Shots in the Dark Read Free Page A

other vendors.
    I thanked her and moved on to the neighboring spice shop. A woman who looked to be in her late forties was standing behind a small desk.
    â€œCan I help you find something?” she asked with a sales-friendly smile. Her voice triggered the taste of coffee with an underlay of cinnamon, although the cinnamon taste might have come from a real smell. Sometimes I can’t tell my synesthetic experiences from the real ones.
    â€œPerhaps, Trudy,” I said, reading her name tag. I repeated my story about the scavenger hunt, my accident, and how I’d missed my deadline. As I talked, her demeanor shifted 180 degrees. Her smile faded, her body language screamed wariness, and the way she chewed on her lip told me she was nervous. I feared she recognized me from some of the recent news coverage.
    â€œAny chance you received an envelope or a package with instructions to destroy it after a certain time if no one claimed it?” I asked.
    Trudy crossed her arms over her chest and narrowed her eyes at me. She was chewing on a piece of gum, and her cheek muscles twitched and popped as she chomped on it. “I didn’t get any unusual package,” she said, and the taste of her voice turned burnt and bitter, like coffee that’s been left on the heat too long. Even without this synesthetic cue, I knew she was lying just from her body language. What I didn’t know was why, but what she said next gave me a good idea. “I told those cops who came around Thursday the same thing.”
    I cursed under my breath but continued to smile warmly, hoping to put her at ease. Duncan was part of the investigative team looking into Gary’s death, and since Gary’s body had been found in his car, which had been parked in the Public Market lot, Duncan had volunteered to do the market queries, hoping he might get a lead on the letter writer.
    â€œCops?” I said, looking and sounding amused and befuddled. “They don’t have anything to do with this. It’s just a game I play.”
    â€œI don’t know anything about any game,” she said, tight-lipped.
    â€œAre there other employees who work here? Maybe someone else got it.”
    She didn’t respond right away, and when she finally did, it wasn’t an answer to my question. It was verification of my earlier fear. “You’re that bar owner who’s been on the news,” she said. “That man they found here the other night, the one that was killed, he worked for you, didn’t he?”
    I knew at that point there was little to be gained by continuing my ruse, so I bowed my head and sighed. “Yes, I’m that woman,” I said. “And yes, Gary worked for me.”
    â€œSorry for your loss,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. Her face was set and determined. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”
    She turned and started to move away from me, but I grabbed her sleeve to stop her. “Please,” I said in my best pleading tone. She glared pointedly at my hand on her sleeve, and I let it go. “Look, I’m sorry I lied to you about my reason for inquiring. All I can tell you is that I’m not working for or with the police, and any package that might have come here for me is private, personal, and extremely important.”
    Something in how I looked or sounded must have broken through her determination, because her stony expression softened a tad. But she wasn’t softened enough. She slowly shook her head, her arms still crossed over her chest. “Sorry. I can’t help you.”
    Feeling frustrated, I shifted gears. “I know you got a letter,” I said. “And I know you’re lying to me about it. I don’t want to play hardball with you, but you have to understand how important this is. It’s literally a matter of life and death.” At that point, the pain and guilt I felt over Gary’s death overwhelmed me, and