The rookie cop glanced around again. "Yeah, but they found a gun and some kind of drawing under her pillow, that's all."

"So when was the time of death?"

"I don't know, man!"

"Take a guess."

He hesitated. "I think somebody said yesterday morning. But I don't know."

DeLorca, followed by other officers, came bustling out of the room, and the young cop stood to attention.

"Is Tamara Hayle still here?" DeLorca asked him.

I sank into the wall as I edged my way toward the door. He spotted me anyway.

"Hayle! Get over here for a minute!"

I took a deep breath before I obeyed his order.

"You said something earlier about Annette Sampson being involved with Celia somebody or other, right?"

"Yes. Celia Jones." The tone of his voice worried me.

"Is this Celia Jones?" DeLorca handed me a Polaroid of the drawing that Annette had made of Celia.

"Yes, it is."

"You said she was murdered, right? Shot to death?"

"Yes. On New Year's Day. Somebody killed her with a .22 caliber weapon."

"Looks like Annette Sampson's suicide may not have been accidental after all," he said, his face grim.

"What do you mean?"

His expression said that he wasn't sure if he should share it, but then he went ahead and did it anyway.

"Looks like the case you're working on for your dead client is solved. We just found a .22 under Annette Sampson's pillow along with this drawing you just identified. I'll bet my badge it was the gun that killed Celia Jones.

"Guilt finally got to her. It always does in the end, so she took the easy way out. Some booze, some pills, got the drawing and the gun and put them under her pillow and said her good-byes. Surprised she didn't use the gun that killed Celia Jones on herself. That's usually what they do, but who can understand the mind of a killer?" He shook his head sadly. "So I guess that poor kid's mother was not only a suicide but a murderer, too. Let's call it a day, guys," he said to n.o.body in particular. "Hayle, I'll give you a call if I need anything further," he added as he headed out the door.

Stunned, and not sure what to say or do, I stood where I was in the middle of the hallway. The fact that I'd been formally acknowledged by the Chief as being indirectly involved in the investigation, bought me some extra time on the scene, and I wandered into the living room as the investigators finished gathering their information. Overcome by a strange mixture of frustration and sorrow, I tried to recall my last conversation with Annette Sampson, trying to remember if there had been any hint at all that she'd murdered Celia Jones. She had spoken just a few words in anger.

Celia was a stupid c.u.n.t when it came to men, Annette had said, but that had been in reference to Celia's not using condoms and to the fact that she'd gotten pregnant. Annette had said, but that had been in reference to Celia's not using condoms and to the fact that she'd gotten pregnant.

Yet Celia Jones hadn't been pregnant. Why had she lied to Annette. Or had Annette simply lied to me?

Even in our brief conversation, I had detected a certain vulnerability in Annette Sampson, in her sympathy for the losses suffered by her friend Rebecca Donovan, in the love she obviously had for her son. Was I wrong about who she really was?

In that late-night call, she'd said she was afraid for the life of her son, afraid that the Lord was punishing her for Celia. Was that her confession that she'd murdered my friend, and that she was awaiting the Lord's judgment? I'd a.s.sumed the emotion I heard in her voice was fear, but perhaps guilt was what I heard, overwhelming guilt. Had she decided to punish herself?

Yet it troubled me that I had sat across from this woman, drinking with her, and not seen beneath her seeming warmth to the coldness that must have been there, that could make her aim a gun and shoot it into Celia's womb.

I shook my head, shaking away my questions, acknowledging to myself that I would never know the answer. The sun was shining almost as brightly now as it had been that afternoon. I glanced again at the chair where she'd sat, recalling our conversation as we drank from her pretty crystal gla.s.ses.

And her words came back to me.

I never use them when I'm alone. I only use them when I have company, which is rare these days. When I'm alone, I drink out of a plain old, ugly water gla.s.s.

Only one of the fancy ones had been on the coffee table. Could its twin have been broken since Tuesday? Had she changed her drinking ritual for this one last drink?

"Come on, ma'am. Move it," the young cop snapped.

I swayed to the left as if I were going to faint.

'Are you okay?" There was concern in his voice.

"This has been a shock to me, such a shock!" I said in the high-pitched hysterical tone I pull out to alarm chauvinistic men. "I knew these two women, Officer. I knew these two women! They were friends of mine." I swayed again, and he grabbed my arm to steady me. "If I could just have a gla.s.s of water, a gla.s.s of water, please!" I pulled out Jamal's best "begging" set of eyes. They never worked on me, but they might on the cop.

