Full Release by Marshall Thornton (free novel 24 TXT) 📗

called me and eight when I got home. But wait, if he was killed between two and five thirty, when I could prove I was at work, then the police would be leaving me alone. He must have been killed between six and eight. The phone call I’d made at the gym cut down the time I had to fill from seven to eight. I either needed to prove that I was somewhere else or that I couldn’t have been at the house.

During that time period, most of my neighbors would be arriving home from work, getting their dinners, checking their computers, watching the news. I tried to think who was most likely to see something. I got out of the car, and instead of walking up to my house, I crossed the street and knocked on Mrs. Enders’ front door.

Moments later she was there, drink practically slipping out of her hand, a sloshed smile on her face. I wondered if I should have come in the morning. “Hello!” she practically screamed. “How are you?!”

“Hi, Mrs. Enders. I’m hoping I can ask you a couple of questions.” I gave her a smile that I hoped was ingratiating.

“Of course, of course, come on in.” She swung the screen door open, nearly knocking me over, and I eased my way into her house.

Mrs. Enders had spent most of her life as a costumer’s assistant. She’d worked a few television shows in the seventies, but mostly she worked at one of the costume houses. Jeremy liked to spend afternoons with her, listening to her gossipy stories of naughty celebrities, most of whom were now dead or close to it. At one point there had been a Mr. Enders, but we were never able to figure out when that had been. He might have been her first husband, or her third. Either way, it was quite some time ago.

Every surface in her living room was covered with framed photos of Mrs. Enders with celebrities both dead and forgotten. “Do you want a drink?” she asked me.

“No, thank you.”

“Are you sure? You must be nervous as a cat.” She lowered her voice. “I saw the police at your place this morning. Terrible. Just terrible. Have a drink, Goddammit!”

“I really don’t want one.”

“Oh, well fine. Sit down then. Sit!”

I pushed aside a stack of newspapers and sat. She plunked herself down across from me in a red velveteen chair and adjusted her pink Lycra top. “What can I do you for?” she said, as though it was a joke. “My father used to say that. Funniest man who ever lived. What can I do you for?” She chuckled. “What can I do you for!?”

“On Thursday, the night my friend--”

“What can I do you for!” I was close enough that I could smell the alcohol wafting off her like fog.

“The night my friend died. Did you see me come home?”

“Well, you were just there when the police arrived. So you must have come home sometime, right?”

“Yes, you didn’t see when, did you?”

“You think I’m a nosey old goat, don’t you?”

“I don’t think that at all,” I said, trying to keep my voice calmer than I actually was. “It’s important. Did you happen to look out the window between six and eight?”

She frowned and told a lie I think even she had a hard time believing. “I barely look out my windows at all. I have better things to do.”

“I didn’t mean to imply anything. But if you did notice that I wasn’t home during that time it would help me.”

“But I wouldn’t have. That’s when my shows are on. I have the dish, so I watch the east coast channels. I like to watch my shows early.” So you can pass out by ten, I thought meanly.

“I see.” Giving up an establishing an alibi, I asked, “I guess you didn’t see anyone hanging around? Anyone suspicious? Or anything unusual for that matter?”

“No, not a thing.”

This was not helping.

“The police were asking the same thing. I don’t know why. Your friend killed himself, didn’t he? So what does it matter...” Like a ball dropping from a great height, she suddenly got it. “Oh, shit. Shit. They don’t think your friend killed himself, do they?”

“No, they don’t.”

“They think he was murdered. A murder on Mariposa Drive!” She gave me a look that suggested she expected there to be more murders momentarily.

“Yes, that’s what they think.”

“Well, it did seem odd. Suicide, I mean...if I were to kill myself, I’d do it at home. I wouldn’t do it at a friend’s house. I mean, that’s awful impolite, don’t you think?”

“Yes, it’s impolite,” I mumbled. I couldn’t let her go on for too long. I had to find a way to move on, otherwise she’d talk to me all night, and I wouldn’t find out anything at all.

“Of course, being murdered at a friend’s house isn’t much more polite, is it?” She let out a guffaw. “I bet no one ever asked Emily Post about that!”

I smiled, but wasn’t able to join in her laughter. I was wasting my time.

When she calmed down, Mrs. Enders gave me a look the seemed like pity. “I was so afraid it was Jeremy. I’m so glad it wasn’t. He’s always been such a dear. How did you let a catch like him get away?”

“I don’t know. I just managed somehow.”

I stood up, getting ready to make an excuse and leave. Then she said, “I wonder if he noticed anything unusual?”

“Jeremy? Why would--Jeremy was here that night?”

“Yes. He and that friend of his, the one that had the show on cable about the hair salon, you know who I’m talking about. Has a stupid name.”

“Skye.”

“That’s it. Ha! When I was young people were named Cy. Now they’re named Skye. How things change.”

Obviously, the problem was in my question. I shouldn’t have asked her if she saw anything unusual that afternoon. I should just have let her talk. “What did Jeremy and Skye do?”

“Sat in Jeremy’s car.