annoyance when he bumped my arm. âI said something like âWatch it,â and he said, âSorry,â and ran away.â
âDid you see where he went? Did he get into a car?â
âI donât know,â I said, opening my eyes. âBut he ran that way.â I pointed west. âMaybe toward the parking lot over there.â
âWhat did he look like?â
âTall. A couple of inches taller than you,â I said. âAround forty, Iâd guess. Thin. Dark blond hair. Receding hairline.â
âWhat was he wearing?â
âJeans,â I said, eyes closed once more. âFaded jeans and a short-sleeved tan shirt. No hat. Sneakers, I think.â
âCarrying anything?â
âNot that I could see.â
âYou know anything about this Shea Tolliver?â he asked. âFamily? Enemies or anything like that?â
âPete,â I said. âI just met her this morning. We spoke for a few minutes. Thatâs all. Mostly about the bureau I bought.â
âI understand,â he said. âBut think about it. Did she say anything at all that might help us out?â
âWait a minute. She said she had a partner whoâd ripped off some money.â
âAny name mentioned?â
âNo.â
âAnything else?â
âWell, the bureauâs already been delivered. Maybe the deliveryman saw something. The truck said Bobâs Moving and Delivery.â
Pete scribbled in the notebook. âGood observation, Lee,â he said.
I smiled at the compliment.
A wheeled gurney rolled past, and the techs lifted their stretchered burden onto it. Shea was mercifully encased in a blue body bag. I bowed my head as the men maneuvered the gurney past my window, followed by the ME.
âExcuse me, Lee,â Pete said, putting the notebook in his pocket. âI need to speak to the doc.â He climbed out of the car, leaving the door open, and spoke in low tones to the doctor, then turned to me. âCan you follow me down to the station in your car? Weâll finish up the official stuff, and then you can go along home.â He smiled. âAre we still on for dinner?â
I was glad to see that familiar smile. âOf course we are. How do you feel about paper plates?â
CHAPTER 3
I followed Peteâs car, driving extra carefully, gripping the wheel more tightly than necessary. After all, it isnât every day that I get summoned to the police station to talk about a dead body. I was entitled to be a little nervous about it.
Pete parked next to the Corvette and opened my door. âYou might want to put the top up and lock it,â he said. âYou never know who might be hanging around here.â
âOkay,â I said. The laguna-blue Corvette Stingray had been my dream car for years. My late husband, Johnny Barrett, had been a rising star on the NASCAR circuit, and during our too-short time together, Iâd learned to love fast cars. Now that I finally had one, I sure didnât want anybody messing with it. I put the top up, locked the car, then followed Pete into the station. We headed for the glass cubicle that served as his office.
âIf you donât mind,â he said, offering me a seat opposite his scarred desk, âIâm asking a stenographer and a sketch artist to join us.â
âFine with me,â I said. âI guess youâll be looking for that guy who bumped into me.â
âRight.â Pete stood as a pretty brunette stenographer, pushing a wheeled stenotype machine, entered the cubicle. A man carrying a laptop sat next to me. âIf everybodyâs ready, letâs get started.â Pete resumed his seat. âLee, Iâve already asked you a few questions, but letâs go over it again. From the beginning.â
I repeated everything Iâd told him earlierâhow Iâd approached the shop and encountered the man whoâd bumped into me, how