd also learned that I'd been ”hanging” around at his dealers.h.i.+p-upside down, mind you-to examine his dead wife's picture, and yet . . . ”I don't think so.”

”Keep it that way.”

Thirty-five.

Sometimes there are two very opposite directions, and we go with the stronger one at the end. It's an impulse thing, like 'Oh, I love both so much, but it's got to be one or the other because the two don't work together.'

-MARC JACOBS Eve and I appeared doomed to spending the night at the station, but where?

I had to perform some Mad-as in Madeira-Magic, and fast, like charming my way out of a paper bag, also known as: a jail cell.

We found Eve getting her foot bandaged in first aid.

”I'm hungry,” I said as we finished. ”How about you, Eve?”

”Not enough to eat the sandwiches my mother brought. Is she a trip or what?”

”A trip through the scary house,” I said, ”unless she's helping, which she does so well.”

”Mothers,” Werner chuckled, escorting us, one on each arm, across the squad room, but not in the direction of his office. Sc.r.a.p! ”Detective, could you go for some Mexican food?”

He slowed. ”I'm going off s.h.i.+ft in a few minutes.”

”Good, you can get it, and when you get back, between the three of us, we can put together the pieces of the murder puzzle while we eat. No sense in you eating alone.” I know, low blow, but for a worthy cause.

He hesitated.

”My treat,” I said.

Clearly, he was torn. ”I'll have to put you in a cell while I get the food,” he said, almost to himself.

”Don't forget the Mexican beer,” Eve said. ”I could go for some cold Cerveza Dos Equis. Sound good to you, Mad?”

I wanted to elbow her for missing the point. ”We can wait in your office.”

”So you can look though my files and talk my men into helping you?” But he'd stopped walking.

I guessed that my charm would no longer serve where the Wiener was concerned. ”Dos Equis, yes,” I said.

”But what do you want to eat?” Werner asked.

”Enchiladas, chimichangas, burritos, chile rellenos. We like to mix it up and share. What about you?”

He rolled his eyes, took some bills from his pocket, and tossed them on a desk. ”Jimmy, did you get that?”

”Yes, sir.”

”Go as soon as you're off s.h.i.+ft and get some for yourself. Get a couple of six-packs of Dos Equis. I'll be off s.h.i.+ft by the time you get back and I'll need self-medicating.” He looked us over, head to foot. ”It's gonna be a looong night.” He then steered us toward his office.

Whew! ”Thank you for not putting us in a cell.”

”I should have my head examined. You're a manipulative perp, you know that?”

I tried to look innocent. ”That's us, scheming perps wearing the lamest slippers on the planet.”

”She does have a s.a.d.i.s.tic streak, my mother,” Eve muttered. ”When I called, she didn't ask why we're here but said we probably deserved it.”

”She's a smart one,” Werner said, rolling two comfortable executive-type office chairs up to his desk.

Eve sighed, wiggling a plush pink foot from which a dimpled face with yellow yarn hair smiled-her old Cabbage Patch doll slippers. ”Though my feet do feel better. Even the one that's not cut hurts from wearing heels. How do you do it, Mad?”

”Sore is better than ugly. I'm a vain fas.h.i.+onista.”

Eve barked a laugh. ”And a stupid one.”

Werner cleared his desk, shaking his head the whole time, probably as much at himself as Eve, for getting sucked in.

”My feet are wrapped in a cloud,” I said. ”I padded the soles of my chubby gators with three inches of foam at a time when platforms were making a comeback.”

Werner stopped procrastinating and sat behind his desk.

I sat forward. ”I'd like to speculate about the two murders given the latest information we've garnered. Okay with the two of you?”

Werner gave me a pointed look. ”You're playing sleuth again.”

”I'd be stupid not to. If a metaphorical fireball lands in your lap, you get the h.e.l.l out of the way, and you find out where it came from so you can keep it from happening again. I'll bet you've got questions up the wazoo that you'd like to toss out. Heck, Eve and I might know some 'details' that verify your speculation and vice versa.”

Werner shrugged as if he could care less. ”I'm in it for the beer.”

”Fine, but you're missing a primo brainstorm. Eve, let's talk about McDowell's first wife.”

”Gwendolyn Isobel,” Eve said, ”known by Councilman McDowell as Saint Belle.”

Werner sat straighter.

”Right.” I eyed Werner. ”That was her quilt, her diamond, and her wedding band I gave you. She died around thirty years ago, right?”

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