"I don't know-" He glanced in DeLorca's direction. I swayed dramatically to the right.

"I don't think the kitchen sink is part of the crime scene," I whispered, giving his arm a maternal pat. "You stay here on the scene. I can get it myself."

"Okay, ma'am, but make it quick."

With a slow, unsteady gait, I made my way into the kitchen and turned on the tap. Then, careful not to make a sound, I opened the cupboard where Annette had stored her gla.s.ses. The gla.s.s I was looking for, the match to the one on the coffee table, wasn't on the high shelf where it belonged but rather on the first shelf, next to the everyday gla.s.ses.

Someone had put it back in a hurry. It was a person who didn't know the significance of those gla.s.ses and her attachment to them, someone who had that appointment I'd asked for on Thursday morning and knew her well enough to share a drink. It was the person who possessed the gun that killed Celia Jones.

I walked out of the house in a daze. I looked for DeLorca, but he was nowhere to be seen. I walked past Drew Sampson and his son, avoiding Sampson's eyes; I didn't want him to see what was in mine. The winter sun was blinding, and I tripped on a crack as I made my way down the sidewalk. I walked fast, not looking to my left or right. I b.u.mped smack into Larry Walton, who was making his way toward Sampson and his son. He was as shocked to see me as I was him.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

We seem to be making a habit of b.u.mping into each other in tragic situations. I don't like it," said Larry Walton. "What are you doing here?" a habit of b.u.mping into each other in tragic situations. I don't like it," said Larry Walton. "What are you doing here?"

"What about you?"

"I asked you first."

"I had an appointment with Annette Sampson," I said, even though it was none of his business. "We made it several days ago. The cops are saying she committed suicide. They also say she killed Celia, but I have my doubts about that." I watched him carefully for any sign of what he was thinking, but there were no revealing changes in face, voice, or manner. He just heaved out a sigh accompanied with a nod toward Drew Sampson and his son.

"He called me a couple of hours ago and said there was trouble, but he didn't say what it was. The cops wouldn't let me in. He mentioned something about pills and liquor, which I can't say surprised me. Annette has had a drinking problem for years. But he didn't say anything about Celia. What makes them think Annette had something to do with that?"

"They found a gun under her pillow, and they're sure it was the same one that killed Celia. But I don't think Annette killed herself or Celia, and I'm sure of it now," I added.

"What makes you so sure?"

"I have my reasons."

"What do you think happened?"

"I don't think you want to hear it," I said, nodding toward Sampson, who glanced at me with undisguised contempt. Larry gazed at his friend longer than was necessary, then shook his head. I couldn't read what was in his eyes.

"I think we'd better talk. I could use a drink, how about you?"

"Okay," I said, far more interested in what he had to say than drinking with him.

"Restaurant? Bar? Your place? Mine? You choose."

"Do you know where my office is?"

"I can find it."

"Can you meet me there in half an hour? But I don't have anything stronger than tea."

"That's fine." He glanced at Drew Sampson, then away from him, clearly distressed. "I need an hour, though. I want to take Drew and Drew Junior home. I've got to talk to him."

"Exactly what do you owe him?"

He walked away without answering, like a man with something on his mind.

I didn't wait around to watch Sampson's response. I wanted to get back to my office as quickly as I could to make some notes and put down what was on my my mind while things were still fresh. I wasn't sure what part Larry Walton played in all of this; I had never been sure. It was time for me to try to sort things out.

Who was was Larry Walton, I wondered, and what did he Larry Walton, I wondered, and what did he really really know? Why know? Why was was he so loyal to Sampson, whom I was sure had something to do with both women's deaths. Sampson had been the first one on the scene of his wife's supposed suicide. He had a key to her place, and he could have paid her a surprise visit early yesterday morning. Or maybe he so loyal to Sampson, whom I was sure had something to do with both women's deaths. Sampson had been the first one on the scene of his wife's supposed suicide. He had a key to her place, and he could have paid her a surprise visit early yesterday morning. Or maybe he he had that morning appointment with her. If the boy had been staying with him like the cops said, maybe he and Annette had gotten together to talk about their son's welfare. had that morning appointment with her. If the boy had been staying with him like the cops said, maybe he and Annette had gotten together to talk about their son's welfare.

