Fool's Puzzle Earlene Fowler (microsoft ebook reader TXT) 📖

“Stop it.” I tried to pull away. “You’re making it bleed more.”

He continued to grip it firmly. “That’s the whole idea, gets rid of any glass chips. You probably need stitches. And a tetanus shot.”

“Forget it. I’ll just stick some gauze on it.”

“Sit down. I’ll do it. Where’s your first-aid supplies?”

I pointed to the cabinet above the refrigerator and sat down on a kitchen chair. After a lot of complaining about my pitiful box of supplies, he fashioned a neat though bulky bandage.

“I guess you did this so I’d have to cook breakfast,” he said.

“Feel free to fix anything in the refrigerator.”

He groaned when he looked at the bare shelves. “I should have guessed you’re one of those modern women who can’t cook. Guess we’ll have to go out.”

“You can go out. I’m not hungry. And I can too cook.”

“Then we’ll have our talk on an empty stomach.” He pulled a kitchen chair out, flipped it around and straddled it.

“I’d like to get dressed first, if you don’t mind.”

“You’re not leaving this house until we talk,” he said smoothly.

I took my time dressing, partly out of choice and partly because of the awkward bandage on my right hand. I was attempting to brush the tangles out of my hair with my left hand when he knocked on the bedroom door.

“You okay in there?” he called.

I yanked the door open. “What do you want?”

“You were taking so long, I was afraid you escaped. Of course, I knew you wouldn’t get far without these.” He dangled my truck keys in front of my face.

“Give me those.” I grabbed them and stuck them in the pocket of my jeans. “It’s taking me a long time because I’m having to do everything with my left hand.” I turned back to the mirror of my oak vanity and continued pulling the brush through my snarled hair.

“Here, let me.” Before I could protest, he grabbed the brush out of my hand and pushed me down on the vanity stool. His long, even strokes were so relaxing that after a minute or so, I found myself growing drowsy, breathing slower, in time with the strokes.

There was a vague familiarity to his careful strokes. Not of Dove, who believed the quicker the better, or even Jack, who loved my hair but never, in the whole time we were together, brushed it. Then it occurred to me. It reminded me of my mother.

On my first day of school, though she was already bedridden from cancer, she insisted on being the one to brush and braid my hair. Years later, Dove told me that it took her a day to rest from the strain of it. All I remember was she sang “Jesus loves the little children,” in a soft, breathless voice that was almost a whisper, and kissed the tip of each of my braids. For luck, she said. I tried to swallow over the lump in my throat.

“Who did you see yesterday?” Ortiz asked quietly, bringing the brush underneath my hair; his fingers brushed against the nape of my neck, causing me to shiver slightly.

“No one.”

He looked at me in the mirror, a challenging look in his deep-set eyes. “You went to Marla’s funeral. You talked to Detective Cleary.”

“Oh, yeah, I saw Detective Cleary.” I smirked at his reflection. The brush snared a knot; he tugged sharply, jerking my head back.

“Hey, watch it.” I tried to squirm away. So much for sentimental memories.

“Sorry. Where did you go after the funeral?” The firm, regular strokes continued, tranquilizing me again.

“To Mrs. Chenier’s house.” I figured I might as well not lie, he probably already knew anyway. “You know, you look awful,” I added. With his overnight stubble and wrinkled clothes, he looked more like a vagrant than the chief of police. He ignored my comment.

“Who did you see there?”

“A bunch of people I don’t know.”

“Then where did you go?”

“McDonald’s. I had a cup of coffee. Want to see the receipt?” The brush caught another tangle; he yanked firmly.

“I think I’d better do this myself,” I said, reaching for the brush.

He held it away from my grasp. “Sorry, it slipped. I’ll be more careful.” He grinned, then got serious again when he saw my irritated face in the mirror. “Then?”

“I went to the Tribune, had dinner at Trigger’s with my friend Carl, went to the museum, then I came home.”

“Who did you talk to at Trigger’s?” He continued brushing, the rhythm the same, the strokes gentler.

“My brother-in-law Wade, Carl, Carl’s dad, J.D.”

“At the museum?”

“I don’t know. Some of the artists. Josie, Sally, I think. Ray.”

“Did you notice anyone following you during the day?”

“No.”

For a few minutes, the only sound was the whoosh of the brush moving through my hair. I closed my eyes and felt the tension in my neck and shoulders dissipate with each stroke.

“Well, Ms. Albenia Harper,” he said in a low voice, “it seems to me we have a small problem here.”

“And what is that?” Even with my eyes closed I sensed his scrutiny.

“You have something I want and it appears you aren’t going to give it to me.”

I wasn’t about to open my eyes on that one.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Whoever is involved in this isn’t messing around,” he said. “What is it you’re holding back from me?”

“Nothing.” I started to rise, but his hand clamped down on my shoulder, pushing me back into the chair.

“I think my hair’s just fine,” I said.

“I’m not through yet.”

“Well, I am. You know, it’s a mystery to me why in the world you don’t quit harassing me and spend your time actually looking for Maria and Eric’s killer.”

He sighed, picked up my hair and bounced it in the palm of his hand as if he were weighing it.

“That isn’t a mystery,” he said. “A problem, maybe, but not a mystery.”

“What?”

He stared at my hair, as if there were something written there. “A problem has a solution. You have information, I want it. When