Compromising Positions Read Free Page A

yanked open the door with sheer joy at having human contact. But it was a strange man. I took him in at one glance: average height, bushy eyebrows, a small smile on his wide mouth. Quickly, I pushed the door shut so it was left open just a crack. He could be the Shorehaven Slayer and I was his next victim, selected with insane randomness.
    “Mrs. Singer? I’m Sergeant Ramirez of the Nassau County Police.” He held up an identification card to the glass of the storm door. It had his picture and a raised seal. It was official. “I’m investigating the murder of Dr. M. Bruce Fleckstein. Would it be all right for me to ask you a few questions?”
    I grinned and held the door wide open.

Chapter Two
    “Did you hear about the murder?” he inquired as he stepped into the hallway. He glanced away from me, his eyes darting about the hallway toward the kitchen, into the living room, perhaps out of curiosity, perhaps in the mild hope that he might find a blood-stained weapon lying casually on an armchair.
    “I heard about it on the radio last night. Awful. Absolutely awful.” His eyes were focused on the far end of the living room, examining the empty log basket by the fireplace. I stepped into his line of vision. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
    “No. Don’t bother.”
    “No trouble. It’s already made.”
    “All right. Light, two sugars.”
    I strolled into the kitchen, fixed two mugs of coffee, and returned, offering him one. “We can sit in the living room,” I suggested. He followed me and perched on the edge of a wing chair. I sat a couple of feet away on the couch. Peering at the coffee, a bit suspiciously I thought, he pursed his lips and took a delicate sip. I smiled, trying to appear sincere and cooperative.
    “Did you happen to notice what time your neighbor, Mrs. Tuccio, came in last night?”
    “Why do you ask?” Now that we were friends, drinking coffee together, I could afford to revert to my usual perverseness.
    “Well, it’s nothing serious,” he said crisply. Ramirez had assimilated with high honors. No trace of an accent, demeanor as open, as briskly friendly, as a WASP car salesman. “It’s just that Mrs. Tuccio was his last patient yesterday, probably the last person to see Dr. Fleckstein alive.”
    “Except for the murderer.”
    “Oh. Right. Anyway, did you happen to notice what time she came home last evening?”
    “Is Marilyn Tuccio a suspect?” Is the Pope an atheist?
    “We just have to check every possible fact, Mrs. Singer.” Ramirez, despite my excellent coffee, seemed mildly annoyed.
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t notice. I was busy with the children and getting dinner ready.”
    “I see,” he said slowly. “Do you know Mrs. Tuccio well?”
    “We’re friendly.”
    “Did she ever happen to mention anything to you about Dr. Fleckstein?”
    “No.”
    “Well, thanks anyway. If you remember anything, give me a call. I’ll jot down the number.” He took a pen from his coat pocket and extracted a small green-covered notebook from his jacket. He wrote down the number and tore out the page. “Here,” he offered it to me. “And thanks for the coffee. It was strong, but I like it that way.”
    I escorted him to the front door, waved goodbye, and plodded back inside. Could they suspect Marilyn Tuccio of anything? The Saint of Oaktree Street? Absurd. Then why was Ramirez checking? And if he was so interested, why hadn’t he asked any probing questions about her? Was she stable? Any homicidal tendencies? Did she keep any dangerous weapons in her bread box, between the oatmeal cookies and the home-made cracked wheat rolls?
    With an explosion of energy that is rarely visited upon me before noon, I jammed the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher, ran upstairs and made the beds, then quickly drew on a pair of jeans and my favorite blue denim work shirt. Finally, lifting the receiver of a beige Princess phone that I had ordered in a long-forgotten moment of frivolity, I called