They had been married once. He had given her the prescription for pills. Maybe they'd had a drink-one for old times' sake. I knew from personal experience that Annette would have been up for that. It would be easy to dissolve sleeping pills in liquor beforehand, to make a lethal potion that would work quickly.

As a pharmacist, Sampson knew exactly what would happen and how long it would take if you mixed barbiturates with liquor. Barbiturates depressed brain activity, and alcohol made the drugs work fast. Within thirty minutes, Annette would become so confused and dizzy she'd have no choice but to go to bed. Her blood pressure would drop to a dangerous level, her heartbeat would slow down, and she would slip quickly into a coma. He could have sat there beside her on the bed until she was unconscious, then slip anything he wanted to under her pillow and leave. Within hours, she would be dead.

A chilling thought came to me, one so disturbing I nearly turned my car into traffic. What if my accusations at the Businessman's Club had scared him enough to make him desperate, to make him want to get rid of any suspicious links to Celia's death. Did Annette remember something that would incriminate him? Was that what she wanted to tell me?

Was I responsible for this woman's death?

But maybe I was wrong. G.o.d knew, I'd been wrong before.

Maybe Annette Sampson had killed Celia Jones, then herself. Maybe it happened just like everybody said it did.

But there was still the matter of that fancy, misplaced gla.s.s.

If not Sampson, then who?

Chessman.

I could almost hear Celia say it. The only proof I had about his feelings toward Celia was his word.

Once a chess player always a chess player, he had told me over brunch. Just how good a chess player was he?

I parked in the lot across from my office, and popped my head into the Biscuit before I headed upstairs.

Obviously between appointments, Wyvetta sat leisurely reading a magazine. Concern came into her eyes when she saw me. "You okay, girl? You look like h.e.l.l, but your hair still looks good!" she added, giving herself a pat on the back.

"You know that woman I was rushing out to meet at three? Well, she's dead," I said, which brought a gasp from Wyvetta.

"Dead! Oh Lord! What happened? Somebody did her in, huh?" Expectation mixed with morbid curiosity flashed in her eyes.

"No. They think she killed herself."

"Oh Lord in heaven!" Wyvetta shook her head dramatically and raised one hand into the air as if she were in church. "Honey, maybe you should do yourself a favor, go home, make some dinner, and crawl into bed. My five o'clock canceled on me, so if you need something before you hit the road, I got that bourbon if you want to share a couple of shots," she added.

"Maybe later, I got somebody coming by."

"Who?" Her voice was apprehensive.

"You know Larry Walton, the guy who owns Rayson's Used Cars?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact I do," Wyvetta said with a grin. "Earl bought a used car from him a couple years ago, and it's still on the road. Now that's one good-looking man!" she added with a wink.

I chuckled despite myself, realizing just how much I needed Wyvetta's sense of humor.

'Ain't like that, girl," I said. "I'm through with all that for a while."

"Okay, Tamara Hayle, if that's what you say," Wyvetta added, rolling her eyes.

"Tonight's your late night, right?"

"Usually is, but I had two cancellations. Can you believe that? I got my last one at six o'clock, which is too early for a Friday night. But stop by before you go home, okay? Maybe we can go get something to eat," she added, still anxious about my well-being.

"Sounds good," I said, heading upstairs.

I turned on my computer, straightened up my office, washed out my extra mug, and dusted off the chair across from my desk, remembering with a stab of sorrow that Cecil Jones had been the last person to occupy it. Had I done right by the kid? I wasn't so sure.

After about an hour, I turned off the computer and pulled out my black-and-white notebook, ready to take down anything of note that Larry might say. He was a punctual man, and he knocked on my door an hour to the minute. I made a pot of tea, settling on chamomile, which would do my jangling nerves some good, and poured two cups.

"Nice place you've got here," he said as we sipped our tea. "Oh, by the way, I sent in my resignation to the Businessman's Club," he said after a moment.

My expression must have betrayed my feelings, because he quickly said, "Listen, maybe you shouldn't have done what you did, attacking Drew in public like that, but they sure as h.e.l.l didn't have the right to throw a lady out on the sidewalk."

"Sorry I used your name," I muttered.

He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal that made me recall the incident of his shirt and my greasy fish sandwich so many years before.

"I didn't like the way they treated you. I'm d.a.m.n sure not going to belong to an organization that will treat a woman with disrespect. The moment I heard about it, I sent in my resignation, and I called other men I do business with and encouraged them to do the same; several of them have. You can expect a formal apology from the chairman very shortly. If you haven't received it by this time next week, let me know."