You’d think most men would look alike from the knees on down, I thought as I studied Gary Wohnt’s shiny black shoes and polyester pants from my bean bag roost. I was careful not to move my open eye or unhinge my second, my on-the-fly theory being that if I played it cool, he might think I was simply having a seizure and leave me alone. But dang if that open eye wasn’t getting dry. I always lost the staring contests growing up. If only I’d known how handy that skill would be in later life, I might have tried harder.
I blinked and sighed deeply. I didn’t possess the energy to launch a full-on offensive but mustered what I could. “Well, well, well, look who’s back. Miss us?” I tried standing archly but stumbled at the blood rush. Gary caught me and pushed me against the wall with one strong arm, pinning me like a bug.
He was an olive-skinned man with dark eyes that he liked to hide behind cop sunglasses, the kind that reflected all your shortcomings right back at you. I’d had to stifle many a spontaneous confession because of those glasses. And he didn’t court small talk. “Where were you last night?”
“Hmm, did we have a date? I don’t remember.”
He kept staring. Or doing blinky eye-strengthening exercises. It was impossible to tell on this side of the glasses.
I continued. “In fact, last I heard, you were totally off the market, gallivanting around the country with a, what was she, gospel singer?”
His mouth set in a line that made clear he’d never gallivanted a day in his life and that I best shut my piehole, but anxiety kept me talking well past the point of good sense. “Or a candy striper? Hard to remember. Hey, have you had a chance to talk to Kennie since you got back? You two used to date, didn’t you?”
He took his arm away, and I slumped a little but kept standing. The sparkles I’d seen upon shooting up too quickly slowly receded. And I still hadn’t answered his question. “So why do you want to know where I was last night?”
For a moment, I didn’t think he was going to respond, but he finally said, “Just routine questioning related to an investigation.”
“What’s the investigation about?” I noticed the badge on this uniform was smaller than his police chief badge, but his gun looked just as big.
“A possible murder.”
“I didn’t kill anybody.” I turned off my sassy box quick-like and attempted a relaxed, “How ridiculous would that be?” smile. It felt jack-o-lanternish. That’s when I realized I’d arranged my questions in the wrong order. “Who was killed?”
“Why don’t you tell me where you were last night, and I can continue the investigation.”
The only autonomic function I could rely on, apparently, was my liar. “I spent the night with Mrs. Berns.” Only a half-lie, really.
The corner of his mouth twitched, either a smile being born and killed or frustration seeking an outlet. “Really. Where?”
“Not in the same bed, if that’s what you’re asking.” For the love of Pete, had my brain gone on a cruise, leaving my mouth to fend for herself? She didn’t do so well alone.
“At the Big Chief Motor Lodge?”
It took all my willpower not to blanch. “I’ve heard that place is really nice. Is it open already?”
“Because a source tells me that four people were on the scene before police arrived: a motel employee, an elderly woman wearing Frederick’s of Hollywood gear, her boy candy, and a brunette in her 30s who, I quote, ‘looked like she’d been rode hard and put away wet.’” That twitch again at his lips.
I swelled up, indignant and about to protest before I realized I probably still looked that way. “I’ve got a house right outside of town, Ch-… Deputy Wohnt. Why in the world would I want to stay in a hotel?” Had he always been so muscular? I thought I remembered him as a little rounder in the belly.
I saw an eyebrow appear briefly above the mirrored glass. “I wondered the same thing.”
I pursed my lips and shook my head in agreement so it looked like I was on his wondering team. Finally, prudence had slapped a leash on my tongue.
The radio on his shoulder squawked a code, and he responded tersely. “On my way.” He returned his attention to me. “We have more talking to do. Everyone who was at the motel last night has been asked not to leave town. I’d recommend, if you are one of them, that you also choose not to leave.”
Where was I going to go? Besides to hell. In a hand basket. I gave him the thumbs up. “Is that all? ’Cuz I’ve got work to do.” I didn’t even know what time it was. Maybe I could go home.
“No, I’m afraid that isn’t all.” His demeanor shifted, and for the first time, I saw a hint of human in him. “Mrs. Berns got in a car accident late this morning. She’s in the ICU at the Douglas County Hospital.”